I was sent to a psychiatric hospital experiencing a “haunting”. It was one of those old school places that looks like a mansion out of a horror movie, a place that people spend a great deal of money to get access to. As usual, I was handed a folder and USB drive full of research the investigative team had already completed. This building had a series of unused sub-levels from the bad old days and an honest to god death tunnel. The dead don't bother me so I snuck in through the external hatch, where they used to occasionally remove the bodies. I'll skip the gory details if you don't mind and get right to setting up camp in the unused administrative office in the abandoned sub-level. Ears aching, neck hairs standing up, gooseflesh, like a cold spark pulsing through the whole place. I disguised myself as maintenance before grabbing my toolkit and heading up the stairs. The drywall dust only served to make my appearance more convincing. I did odd jobs around the place, listening, gathering intel. Patients escaping their rooms was too common to narrow down, but talk of a frozen swimming pool pointed me in the right direction. I had to be close. Walking down a wide, empty hallway, I heard something plink and stopped. “You dropped a button,” a husky voice said. I looked down and saw, sure enough, a button on the linoleum behind me. As I bent to pick it up, I got a look at the feet of the being who'd spoken to me. It was about an inch off the ground, barefooted, skin dry as stone and cragged, spotted with brown and gray. My heart rate was steady, my breathing normal, I chuckled to myself. “Thank you,” I said as I stood up and saw the whole thing. It was morbidly obese, pale and dry as a porcelain doll, and stark naked. Fat hid any discernible sex. Long white hair floated around its head like a bleached anemone. Eyes were yellow surrounded by black and the mouth was little more than a horizontal slash. No smell other than ozone. “I haven't seen you around,” I said. “Oh?” it said. “I'm new here.” I held up the button. “Thanks again, uh…Miss…ter?” I said, gazing expectantly. “It's Doctor, actually,” it said, without moving its mouth, “Doctor Sharpe.” “Thank you, Doctor Sharpe, then.” I turned and started to walk away. When you encounter an entity during a haunting, they typically want to be seen. The theory is that they literally feed on your strong emotions, your reactions. “Wait a moment,” it said in a softer tone. “Yeah?” I didn't turn around. “Would you—like to play a game with me?” I grinned and I'm sure it felt my elation. “I thought you'd never ask,” I said and turned back to face it. There was a table in between us that hadn't been there. “Nice,” I said, running my hand over its obsidian smooth surface. The entity was standing on the other side, no longer a floating ball. White hair hung down its oval face, wearing the same yellow eyes but with a delicate nose and pink lips around the mouth. Broad shoulders were draped with a white gown more appropriate for a gothic sleepover. She was smiling, shaking her cupped hands as something jingled inside. “What's your name?” she asked, showing her yellow teeth this time. “Anderson,” I said, giving her an alias. “I don't think so,” she said, tilting her head, her hair fluttering briefly to life. My ears tingled, and my hair ruffled just a little under my hat. A breeze ran down my sides to my feet, up my calves and thighs, met in my crotch, ran up my torso, by my chest, then split and went down both arms. She knew me now. Whether she'd be intrigued, confused, or angry remained to be seen. “Ooh,” she said and that was all. Coins clanged on the table as she opened her hands. They were colored, shaped, and sized like American quarters but without the ridges. “Take some,” she said. “And keep your button out.” I counted out four and slid them over in front of me. Picking one up, I glanced over, “May I?” Her yellow teeth smiled back as she nodded. Dense, heavy in my fingers, like real metal. Looked like cuneiform writing and instead of George Washington and an eagle, it was something like a lamprey's mouth on one side and a burning bush on the other. “You can see?” she asked, squinting. “Yeah,” I said. “A real beauty.” And it's true. I've seen lots of manifestations and this one was extremely detailed and surprisingly solid. In other words, this place was very, very tangled with the other. I stacked the coins in front of me and put the button beside. “So, Doctor Sharpe,” I asked. “What are the rules?” Her hair twitched. “Please call me Amelia,” she replied. “Okay, Amelia,” I said. “Then you can call me Alex.” She leaned in, asking, “Is that short for something.” While her hair started to writhe. “Maybe,” I told her, visibly grinning. I can play games, too. Sometimes, they like that. She leaned back and I felt nothing but anticipation from her. “You've already stacked the coins, I see. “Put your button on top of them.” I did as I was instructed. When I looked over at hers, the table had a mock temple made of old cardboard tubes from toilet paper and paper towels. I blinked a few times and it was still there. Another thing about hauntings. Even though we are tangled with another reality, there are still some things we aren't able to see. Our brains can't interpret it. As a safety mechanism, it'll hide things from us until they can happen when we aren't looking. When you look away, when you turn your back, when you blink your eyes, then your brain lets you see the change. You couldn’t see it happen. That's not possible. So I blinked to make sure she was done modifying the table. “You can go first, Alex,” she said. “You have to use your finger to flick the button at the temple. “The goal is to be the first person to knock it down.” The button on her stack of coins glinted when I tilted my head. “That hardly seems fair,” I said. “What would you prefer?” she asked. I looked down and saw my coins and button were replaced with food. I looked up and the temple and everything was now desserts. “First one to finish eating the temple?” I picked up one of the pastries and took a bite. Flaky, honey sweet, hint of pecan, powdered sugar on top. “Extremely good job on these,” I said. “They taste freshly baked.” “I'm glad you like them,” she replied, the table now covered in sweets of all kinds. Instead of eating more, I put it down. When they give you food, you have no idea what you are actually eating. You really don't want to know some of the things I've put in my mouth. She frowned, bunching up her bottom lip. Frustration. “I thought you wanted to play?” she said. “Actually, I'm down here because I heard about a frozen swimming pool. “Was that you?” Her hair danced. “They really seem to like it,” she said. “I'd like to see it, too, if that's okay.” She pointed beside us. “It's right there.” And it was. An Olympic sized swimming pool, frozen solid. I could see people at the far end. There was a faint impression of ice skaters, of Christmas trees, of carolers singing. “Christmas,” I said. I felt myself slipping into it, could smell hot cocoa and cookies, could feel a fireplace nearby. “It is lovely,” I said before shaking myself out of the reverie. “I cannot image how much effort that must have been to create for them.” Her face was stoic, stern, but her yellow eyes were moist, red tears welled. “They deserve it,” is all she said before she and her entire table slid into the floor and vanished. I hadn't felt malice or mischief, only remorse and pity. I headed toward the crowd, the illusion playing at the edges of my senses, eager to pull me back in coming in waves with a dull thump each time. As I got closer, I saw them pointing out on the ice, laughing and hugging, pretending to drink mugs of coffee or cocoa that were real to them. And the thumps got louder and louder. In fact, the thumps were so loud they had to be real. I looked over the ice, underneath the illusion of kids ice skating and throwing snowballs, underneath the sleds and snowmen. I saw something under the ice. A black mass moving and pushing up and failing to find a way out. It was desperate, I could feel that now that I knew it was there. I went out on the ice to the shouts of the others telling me to get off because I wasn't dressed for it, to stay out of the way, to be careful, to be nice to the kids. I knelt down and felt the ice. It wasn't cold. I still had my toolkit. No axe, but a hammer and a flat-head screwdriver might do. I started tapping, chiseling, then banging. The others were angry now, yelling that I was putting their kids in danger, that if I wanted to fish I'd have to wait until after the kids were done playing. The “ice” chipped like old concrete until I had a hole big enough to stick a hand through, an arm. It was only an inch thick. I had no idea how it was even holding my weight. The water was a syrupy but I waved my hand as much as I could until the black mass saw me and swam toward me. The “ice” bulged up under its pressure but wouldn't break. I pulled my arm out of the hole and pressed my ear to it instead. “Free me, please,” whispered. “Free me, please,” again and again. Hope and fear in equal measure came from whatever it was. At this point, I had an idea of what was down there and I hoped my hormones would keep me safe. I hammered and hammered, hearing her voice from the water the whole time, hearing the people screaming, begging me to stop, but unwilling to come out on the ice. Until it was a hole big enough for a person to climb out of, or be pulled into. I put both arms in the slushy water and told her to come to me. The black mass was already underneath and I felt its weight. I felt its urgency and its hesitancy. I felt it taste me, a tingle running through both arms all the way to my core. It pulled slightly before reversing and allowing me to pull it up. It resembled a horse, a bundle of wet grass, a pile of stones, a hag, a maiden, until it was simply a woman with green skin and seaweed for hair. I'd been so fascinated that I was able to see the transformations, the shifting, the refocusing of reality with my own eyes that I didn't hear the crowd's crying until it was over. The water sprit pierced my soul with a glance, looking me up and down. “Hmmph!” the green woman said, shaking her head. “Oh,” I said, putting my right hand over my heart and raising my left hand in a symbol involving the first and second fingers as well as the pinky and thumb. “By the secret name inscribed on my soul, I release you from any and all obligations borne of this transaction.” That got her attention. “Thank you,” she said reaching a trembling hand toward my face. I did not pull away as she touched my cheek. She had tropical lagoons for eyes, like a warm bath, like a mother's embrace. It was another glamour, of course, but I allowed it, almost against my will. Almost. I was on a beach. The ocean's roar behind me like an out of tune radio. She was in front of me, wearing a Tahitian pāreu, fragrant flowers in her thick, black hair, brown skin instead of green. “I'm so tired of the snow and ice, so tired of Christmas,” she said, looking up at the sky and squinting. I heard music, singing, like a choir but it was just her laughing as she spun in place. “I'm free!” she sang. “You freed me.” She stopped spinning and faced me again. She was getting closer but not walking. “Why did you reject your prize?” She was circling me but also still standing in front of me. I felt her eyes all over me, I felt her probing me. The sky turned to storm clouds. I looked down, closed my eyes, to avoid her million eyes. I answered, “You tell me. “By now, you know me at least as well as I know myself.” The sun returned. “You aren't like the men and women I normally meet,” she sang. I felt the urge to lift my head, a gentle breeze stroking my chin. “Please look at me,” she pleaded. I took a deep breath, faced her, opened my eyes, and saw her. She was beautiful, of course, like a live action Nani Pelekai? My heart fluttered as if she was my first true love and heat flooded out to my hands and feet. I wobbled, nauseated, like I might stumble or fall to my knees. “You do have a heart, after all,” she sang, “and I see how it beats.” I felt the warm breeze circling around my ankles, looked down, saw myself clearly for the first time. I, too, was dressed in a bright pāreu, barefoot, dark skin. Not my body. I tested my muscles to see how real I was: toes, feet, calves, knees, thighs, pelvis, stomach. Wait. Something was different. I went numb. Something was different. Impossible, but as real as my own flesh. My hands trembled, stomach racked with nausea, my legs buckled, I was on the ground, sand in my mouth and eyes. Tears, great torrents and I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop. I heard her fluttering toward me. “You refused my gift before I even offered.” She paused. “And it was because you thought you were doing me a favor.” She put a steadying hand on my naked shoulder. “That thing trapped me,” she said. “It told me to give them their children back. “I didn't even take their children.” I heard her kneel down beside me. I felt pity from her, pity but also longing. I shivered at her breath in my ear. “But you rescued me.” I couldn't see her through my sobs. I could barely hear her as I forced myself to remember this, to remember it. The ocean was coming in. Not sure how I could tell, but it was coming in fast. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice like an ice pick. It was a phrase that carried power, when a fae speaks it is wise to consider that any words can be full of power and magic and gratitude, genuine gratitude, is powerful indeed. Then I was lying on the false ice, lying in my own snot and tears, surrounded by grieving parents. The sorrow, the emptiness, drove away whatever had been haunting the place. I could feel that almost immediately. I carved some carefully designed sigils around at precise locations to help anchor against future resonance. I went back out the same way I came in, hiked to my concealed vehicle, climbed inside, and cried for an hour. I drove home in mute resignation of what I'd been allowed to experience. I left the personal details out of my full report, but they've never left me. And. Sometimes. When I dream. Instead, I'm back on that beach. I look out at the ocean, at the eternal cycle of waves in and out; at the horizon in the unreachable distance. I hear singing. But. This time. It's just the birds. I feel the sand between my toes, I smell the brine, the seaweed, fruit trees in the distance. I feel the warmth of the sun that never sets, the breeze that meanders along the water line. I sit in the surf, rubbing my belly, savoring every sensation, marveling at what I should not have. Waiting for her to come back. So I can tell her, “thank you.” But she never will.

---

#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Writer #Writing #Writers #WritingCommunity #WritersOfMastodon #ShortFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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It is definitely not okay to feed this into a dataset to be used to train an genAI or LLM. Nobody is authorized to used it for genAI or LLM.

Mastodon

By the Lake

I read everything at the info kiosk of the Lake Ochonkmah Otter Lodge.

It used to be a hunting shack for otter hunters but was abandoned sometime around 1900.

In 1943, a husband and wife research team, Drs. Bartholomew and Candice Burroughs “rediscovered” the location while hiking around the lake and studying the local otters, which were rumored to be particularly sociable and friendly. They made camp on the site and made note of its location. Over multiple trips it became a bonafide research station and was repaired, built-upon, and expanded.

It was their life's work for 30 years and they developed a niche following among otter aficionados. The otters at Lake Ochonkmah were very friendly and completely unafraid of humans. The Burroughs speculated that the hunting had been easy and they never had a good explanation for it being abandoned.

One theory, borne out by examining remains, was that a mystery illness had thinned out the otters and wiped out the humans who knew about the location, leaving it free to recover and flourish.

The only reason to visit this place was to watch the otters. The water was far too cold year round to be comfortable for swimming and there were precious little in the way of game fish left after the otters had their fill.

Still, a small town grew up during the height of the Burroughs' research, a country store for supplies and a bed and breakfast style boarding house for transients and travelers.

On October 15, 1975, Candice died in her sleep at the age of 61. There was no warning as she had been working with Bart the day before and gave no indication of being sick. Bart became understandably withdrawn and depressed and focused on his work. Less than a month later, he died in his sleep, as well, on November 22, 1975. He was 63.

Without the support of the doctors, the research station fell into disrepair and what little tourism there had been stopped entirely.

In 1987, the millionaire Margo Fillings swept in like a tornado and revitalized everything.

She never said why she was so passionate about this place, but she turned the old research station into an overnight learning experience and encouraged schools to bus kids in to learn all about the Ochonkmah Otters.

The general store was re-opened with a more worldly selection of goods, snacks, candy, soda, and the like.

The bed and breakfast was remodeled into a proper family restaurant with the rooms being used to house the staff.

A motel opened just outside of town to accommodate any other travelers.

The rest of my class was still in the observation room where it was kept dark so you could peer out the long glass floor to see the otters in their natural habitat.

I was out in the well-lit hallway, trying to talk to the guide, but she kept ignoring me, telling me she had somewhere she had to be and going back and forth between an office in the back and checking on the observation room.

She ran back and forth and back and forth.

She had to squint to see inside the observation room and she'd look inside and shake her head.

And then scurry back to the office.

I didn't want to go into the observation room so I stayed out in the big lobby and read the infographics again.

Margo Fillings was the savior of the town according to the infographics.

She looked like a gymnast in her photos: short build, athletic, with thick legs, an attempt at a pixie cut but her red hair was too curly to stay down. Always smiling. Always looking directly at the camera.

My legs were thick, too, but so was the rest of me. Not so athletic. Sometimes, my legs would stop working and I'd have to sit down or lie down, but that didn't happen very often.

When the other kids from my class started to filter out of the observation room, I was looking for Angela and Angie, the best friends I'd ridden down with.

Angela was really smart, good at math like I was, but also good at music which I wasn't. Angie was an artist and barely passed any other classes, not because she couldn't but because she didn't feel like it was worth the effort.

They were my friends, my only real friends.

I had trouble making friends because I was prone to talking too much or saying the wrong thing. I did that all the time. I said the wrong thing and people got mad, but never told me why they got mad.

Angela came out and she was rolling her eyes while walking toward me.

“Angie found a boy,” she told me.

Angie would latch onto a boy and obsess over them.

Then she would date them, get to know them, and suddenly get over them.

Angie came out with her arm wrapped tightly around a tall boy's waist.

He wasn't even handsome or pretty. He had stringy hair and his clothes were too baggy. He looked dirty.

“He plays the fucking guitar in a band,” Angela told me.

That explained it, apparently.

Everyone else left, teachers, chaperones, students.

Everyone left except for Angela, Angie, Angie's new obsession and his “bandmates” who were just as dingy and he was.

Angie was pale and raven-haired like an angel might be, but she preferred to wear black, even her makeup was black.

Angela wore light blue slacks and a silk blouse. She was always so exquisite.

We stayed two more days, at the motel outside of town.

On the third morning, Angie was gone.

Angela told me that she'd left with the band and we'd be lucky to see her at all for a few weeks.

She was 17 and she liked to pretend she was an adult.

Angela was really quiet that day.

I think Angie didn't tell her that she was leaving with the band.

When I woke up the next morning, Angela was gone. Her clothes, her toiletries, her bag, and her car were all gone.

I walked back to town and into the Otter Lodge.

I walked in and told the lady who worked there, the same one from the overnight visit, that I was lost.

She asked me my phone number and I didn't know.

She asked me for my parent's names and I didn't know.

She asked me for my name and I didn't know.

---

According to Margo Fillings, the anomaly was here on her first visit to the town, back when she was first considering pouring her resources into it.

It looked like a teenaged white girl. Limp brown hair, a little pudgy, a little slow witted, but it spoke like a normal teenaged girl and it was wearing normal clothes.

She thought it was a mannequin because it was motionless, not breathing or moving. Its eyes were wide open, not blinking.

She touched it.

The skin was warm to the touch but stiff.

It shivered at her touch and immediately became supple.

Its chest began to rise and fall. When she looked at the face again, the eyes had closed. It appeared to be sleeping.

She assumed it was a runway and woke it up.

It's first words were, "Hi, Margo!"

Margo says she maintained her composure, but "citation needed" you know.

When she asked it "What's your name?"

It replied something like, "Don't be silly; you know who I am."

So she gave it a name, "Lillian", after the flower, and it took it.

We know this because Margo kept a journal. I've read it. It's practically Exhibit A.

The journal says "I said the first name I could think of. I remembered seeing lilies out front, so I called her Lillian. It was a question, I asked her if her name was Lillian and she agreed that it was. That wasn't what I was asking, but she just accepted it."

But if you ask Margo about it now, she will tell you that the anomaly is, in fact, "Lillian Harper" and that she was always "Lillian Harper" and that they knew each other before she found her in the back of the research building gathering dust, before she gave her a name.

---

One time, a guest was here with her fiancé.

She was so kind, wearing white to contrast her dark wavey hair. She spoke like a poet, it was mesmerizing. She wrote about the trees and the flowers and the lake and the otters.

She found beauty everywhere she looked. Decaying leaves, moss, and mushrooms covering a fallen tree trunk. An otter's corpse washed up on the shoreline. The sun on her face and in her eyes. Storm clouds flashing in the distance. The sounds of the wind blowing the ghost lights over the water at night.

Her fiancé was comparatively grumpy. He was a writer, too and they thought this place would inspire them both.

For him, it was uncomfortable, aggravating his allergies, covering him in ants and spiders, spoiling their food. He only saw unnecessary turmoil.

There can be beauty in unexpected difficulties, right?

She saw it. Her eyes sparkled with it; her soul glowed and reveled in it.

She was kind to me, even though I couldn't walk.

I was in a chair most of the time. I would be in my spot in the chair outside the old research center in the morning and back in my room at night.

My arms worked, my lungs worked. I could breath and speak and think and smile. But my legs felt like nothing at all. Like empty shells filled with dirt. Like anchor weights tied to my pelvis.

I told them stories about the otters and about the people who used to work and live here.

I told them about the Drs. Burroughs and how they both died but nobody knew why. I thought it was the sadness.

This place had a sadness about it, always, but people would come and cover it up and ignore it.

They would find the life, the singing of the insects, the splashing of the otters, the waving of the trees, and ignore the emptiness underneath it.

They would study and sleep and observe and feel and love and eventually it would find them.

They would wonder where it all went and why it took so long to notice it was gone.

“Melancholy” they called it.

She thrived and grew and blossomed.

He withered.

All he left behind was a perfect bouquet of white lilies.

She threw them on the ground right in front of me.

They didn't wither.

They flourished.

---

They've had to send multiple agents because every other agent eventually believes the lies.
First question I asked? "Why not take it to a real lab instead of doing all the study here at a compromised location?"

Answer: Any attempt to remove the anomaly from the site results in tremors that get worse the further away it's taken.

So they keep sending us and once we stop sending in updates, they come and get us and send in someone else.

I've seen the photos and the records of the examinations of the anomaly and it definitely is not human.

It has the outward appearance of a teenage girl, but only superficially.

It's anatomy has been thoroughly detailed while it was in its dormant state.

Constant body temperature of 96° regardless of the outside conditions.

Smooth skin resembling that of a typical Caucasian but only from a distance. There are no pores and no body hair, not a single blemish. The skin cannot be cut or punctured using any methods we've devised and it doesn't bruise. There is no evidence of veins or blood flow of any kind, no pulse at all.

It has the shape of breasts but no nipples. It has buttocks but no anus. Instead of a vaginal canal and urethra, it has a shriveled phallus with no openings. There are no visible testes.

The head appears almost entirely human. It has nostrils that seem to lead to a nasal cavity. Eyes with tear ducts that react as expected to light even when it is dormant. It has eardrums and eye lashes and eye brows. All the hair on the head seems to be attached as expected even when the rest of the body has none at all. It has a mouth with the correct looking teeth, a tongue, a trachea and esophagus, but its internal structure remains a mystery.

Endoscopy hits impossible dead ends when run down either throat tube.

It doesn't breath when it's dormant so we aren't even sure if it needs air.

While dormant, it has been submerged in water for prolonged periods without any ill effects.

We have observed that when it returns to its active state, sometimes only parts of the body revive fully, such that it appears to be paraplegic or quadriplegic. It compensates by entering a semi-dormant state and "floating" between locations. Even when done in full view of locals, none of them recall seeing it happen.

It has never demonstrated this ability while fully active, only while semi-dormant, a state that resembles "sleeping".

---

One time, my friends put on a musical production of Grease.

They know that I love musicals and singing even if I can't participate.

They staged it around the Lodge so I could sit out front. Even though I couldn't walk and had trouble speaking, they made sure I felt like part of the show.

I was able to move my arms and smile to “You're the one that I want!”

“Oh yes, indeed!”

The spectators noticed and the cast sang “We go together” to me while I was able to shift back and forth.

It elevated everybody's spirits.

After the musical was over, after the people had said their goodnights to each other and to me.

After I basked in the feeling of accomplishment and acceptance, I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed of swimming in the lake. The water is far too cold for swimming in real life, but it was warm in the dream.

I was so far out that I couldn't see the shore on either side. The lake isn't that big, but in the dream it was.

I wasn't afraid. I wasn't afraid at all because the water was calm and it supported me.

Deep, deep below me, I could see lights and motion as if an entire city were down there.

I wanted to go down there. I wanted to see who it was.

But my head refused to go under the water. I would try but the water would push me back. The water wanted me to stay up here.

I could almost hear them building something, creating something marvelous.

But it wasn't for me.

---

We've checked air, water, food toxicology. We've bagged insects and plants for allergens, poisons, or venoms.

We've run up antenna to check for electromagnetic sources, Geiger counters for radiation, specialized microphones for ULF, ELF, UHF, and EHF.

Nothing.

We've even had Astrologers, Diviners, and Ley Line experts check it out.

The local Native Americans were, unfortunately, driven out and killed by settlers long ago. The only record we have is the name of the lake itself, "Ochonkmah", which looks like it's derived from something Native American but is too bastardized for a direct translation. It resembles the Choctaw word *achukma* which has positive connotations of "good" or "pleasing".

The only other anomaly is a strong magnetic source out in deeper waters, assumed to be an ancient meteorite. It's far too cold and deep for regular divers and we've yet to get permission to field a top-of-the-line manned submersible or ROV. Camera and robot claws we drop on lines inevitably hit snags. Cameras show significant debris around the site. What artifacts we've hauled up matches what we would expect from Viking long boats. There is no good reason to find that sort of debris at this location.

The magnetic source could help explain the ghost lights which are known to float over the water during particularly warm autumns.

We've caught them on film multiple times with various cameras. The purple glowing globules read very similar to St. Elmo's Fire. They cannot be ignus fatuus due to the lack of flammable gas. We've yet to have a boat on the water fast enough to observe them up close.

---

It had to be a dream, but it felt so real. It had to be a dream since nobody else saw it.

There was a festival in the main yard, but I was on the shore looking out over the lake.

I saw a silvery disk come out of the sky and make as if to land on the surface.

Before I could think, I was in the water, swimming with all my might toward it.

The water is too cold to swim in, but I was swimming and it wasn't that cold.

I never swam so fast before. My legs worked better than they ever had and pushed me forward while my arms carved great handfuls of water over and behind me, like I was climbing a mountain of snow.

I reached the disk and it was tiny, no bigger than a Frisbee.

I was certain it had been a spaceship but here it was no more than a toy.

I stopped swimming and found I could stand. The water out here should be quite deep but I stood up.

I looked back toward the shore and saw a tall, purple skinned humanoid motioning for me to pick up the disk.

His skin was dark and smooth, leading to thin arms that moved more like tentacles than something with bones and joints. His head was round like a matchhead and his eyes were black.

His slit-like mouth was smiling.

I'm not sure how I could tell it was smiling, but it was.

I picked up the disk and he pointed out further into the water.

I turned and saw a massive blobby creature, like something made of the squishy from the bottom of the lake.

It was rushing away from us with a massive crooked wake.

Parts of it seemed like stones or rocks and two of them turned and I saw they were huge eyes, watching my hand holding the disk.

I held it close to my chest and flung it out like a Frisbee and the blob leaped after it, a giant mass of barely held together pieces shaped into a huge dog's head on a turtle's body with flippers for legs.

It grabbed the disk in its mouth and collapsed back onto the surface of the water with a SLAP.

The purple creature was applauding me and motioned for me to come closer.

---

Occasionally, this place hits the news cycles and tourism has a temporary boost.

The businesses open back up, people show up to run them. People show up and buy tickets, souvenirs.

The otters get to entertain a new batch of people.

It goes like it always goes here.

It's great at first, then it gets rougher, then it gets angrier, then something bad happens and it dries up.

Disappearances usually.

Maybe murder but no bodies are ever found.

Rumors start to flow.

People get afraid again.

It goes dormant.

The anomaly is always part of the revival and she reacts very poorly to the negative happenings.

She plays really hard at being upset and not understanding why people can't be kind and get along.

There is no way to know if it is "genuine" sadness as she isn't human to begin with.

She's very convincing and seems to know intimate details of the lives of those who live here. She can speak to their wants, needs, dreams, fears, weaknesses, everything as if she is their best friend in the whole world.

She knows things about me that I won't put down in a report.

She knows things about our research that she shouldn't. When she gets deep into esoterica, her voice changes a bit, becomes monotone, almost like she's reading a script.

Ask her about it afterwards? She claims she doesn't remember and seems to freak out if you play back a recording of it.

I'm not sure how we can keep things from her as she seems to know everything that happens around the lake, including internal thoughts that are never voiced or written at all.

It may be too dangerous to continue the investigation and we may want to write off our losses and leave it be.

---

I thought I was like a daughter to her.

She took me in and I lived and slept under the same roof as Imelda, Margaret, Stephanie, and Beatrice.

I was there for their first loves and their first heartbreaks.

I was there when they wondered what the point of it all was.

I helped them find meaning. I helped them understand the nature of people and of men.

I thought they would be strong enough to go out on their own, but they always went back to someone.

They seemed to not know themselves unless they were supporting a man.

It was sad and I told Mrs. Glenn it was sad and she agreed with me.

Mrs. Glenn and I wanted the girls to be self-sufficient like she was.

She raised all four girls without a man and she did a fine job.

Being the proprietor of the restaurant meant she had room and board for them as long as they worked.

She never did put me to work on the floor and she never told me why not. I asked and asked until eventually I stopped asking.

But I helped her with my stories and with my advice.

I told her about the history of the lake and the research station and the fur trackers and the otters.

I told her about the ghost lights and about the silver disk that came down from the sky.

I told her about the riches that had been lost time and again by strange ships that should never have tried to sail.

I told her about the plants and insects and which ones were safe and which ones were to be avoided.

She spun those into the recipes a little at a time, spreading good cheer and health with each meal sold.

When Imelda left, no note, just all her things gone and her and her boyfriend nowhere to be found, she came to me and I had no answers.

Imelda hadn't confided in me. None of the girls confided in me anymore.

When I asked them why, they told me they “outgrew” me and that was that.

But Imelda had been distant for a long time, keeping to herself.

Margaret was learning how to cook the special recipes with her mom and Mrs. Glenn couldn't be happier.

It made no sense for her to be the next to leave without a word.

But she was gone. Her clothes were gone. Her man was gone.

Imelda had never called and she expected the same from Margaret.

She didn't asked me for advice this time.

She didn't talk to me for a long time.

Not until Stephanie was the next to go missing.

She talked to me “before Beatrice went away,” she said.

She told me she knew what was happening and she thought she was paying her dues.

She thought she was doing what was required by making the recipes and serving them.

She said her missing girls sang dirges to her from the deep water.

They sang to her and told her that she failed them and failed everyone and that the lake would take its price one way or another.

She told me all this like I could do something about it, like I was part of it.

I didn't understand, but I asked her what she thought the price might be and if she thought it was worth it, if she thought she might be willing to pay it if she knew what it really was.

I asked her that question because I wanted her to figure it out on her own. I wanted her to think about what was important to her. I wanted her to recognize the love she had for her daughters and how that was clouding her judgement.

I didn't know what she would do.

She drowned herself in the lake.

Beatrice took over the restaurant.

I was sent back to the research station.

She never talked to me again.

---

The otters here are another part of the anomaly. They are obsessed with humans. They study us just as much as we study them. They've formed a particularly large raft and maintained it over generations, which is quite unusual. The males and females and the offspring all seem to stay close. There are so many of them that, even though the lake is very large, there are very few game fish left for anglers to catch.

Some say they should have run out of food by now, but they obviously haven't.

They don't seem to be any smarter than other otters, but they ratchet up the curiosity.

So when they suddenly pulled away from the shore where the settlement was located, it was odd.

They were acting strange. The locals didn't seem to care much, even though much of the tourism relied on them.

It was doubly unfortunate because Lake Ochonkmah and the Otter Lodge had been featured on some popular podcast which got it recognized by real celebrities who were stopping by for photo ops.

I think after Tiger's birthday party, though, that the tourism will die back down, due to all the bodies they found.

The only one who noticed or cared about the otters was Melanie.

She definitely noticed during the birthday party and tried to get Mr. Fletch, who runs the tours, to do something, but he wasn't there.

Once he got back, I think she sent Axl Fucking Rose up there to talk to him. I was close enough to hear Mr. Fletch yell at him, telling him to mind his business and that he didn't care if they were sick as long as they were still in the water.

---

When I left the lodge, I noticed a white and red helicopter in the yard that had not been there before. Further away, toward the road I saw an area cleared of trees and a small, personal airplane was parked, also white and red. Toward the lake was a white and red jet ski. I noticed they all had little red ribbons on them and thought they must be presents.

A group of people were walking in from the road, surrounding an attractive black man in white slacks.

I recognized him: Tiger Woods.

I was excited that our little outpost was so famous that someone like him would visit and I realized it must be a birthday party.

I went down to the water to stay out of the way.

I wanted to see if the otters had returned to this side of the cove.

Once I scrambled down and got a better look, I saw that they were still as far away as they could be without going out into deeper water.

Additionally, they seemed to be agitated and moved in jagged bursts in the water.

I climbed back up the embankment and went to the General Store where Mr. Fletch ran the tours.

The small desk and register were vacant. I looked at the books and post cards and the souvenirs and smiled.

A man with long red hair came in and asked me a question.

“Excuse me, but is there something wrong with the otters?”

I was so excited that someone else noticed.

“I was thinking the same thing,” I said.

“I know the local bevy has a reputation for being friendly, but even for normal otters, they seem distressed.”

He explained that he noticed their fur was matted which would terribly diminish their ability to keep warm and swim.

I explained that they were normally on the near shore and that they'd fled to the other side days ago, long before everybody else showed up.

I further told him that I wasn't able to get any of the adults to understand how grave the situation was, not even the docents at the Lodge.

He was puzzled but didn't have anything else to say.

The party was starting and I went back down to the water's edge.

I saw the nice man with red hair go back to Mr. Fletch but Mr. Fletch seemed to be angry about something so the nice man left again.

I was so worried about the otters that I decided to go to them.

I slipped into the freezing water, not shivering, but feeling my legs go numb almost immediately.

I pushed deeper and started swimming.

I wasn't fast like I'd been in my dreams.

I kept my head above the water because I knew that would be the end.

I swam toward the otters and they ignored me.

I swam and felt something touch my legs.

I treaded water and looked down.

I looked down and the water was super clear.

It was clear and I saw Angie down there.

I saw Angie, I saw Dr. Candice Burroughs.

I saw Angie, and Dr. Candice Burroughs, and Margo Fillings, and Camilla Harper the poet.

I saw Vanessa Glenn and her daughters Imelda, Margaret, Stephanie, and Beatrice.

I saw them reaching for me, their smiling faces and their long outstretched arms and fingers.

I felt them touching my feet and my legs.

I expected them to be angry, but they were at peace.

They wanted me to be at peace.

I thought about how I was never truly loved here.

Nobody accepted me.

Nobody understood me.

I was merely tolerated.

I was never part of a family.

I was never a friend, only an acquaintance.

I didn't belong here.

I never belonged here.

I belonged somewhere else.

I belonged somewhere else.

Instead of going under to where they were, I floated on the water until it was golden.

Until the sky was silver and the water was gold.

I floated and I saw a place of crystal and glass, glowing with internal light.

I saw them standing on the platform embracing and laughing.

All the woman from the water were up there and they were happy.

I floated toward them.

I wanted to join them, but the platform was too high and I wasn't allowed.

I wasn't welcome.

I sank away and wanted to cry.

I wanted to be alone and to cry.

A strange woman approached me.

Her face was plastic and her hair wasn't real.

She approached me and said, “I am your mother.”

I never had a mother before.

I heard her say “I am your mother” and the voice was pure bliss, like melted chocolate and rainbows and warm nights and the kiss of a kitten's whiskers.

I heard her and I believed her.

I believed her and I let her embrace me.

---

Like I said, a dozen bodies from the lake, all perfectly preserved, all women who went missing, even a couple nobody knew were missing yet.

A dozen bodies found on one hand and the disappearance of Melanie, the anomaly herself, on the other.

You know what the main office told me?

"Forget about it. It doesn't matter."

---

END_OF_LINE

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I'd reached an accord with the spiders. I'd invited them into my corner of the Dreamlands and built them a playground, per their specifications. Crevices, overhangs, shadowy corners, boxes upon boxes, a leaky pipe, piles of clothes, abandoned cupboards, attic full of furniture and old books, a nightmare house all to themselves. And if the occasional dreamer stumbled upon it, even better. So they acted as my protectors in the Gloam instead of mere watchers or worse, tormentors. They were completely unaware of the “side passage” I was seeking to the Fugue, the place just between dreams and wakefulness. I was determined to ask The Hat Man, something they advised me against. Repeatedly. Nothing was worth what it might cost, they told me. The Hat Man does not have friends among humans or see them as equals. Even Dreamers are beneath Him. We are nothing but toys. And He enjoys breaking His toys. The spiders were afraid of Him even as they swarmed at His call to suck on the juices of his cast-offs and conquests. I appreciated their concern. Truly, I was touched by it. But, I needed to find Him. Again. I had seen Him. Once. At 600 mg, when the walls vibrated until they were transparent and He was there, on the other side, watching. I wasn't deep enough to make contact. I couldn't even see His eyes. But. When I was growing up, the back yards in our neighborhood, on my side of the street, all shared a low spot in the far back, by the fence-line. When it rained, water rushed down that trough like a river. Sometimes, we'd catch earthworms that came up to avoid drowning. We'd collect them in a big bucket and play with them until the rain stopped. Then we'd dump them back out on the mud. When The Hat Man looked at me with eyes I could not see, for just a moment, I was a struggling worm, fleeing for my life, being plucked up and dropped in a foreign place surrounded by the screams of my peers. For just a moment. Then I was dumped back into my bedroom. The spiders covered me in their warmth, eight times a thousand clawed feet massaging me in comfort. Still, I shivered. That was the Thing I was going to convince to help me? I was like garbage to It, like dust. This place, the Gloam, was not the Dreamlands and all my learned skills were muted or easily wiped away.

But, I had to try. I am trying.

At 750 mg, tonight, right now, the walls drip black stinking ichor, like a busted septic tank oscillating in the static of a scrambled cable channel. “You think you're the smartest motherfucker in the world,” my step dad calls out to me. He hasn't been part of my life in decades, but he calls out all the same. “And you can't even find the Fugue – get out here you stupid faggot – bring me a beer before I come in there – don't make me come in there” I'm twelve years old again. I want to hide in the closet. I want to cry quiet tears. I want to climb a tree. Instead I pick up my hunting knife, the one I inherited, the one that's tasted blood, that's been honed and sharpened. I stand and the floor sucks me in, sinking me up to my knees. Mud. Sucking and plopping as I trudge forward. The spiders have fled, replaced by hostile snakes, flicking their tongues, rattling their tails. Darting their heads to force me to the wall. Not the door. Not the closet. To the wall with the mirror. I accidentally look at my reflection. I know I shouldn't. I try not to, but I can't blink, can't turn away. Twitching muscle, exposed nerves, dripping blood as my skin is flayed by the air like a million tiny razor blades, and the mud a seeping infection. I can't scream. I swing the knife at the mirror and am pulled through, tumbling in cold, stale air. Landing on black obsidian. You never stood up for yourself. It's my own voice. Inside my head. You could have saved him, you know. If you really believed. No. Not in my head, spinning around me, close, invisible. Stand up. Don't be a baby. Stand up! On my knees, I see Him. The Hat Man. He's right next to me. He's impossibly far away. A living shadow, like a charcoal smudge on reality with two empty white sockets for eyes and no other features save the tell-tale hatlike shape. I told the kittens how warm it was under the hood. I unlocked the gate for the bike thieves. I helped them dig up the grave and took the first bite. Sometime in the next month, I'm going to crash your car. Why did you want to be known to me? In a few years, less than a dozen, you will be diagnosed with Stage 2 cancer. I know who your soulmate is and I've already poisoned her against you. You wear glasses now but your eyesight will continue to get worse until you are legally blind, just like your aunt, far before your time. I am the reason mosquitoes seek you out. I gave you the choice and you did what I wanted. Time doesn't work like that for you. Here. Defend yourself. My own voice has been circling me, taunting me, saying so much overlapping, blending together, backwards and forwards. He is telling the truth. In my own voice. I tense and call upon Dream Logic long enough to float into the air, upright and a few inches off the ground. I reach out to push Him away. To bring Him closer. But He stays everywhere in between. I lift my hands to call lightning but my fingertips only drip with tar. “I just want my night terrors back,” I squeak. “I just want to see them again.” Now that I know you, I have always known you. My joy, my sustenance, is your misery. Not pain. Not loss. Not anger. But deep longing, unquenchable regret, languishing indecision. You should have died when you cut yourself so deeply in secret shame, but I saved you. I saved you so I could enjoy your suffering. I will always save you when there is more hope I can siphon and dreams I can shatter. Only when there is nothing left will I let you take your own life. And you will. You already have. I suddenly feel the knife in my right hand. It was there the whole time. I hold it up. The shining steel reflecting non-existent light, glinting to remind me of its reality. I swipe toward The Hat Man but He is nowhere. The blade leaves a rainbow trail of light in its wake. I try again. He is always ahead or behind. And again. He isn't even laughing or taunting. He just is and then isn't and then is again. I remember what I know of The Shadow Things that The Hat Man seems to rule. I look at my left palm, flexing my fingers, before stabbing myself with the knife. Pain, like ice, then fire. My blood swims out as writhing tentacles, reaching toward The Hat Man. Then an explosion in all directions, faster than I can see. Pulling my essence along. I feel the walls and ceiling all at once. Smaller than it seemed. Is The Hat Man even here? Was He ever? A presence like a bug. Like a projection or a speaker. A knob, a protrusion. My body of blood tentacles grips it, pulls it from the wall. And crushes it. I'm on my back, naked, covered in sweat, lying on top of my comforter back in my bedroom. My left hand throbs, oozing thick blood. My throat is so raw I can scarcely swallow. I feel as if nails are being driven into my temples. I'm crying. I hear the spiders scurry, but the now opaque walls no longer move. The floor appears solid. I see myself as expected in the mirror.

The lukewarm shower calms my nerves, my breathing. But I still hear my own voice asking me why I wanted to make myself known. Does He even have a voice of His own? As the cut on my hand clots exceptionally fast, as my headache clears, I know I am seen. I am known. From cradle to grave.

---

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A tickle, a nuzzle against my neck. A breath. A sigh. I can't move, but I feel the slow, steady rise and fall of my chest. My eyes stay closed. I'm suspended, hovering, hesitating as each side pulls gently. My arm slips and I feel the smooth, muscled warmth of your thigh as you wrap your legs around me from behind. Familiar. You touch my shoulders and slip your hands under my arms. Trembling, my heart thrums, spilling warmth. Smiling, I nod so slightly I'm not sure you noticed. Your exploring hands answer by reaching between my legs, your mouth answers with teeth on my neck. A moan. Not sure if yours or mine. I long to turn around, to close my eyes enough that I can see you, know you, but my arm is asleep. And I hear the fan. My breathing is fast and shallow. I'm lying on my back. Awake. Alone.

I long to see you, to know you, but my body, my mind can't stay there, in the fugue, the twilight, the in between. Do you miss me when I wake? When I sleep and dream? Do you watch from invisible crevices, hiding in shadows, hoping I will remember how to find you? Do you know my True Name? My purpose? I am incomplete. I feel it every day. Something was lost, is missing. I cannot name it or describe it, but you are part of it. Maybe all of it. You will find me and drag me down to the Deep Waters and we will love for eternity. What is one lifetime to wait? Nothing. If I were ignorant; if I didn't know. But I do know. Each touch, each time, each brief moment together fills me with joy and peace before draining me, cruelly, against my protests. I'm not done here, but I wake up empty just the same. I wake up crying and forsaken. I love again and again. I struggle and learn. I hope for meaning that will never be revealed. I make a good life here. I love, I strive, I share. I am not alone. You can see that. But it's not the same. These feelings pale to The Before and The After. Is it time I'm supposed to appreciate? And it's passage? For us, a moment was forever and the universe a drop of water. For me, here, without you, time is a prison.

---

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My eyes are open. My eyes are open so I must be awake. What is that sound? What is that clicking sound? A black stick is falling toward my eyes. I see it. But I'm not blinking. My eyes aren't closing. My eyes can't close. The stick moves past. It's alive. Without moving my head. I can't move my head. I see my wife beside me in bed. Reading. “Please help me,” I say. She ignores me. I see the black sticks again. Legs. They are legs. Weaving. Spider legs. I lift my hand to brush them away. My hand doesn't lift. My arm doesn't move. My arms are made of stone, concrete. They will not move. I feel something on my sternum. Heavy. Round. Like a living bowling ball. Directing the spiders on my face. I can hear them. I know their language. But they are whispering. I ask them, “Why are you doing this?” “What are you doing?” The spider on my sternum shifts. The spiders on my face say “Hush.” Spiders don’t have the concept of a “tone of voice”. But. These two spiders spinning the web to cocoon my head. They seem very patronizing. I haven't earned the right to know what they are doing. My eyes close. I am lost in time. It's almost silly when I find out. The spiders are aware of the popularity of Spider-Man. They think that sounds like a good idea. A spider-human hybrid would be wonders for their reputation. I was chosen as one of the test beds for the brightest spider minds. I would not be their final achievement. No. But I would be experimented on. Techniques would be perfected. I was adrift in time. My eyes open and I am free. I stand and see a well-lit living room. I see an indoor swimming pool, in ground. Not large, but exceptionally clean and inviting. I walk forward and feel my body. The limbs are lanky. Extra tissue has been removed or replaced. My skin seems paper thin on my hands. I step into the water of the pool. It's warm. I expected it to be cool, but it's warm. I lower my head into the water and breathe. I can breathe underwater. I feel the water on my head. My hair is short. I see my golden silk house clothes billow in the water. I exit the pool on the other side, using the concrete steps. A little girl, perhaps 10 years old runs up and smiles at me. “I hate it when you go in the water,” she says. “Sometimes you stay down there for 15 minutes!” She's so young that 15 minutes must seem like eternity. “You'll understand when you're older,” I say. I don’t recognize my own voice. I half-remember a lifetime of experience. Decades. It's breakfast time. One of my daughters is cooking breakfast. I can smell the sizzling meat. I feel a warm surge down my legs. I look down and see hundreds of small brown and gray spiders spread out from my pants. I can hear them. Each of them. I know them. Every one of them. Not by name. They don't have names. But we are connected. They know me and I know them. I know what they know and see what they see. But I don’t see it. I just know it. They are going on patrol. They will keep out the vermin. They will be the barrier at the edge of our domain. They will die to protect us. My body sways and my legs carry me to the table. There are other family members already sitting, all female. Women and girls. I am a grandmother, perhaps a great-grandmother. In this house, I am the Mother of All Spiders. I remember for the spiders. They have short lives. To them my mind is vast. My lifespan nigh immortality. I am their computer. I am their incubator. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The children! My face turns toward the front room. Before I can form a coherent thought. My hands reach down in front of me and grip the floor. My legs bend and crack. My legs reach up behind me and grab the ceiling. My arms bend and crack . My arms reach up above me and grab the ceiling. My throat aches. My mouth opens wide. I rush along the ceiling. Faster than I imagined possible. I burst through the doorway. I see a man. I know him. He has his hand inside his jacket. He's reaching for something. I snarl and a glob of webbing is projected out of my throat at high velocity. It hits the man in the chest. He's knocked backwards and onto the floor. “No need for that,” he says. He pulls out an envelope. He waves it in the air. My legs reach down to the floor. My legs crack and bend. My arms let go of the ceiling. My arms crack and bend. The spinnerets in my throat retract. The two halves of my jaw reconnect themselves. “You didn't knock,” I say. He stands up. He shakes his head. “When the day comes, you will never see me coming.” He hates us. We know. He knows we know. He doesn't care. He waggles the envelope. “Just take it.” I take the envelope. It is addressed to our family. “Mayor thought it'd be funny to have me deliver your invitation.” I open the envelope and start reading. My spiders will keep their eyes on our guest. And my mind is connected to their minds. My mind is connected to their eyes. I read the invitation: cordially invited… demonstration of advances in science and medicine… honored guests… I remember now. We, the spiders and I, decided to collaborate with other scientists. The best spider minds are very young and naïve compared to the best human minds. It made sense. “I hear they're planning to show off something with centipedes,” he says. My children shift uneasily. The man straightens his jacket and makes a sinister finger gun gesture. “Be seeing you,” he says, before leaving of his own accord.

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Mastodon

The cemetery asphalt is cool in the afternoon shade, identical tombstones, some hundreds of years old stretch as far as I can see. The wrought-iron gate to the inner sanctum, separated by a tall brick wall opens as I approach. I slip in and it closes silently as I navigate through the entrance maze. A right, a left, two rights, and left, and another left. I step into the courtyard and see a few of the workers pruning apple trees or working the garden. Some wave, some ignore me, some don't even notice my passage. I look up at the sanctum, a structure of stone expanded with wood, steel, and siding, ancient and modern gripping each other but never quite merging. I see a young-looking man in the massive arched doorway, thinning brown hair, slightly overweight. “Misty!” Dan calls out. “Misty Meaner!” he says with a wink and a smirk. I roll my eyes and shake my head. His grey-blue eyes invite you to fall into them, fly away, forever. His smile tethers itself to your heart and reels you in. “How old are you, again?” I ask, breaking eye contact. “That's—you know it—it's different.” he stammers. “Point taken, though.” I can feel his magnetism settling, simmering instead of boiling over. As we head inside, I can hear loud dialogue, likely from the theater. “It is,” he says, responding to my thoughts. “I've made some real progress on the 'magitech',” he gushes. “The 3D effect is next level now, with actual depth. “Only works for black and white films right now, but I'll get there.” He takes my hand. “You'll have to come by after your shift,” he offers. I shrug and bight my tongue behind a thin smile. “Be polite,” I think. He steps in front of me, using a tender gesture to raise my head. “Hey, wait.” he says squinting, hiding his charms, probing gently past my surface thoughts. “Are you okay?” I chuckle, “Actually, I feel like shit, but I've got responsibilities so here I am.” I do feel like shit. Brain fog, tight emotions, unexpected bouts of rage and crying. He sniffs the air lightly, “I didn't want to say anything last week.” “About what?” I ask. “Well—I'm not trying to be rude, but I think your hormones are off.” I nod slowly, “That would make sense.” “I haven't had bloodwork in over a year and my endo was talking about switching to injections.” He pats my shoulder, “Please take care of yourself. If it's money, you know she will cover it.” I shrug, “It's time. I have no time.” “Oh,” I start, “will the elders be upset by it?” Dan takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, “I doubt it; it's still closer to what they prefer than any cissy could manage.” “Anyway, I'll let you get to it.” He heads back to his movie theater and his experiments. I assume that's where most of the younger members are.

I remember the ad that brought me here almost two years ago: “Seeking Part-time Caregiver for multiple elderly residents. Must be well-read and have a strong voice. Services will be limited to reading and light teaching. Medical training not required.” And the part that really got my attention, “Transgender women on full HRT only.” I had to see what it was all about. I replied to the ad and met Melinda at an outdoor cafe downtown for coffee. I had water. Melinda was a fount of radiant 'house mom' energy, carefully put together comfortable but elegant outfit, expertly styled red hair, subtle 'no makeup' look makeup. Her eyes were a strange mixture of green and gold. I'd never seen gold in someone's eyes before. And her easy smile lulled me into complacency. I was spilling my deepest secrets and weird hobbies before I even noticed what I was saying. She told me about the job, about my charges, about the fact that they are mostly non-verbal and mobility impaired, but they like to be read to. I was moved to compassion. When she said the job was at an estate in the middle of a national cemetery in the oldest part of town, I was intrigued. I was taken to meet 'The Elders' and was led through a cavernous house, almost a castle, down stone steps lined with torches, to a large room filled with ancient armors, mounted weapons, and two walls of books stretching a full story high. At one end was the largest fireplace I'd ever seen. You could drive a car through it. And it was fully ablaze. I couldn't imagine how much fuel it took to burn that strongly. I was told 'The Elders' were cold blooded and liked the heat. When we got closer to the fire, I saw them, 10 pale faces with bright eyes sharing a deeply set opulent sofa, watching me, following me, each body bundled in heavy blankets or furs. “That's a good sign,” Melinda assured me. They had ignored other applicants, I was told. We stood between 'The Elders' and the fireplace. “Great and Honored Elders,” she said, bowing. “I present Misty Allen Shaffer for your approval.” I heard a sound like sighing or coughing, but so faint I couldn't tell from where. “Thank you,” she said, bowing again. She smiled at me, so wide her teeth shimmered in the firelight, “They will allow it.” Apparently, it meant I got the gig. She asked me to bring some modern science fiction from the library to read. She defined “modern” as anything after 1900. In spite of the walls of books we'd passed, they were awfully tired of what they had on hand. I'd come in and sit by the fire and read out loud for them for three hours once a every weekend, doing different voices for the different characters. They'd study me with their inscrutable eyes the entire time, never speaking, but occasionally making small noises. When I moved around, they followed me with their gazes, sometimes imperceptibly moving their heads, but often just with their eyes. I could tell what authors they liked and which they didn't although I'm not sure how. I could feel it. The particularly liked Asimov, Bradbury, and Frank Herbert but weren't fans of Philip K. Dick. When I read even newer authors like Liu Cixin or N. K. Jemisin, the vibe in the room was particularly electric. I'd caught an uneasy amusement from them when I read Peter Watts' 'Blindsight'.

Today, I was bringing a classic, HG Wells' 'The Time Machine'. Down 40 stone steps around a column, lit and warmed by torches at every fifth step. Into the visitation hall. Even in the dim light of the fire, I can see them watching me. I feel loved and involuntarily smile. “Good afternoon, everyone!” I call out. “As promised, HG Wells' 'The Time Machine' with a nameless protagonist and a look at what the future may hold, written in 1895. “I know that's few years older than you'd prefer, but trust me, it is worth it. “It gets pretty 'out there' toward the end. “You'll love it.” They study me as I read from the elaborate, carved seat by the fire. “Chapter 1,” I began, using an English accent befitting the author. “The Inventor.” I'd made it to the section where The Time Traveler loses The Time Machine to the Morlocks (who I voiced as deep throated aristocrats – inspired by Jeremy Irons performance in the movie) when the first rumble shook dust from the walls. As I look around for a source, I spot a red strobing light above the door. “Shit!” Evacuation? What was happening up there? “Uh, everybody?” I call out. They watch me intently, “We've got to go.” I'd been trained for this, drills even, although I was told it would probably never be required. I jog over to the hidden emergency exit door, trying to remember the pattern. Like a backwards treble clef, then three parallel lines, then eleven o'clock, three o'clock, seven o'clock. POP A handle appears and I struggle to slide the door which has probably been closed for longer than I've been alive. I create an opening about three feet before turning back around. The Elders still sit. They are watching me but not standing, not moving. They are supposed to follow me. “Come on!” I yell, waving at them with both arms above my head. Nothing. I reach into my bag and pull out my multitool. I stare at it in my hand, breathing hard. I slide it open and expose the knife, seeing flames dancing in reflection. “Hey, y'all!” I call out. Nothing. I'm going to have to do this. I bite my lower lip, hard, and cut a shallow, inch long gash in my left arm. The Elders lean forward but do not rise. Damn. I cut a second, longer and deeper gash close to the first. It burns and try not to scream through gritted teeth. “Mother fucker” I mutter. Blood runs down my arm to my elbow where it falls and splatters on the floor. The Elders stand and shuffle toward me, rasping from slightly open mouths. I squeeze into the hidden hallway and hold my arm where they can see it. Where they can smell it. The burning sensation runs all the way from my arm to my chest, making it hard to breathe. I did not expect it to hurt that much. How deep did I cut? I hear shouting from further down the corridor. Their language. A language I don't recognize. Flashlight beams play upon the walls and naked feet slap against the stonework. I still do not understand them but I catch words that seem familiar. 'anthropos' 'aima' Men, women in fatigues churn up from the catacombs, swarming around me, taking the arms of The Elders and leading them deeper into the passages. A man I've never seen leads me back to the reading room. I'm dizzy. “Foolish” I hear him say as he pulls a first aid kit out of his backpack. He's examining my cut which I can see spurts blood every couple of seconds. Whoops. The ground is shaking or it could just be me. “Skata” says the man looking at my arm. “Ti krima“ He shakes his head and sprays something that cleans the blood away. Then he places an absorbent pad and begins to wrap gauze. Something cracks, my ears ring, I'm on the floor. I can't move. I can't see. I hear the man scream, “Gamo to!!” Then “Gia to aima!” I can't feel my legs or arms. I'm not sure if I'm breathing. It's so heavy. I'm cold. Tired. Exhausted. I should sleep. Sleep. Yes. It's quiet. Warm. Like floating in river. Darkness.

. .. ... .... ..... —

Lightning strikes my heart. My head explodes. My arms and legs vibrate like plucked guitar strings. I hear myself screaming but the voice isn't mine. Something burrows into my throat, wiggling its way up to my mouth. My teeth clench, tear, I taste blood and bile. Sound pours itself into my ears, squeaks, groans, gasps. Pumping sounds. The flow of liquid. Sizzling steam, fire. Breaths, whispers. I smell sand, sweat, decay, perfume, incense. Something sweet. I can't name it. But I desire it more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. I can see colors that I do not recognize, outlines of life and probability. I sit up, grab my head. “Misty, you were chosen.” Chosen. I hear it. She's talking. It's Melinda. I love her. I would do anything for her. “For your selfless actions to save The Eldest Among Us, for your kindness and devotion, for your courage and calm under pressure.” My heart swells with each word of praise. “Where once there was death, now there is new life.” I feel her take my hand, our souls intermingle, our life force blends. I am hers. She helps me up. To my feet. I do not waver. I stand like a statue. I look down at my body. Naked. Small breasts, slightly protruding gut hanging over an equally small penis. Cold, but I do not shiver. I frown. This is not what I'm supposed to look like. For a moment I am ashamed. “Welcome our sister,” she says. “Misty Allen Shaffer,” a chorus of voices replies. “Receive your second gift and your secret name.” The crowd parts. “Become what you were meant to be.” A woman wearing only a solemn expression walks toward me. “Receive your second gift,” the crowd repeats. The smell from earlier. I catch it again, thicker, a current guiding me. My mouth twitches, my tongue curls itself into knots. The woman is directly in front of me now. She kneels and tilts her head to the right, exposing her neck. My heart pounds. I feel something slide and shift inside my mouth. Something stabbing my gums and lips. Without thinking, I bend down and bite the woman on the jugular. My exposed fangs effortlessly pierce the skin. The warmth of blood pouring into me is like nothing I've ever experienced. I see memories of her life, a child of poverty, sold, bought, raised almost as livestock but wanting for nothing. I feel her relief, honor, fear at being brought here tonight for me. Fire floods my body, every nerve ending tinkling like a bell, every cell ravenous and renewed. The blood wakes me, the world fills with song, like angels, like a chorus of stars in the heavens. Light pours from me. I feel strong, fast, free. Alive. I was dead. Now I am alive. “Enough,” Melinda whispers to me. I immediately stand. Someone takes the girl aside to bandage her wounds. I know their language now. I see it. I see a word. My word. “Υδατογενής“ Because I adapted myself, changed, flowed into true being. “I am Υδατογενής.”

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Mastodon

aka The Clockwork Witch

I heard the man across the restaurant, excitedly telling his server about his “vision quest”.

I reached into his mind and watched the finale before he spoke it: stripped nearly naked, hooks pulling his skin on both sides of his torso, darkness, firelight, drums, and a heavy dose of ayahuasca.

He said his vision brought him here, to our little out-of-the-way hamlet, by the shallow lake, by the thick woods, between the mountains.

And I saw his vision: the surging water, the sudden collapse, the sky lit by fiery aurorae.

He had seen something he should not have seen.

I twisted his vision, brought it from the past to the present, parked it in place, amplified it with my own magick.

His head went back, eyes wide, mouth slack open and keening like a dying animal.

I turned back to my companion, the witch. She had a name, but I called her “the witch”.

“Someone call 911,” she said.

The police and paramedics gently took him away, for observation, for his own safety.

Most everyone there was part of the plan. Most everyone there knew what had really happened and breathed a sigh of relief.

Others just shook their heads, feeling sorry for a man who had some sort of nervous breakdown at a crowded restaurant.

I took the witch's hand and said we needed to talk to her father.

This man's vision was not part of our plan and what it showed was troubling, too troubling to talk about in mixed company.

She was unconcerned. She didn't see what I saw.

As we exited into the street, into the cool night, into the moist air, we talked about what we'd accomplished in three generations.

We'd made this town prosperous. We made it comfortable.

We were in brochures and discussed on message boards and social media.

“a haunted little town”

“a beautiful, if quirky, gem”

“strange tidings, lovely people”

This place was alive and we bled off the excess slowly, for our own benefit, for the benefit of everyone who called this place home.

What he had seen was like a tidal wave, like the water, once sucked out to sea, suddenly pouring back in, overwhelming everything.

I was old enough to know what this meant but I said nothing of my fears to the witch.

Fear? Was it fear?

Or was it a sense of the inevitable. Of knowing this day would come.

Was it relief?

Could the emotions of a thing like me be described in such simple terms?

The witch smiled, and intertwined our arms.

It was a cold night and I could see her breath.

The parking lot of her father's office, the only office building in town, was empty.

A witch like him didn't need to drive.

There was no warning.

The parking lot exploded in front of us as a house made of metal and wire seemed to dig its way up through molten asphalt and churning earth.

I recognized it at once; “the clockwork witch,” I said out loud.

The witch at my side did not understand.

To her “the clockwork witch” was an urban legend.

A tale to terrify young witches into behaving.

“The clockwork witch” had been the creator of this place, had filled it with potential, with purpose.

She'd created a nexus (a nadir, really), a place where all magic must flow and would feed and feed until she had the power to rule everything, everyone.

But she was betrayed and locked away by her students, by her lessers.

How had they found the words to bind her?

How had they discovered the symbols needed?

How had they devised such clever wards without help?

I knew what happened, because I was there.

Yes, of course I knew.

She was trapped outside of time, outside of space.

A pocket reality where she could play god or goddess, do whatever she wished, create, destroy, anything.

But away from here, away from us.

We steeped in the magick, siphoned a little off the top, before releasing it back into the world.

What flows here, we use simply, for our own benefit, for the benefit of the town.

We share. We cooperate. We thrive.

For generations.

Now, here she was, the clockwork witch reborn.

She could not be as strong as she once was, the power was no longer here and breaking free could not have been easy.

But some magick requires only the correct way of thinking and reality will bend all on its own.

And the witch beside me disappeared, vanished.

I believed her father had probably done the same.

Not by choice.

No, the clockwork witch had them.

She looked so human as she stood before me, an old woman in one view, a towering fiend from another angle. I saw both simultaneously.

She knew me, remembered me.

It had been hundreds of years for me, for her, who knows? An hour, a weekend, a millennium?

I was standing before her.

I did not move nor was I moved, I was simply in front of her now whereas previously I had not been.

I bowed before her. As was my position.

The position she had appointed.

“Watcher,” she said.

“Master,” said I.

“Am I?” she said.

I said nothing.

“Watcher, tell me what has happened.”

She did not mean with words but with my mind I exposed all the centuries of memories, of meetings, decisions, of births, deaths, agreements made and broken, waters risen and fallen, the shift from the forest to the edge, from hiding to inviting, to deceit and capitalism.

I showed her almost everything.

I felt her disappointment.

I was supposed to shepherd them, not become their servant.

She raised a phial of liquid to her lips and drank.

I knew these phials and felt this was the remains of the father of the witch who had been my companion.

“Mary” had been her name. I felt shame in using it now.

At one angle the clockwork witch great taller, broader, in another, she grew younger.

She lifted another phial and spoke to it: “what is it you want?” she asked.

And Mary's voice said, “I've only ever wanted  a small coven of my own.”

We both felt the truth in this. Mary had been part of the great work because it was her birthright, but her heart was never in it, not like her father.

The clockwork witch felt no anger or hatred from her.

“Then have it,” she said, tossing the phial back into the pocket dimension in which she had been trapped.

I wished Mary well.

“Watcher,” she said to me.

I felt the sting of her eyes, the depth of her gaze.

She reached into me, deeply, deeper than I'd even allow myself to venture.

“You betrayed me,” she said.

There was no emotion to her words. I could feel her words and there was no emotion.

It was only a statement of fact.

I did not remember betraying her, but I felt the truth in it.

It was me. I taught them to capture her.

Then I made myself forget.

I felt my body slip away, forget itself completely, become liquid, become smoke, slithering into the ground, but I was caught, and stoppered.

And she drank me.

I felt myself break apart, each bit struggling to remember a single fact, a single bit of information.

That was all I was, information.

That was my purpose.

And I felt each fragment lose its grip until even my own name was a mystery.

I was nothing but her blood, her life.

I was gone.

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Mastodon

“Yes, hello everyone,” I say, surveying the crowd. Heights, weights, skin color, genders, clothing, constantly shift among the attendees. Here was a fat clown in face paint, now a slender woman dressed like an attorney, now a boy in Bermuda shorts. Meetings in the Dreamlands were so complicated. I clap a few times. “Look at me, please.” I say. “Object dissonance, context hopping, and perspective shifts are a real danger if you don't pay attention.” Heads swivel, bodies stabilize, but faces are still indistinct. They're barely paying attention, but it'll have to do. “Welcome to Advanced Dreamer Orientation, where you will learn how to Assert your Will against the Chaos of the Unconscious Mind.” That's the tagline, anyway. “You are all here because you felt the pull to be here. “Whether you know it or not, you are ready for the next phase of your Dreaming.” I smile even though I'm not sure they can see it. “Take a brief moment to look at your surroundings, but not too long.” I give them maybe a second. “Okay, back to me. “What you need to understand is that each of you is seeing something different. “Similar, probably, but different. “That's the nature of this place. “Also,” I pause, smiling again, “you can hear me but I cannot, in all likelihood hear you.” “We'll be able to converse when you've learned to better manifest persistence in the Dreamlands.” I sweep my hands around. “What I see is a very nice conference area in a hotel lobby.” It's not a lie. There's even refreshments. I start walking. “It's open in the back and leads to a small lake with a wooden dock that lets you go out over the water.” I'm outside now, blue sky above, I can smell the musk of mud and water, the pollen of exotic plants. “Obviously, a lake inside a hotel is impossible. “The sizes don't work, but this is the Dreamlands so it's no problem.” I'm trying to see the next trigger or clue. “Does anyone know what the dream wants us to do?” An eight foot tall man in a red suit waves his hand. “Remember, I cannot hear you, but you can point.” He points to the edge of the wooden dock, under an overhanging tree. I follow his gaze and see a bear lying on its back in the water. I close my eyes for a moment, vibing, sensing. I see The Three Stooges in my mind for some reason. “Okay,” I say out loud. “Slapstick.” I nod. “For those who cannot see it, there is a bear lying down in the lake just out of sight at the end of the dock.” “I imagine we are supposed to upset it somehow and get it chasing us. “Nobody would get hurt for real, but there would be falling and running into things and general tomfoolery. “This was to be a silly dream.” I see people nodding and a few straining to see the bear. “What I am here to show you is the key to everything: You do not have to follow the narrative.” I pause again before adding, “That's right. You can choose to do something else.” “Now, the Dreamlands might push back, but you can hold your ground and push harder.” I shake my fists. “You are the Dreamer. “Never forget that.” I sneak up on the bear and see a boat motor attached to the side of the dock, sitting in the water. “I think we were supposed to not see the bear, start the motor, and startle the bear so it's starts running,” I tell everyone. “I'm going to do something else.” I kneel down on the edge of the dock. “Hey, bear?” It doesn't move. I can see its eyes are closed. “Bear? You awake?” I ask. I reach down and nudge him with my hand. “What the—dang!” the bear says. “Why did you wake me up?” it asks. I look over my shoulder at the rest of the Dreamers. “That's right everybody. “You can talk to bears.” “Well, yeah,” the bear says. “Why wouldn't you be able to talk to me?” I turn back to the bear. “In the real world, animals do not speak the same language as the Dreamers. So we can talk, but they won't understand.” The bear rolls over and sits up in the water, “That must be inconvenient.” I shrug, “It doesn't come up as often as you'd think.” I continue, “Hey, bear. I think we were supposed to startle you and you would chase us around.” The bear scrunches its face, “Why would I chase you?” “Well, what would you do,” I ask. “Like I did just now, sit up and ask you what's going on.” I point to the motor. “I think we were supposed to start that up and startle you.” “Wait,” he said, looking over my shoulder, pointing a massive claw. “What's that?” I turn my head and see a tremendous beehive, hidden under the awning of building we just left. It may not have been there before. “Bees,” I say out loud, shaking my head. “Oh dang,” he said. “That propeller is right next to where I was sleeping. That's dangerous!” “Sorry,” I say. “We weren't supposed to notice you. “Well, you should really check the water before you start a motor like that,” he says. “I know,” I offer. “What would you have done?” “I don't know, probably run up on the shore and try to get away, but since the hotel is on this side, I'd be kind of stuck running circles. I assume the bees would swarm everybody and none of us would rightly understand what was happening.” “There it is!” I exclaim. “Misunderstanding. He wouldn't even be chasing us.” The bear grunts, “I'd probably get shot by someone though, so that'd suck for me.” “That is the world we live in,” I say. “We'll leave you to your nap.” The bear waves its huge claw and lies back down in the water. I walk down the dock until I'm back on solid ground. I motion for everyone to head back inside. One of our Dreamers has turned themself into a garbage can. I see her face reflected in the metal on the side, anxious, afraid. She didn't do it on purpose. I don't have time to deal with that right now. The garbage can slides closer to me. I can feel it. “No,” I think to myself. “I am the Dreamer and I am not handling this.” It fades from view. The front doors burst open and a grizzled, buff Christmas elf walks in. It's like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in an SNL skit. “Come with me,” he says, gritting his teeth. “The Koala Uprising has begun,” he adds with grim certainty that we will both understand what this is and care enough to act. I address the group, “When you try to push, as I said, sometimes, the Dreamlands push back.” I can see through the glass doors that we are on a hill overlooking a snowy village of gingerbread houses. Explosions rock some of them, sending edible debris into the sky. I say to the group, “See? Trying to reassert control.” I turn to the elf. “No, thank you,” I say and walk past him. I motion for the group to come along. “They play on your emotions, your guilt or honor, maybe curiosity or shame or fear. “But, remember,” I hold up my finger, “it is your Dream, not theirs.” Outside, the battle is clearly raging up toward our cozy hotel. “When this happens,” I say, “I recommend flying away.” I push myself into the air with my toes until I'm about 6 or 7 feet off of the ground, just tall enough to clear the fence. I lean into the air and rocket forward a couple of blocks in a blink. Still levitating, I look back and see one woman jump up and stay in the air only a moment before falling. She tries again and stays up and in place. I see another fly too low and trip over the fence spinning themself over and over in the air. Others are confused and have no idea how to get off the ground at all. I throw up my hands, shaking my head. How can they not know how to fly? That's like Dreaming 101. Not my problem. I yell so they can hear, “The trick is to go so far, so fast that the Dreamlands cannot keep up.” “You'll either hit the edge and wake up, or your find yourself in a different scenario.” Away from them. I push against the air, leaning into it. The landscape slips by like a fast-forwarding slideshow. Something hits me hard in the shins. I stop. I was flying standing up instead of lying down. Common error for me in dreams. I look around and see a battle between super heroes and villains. I recognize them. Sinestro, Batman, Bizarro, Aquaman. The outfits are old-school cartoons. “Aren't you from Superfriends? The Legion of Doom?” Sinestro looks up at me, purple skin a uniform color. “Another one, eh?” I roll my eyes. “No, thank you,” I say. I push against the air again, this time, straight up. I'm rushing above power lines, above trees, through clouds. I know I'm risking hitting a bird or a plane, maybe even an invisible one. I can see stars, I look toward the moon. I keep pushing. “Huh?” I'm awake. The Dreamlands never let me fly to the moon.

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons,543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

Mastodon

I remember the first time I stepped inside a wall.

I walked by the ringing phone. It had been ringing non-stop. My mom asked me who it was and I said, “I've quit bothering to find out.” I took the steps to the attic and peered out the small window. I saw a black van pull up out front and a team of agents jump out. I knew they were here for me. I heard them entering the house and calling out for me. I heard my mom scream for just a moment. The attic was bare, but there was a tall mirror on the wall. I stood in front of it and put my hands on it, pushing with all my might. It was like a wall of gelatin or mud. It was thick and resisted me but slowly deformed around my arms. With constant pressure, I kept moving forward, not allowing it to force me back. I pushed all the way through the mirror and stepped inside the wall. A great pressure was released as the last part of my body slipped in and I felt the mirror and the wall bounce back into their original shape and consistency. The other side was darker than the room I'd left and the colors were muted. The entire wall was transparent to me. I could see the whole attic. But I could see the agents rush in with guns drawn. I saw them search for me. I saw them look into the mirror. But, they didn’t find me. I was on the other side.

I remember passing through a wall in slow motion, my eyes open. I could see the wood and metal and sheet-rock. I could see what was inside of it. I could see the elements. The cells, the molecules, the atoms. It was like being inside a fun house. Sizes and distances seemed to shift and deform. I could feel time pausing, stretching out. My mind tried to understand what was happening. But there was so much information. Too much information. I reached my arms out and felt the touch the past on one side and future on the other. I saw them stretch to impossible lengths. Vibrating into dimensions that I do not have names for. I could see what was, what may have been, what will be, and what may be. I could touch them and tweak them and turn them in my hands. But it was too much. We are meant to pass through this place. Not dwell here. I close my eyes and pass through the other side of the wall.

I learned to step into walls backwards, back first, every time. It's easier on the old human mind. I found I could tolerate staying there if I focused on where I'd been instead of where I wanted to go. The past is easy to see as a single path, the path you remember. Staring into the future with all its possibilities can drive one mad. The space between walls is a liminal space in the purest sense. There is the physical space, with the components used to build it. And there is the space beneath all flat surfaces, under every plane, behind every reflection. A metaphor. That was where I found The In Between. Where I met them. Those who chose to stay. I was welcomed to The In Between. The music was generic muzak. The drinks were watered down. The appetizers were bland, even too bland for me. The people were dull and unambitious. We are meant to pass through this place. Not dwell here.

Once, I moved without moving. I shifted my awareness. I found myself in a windowless room. No doors either. I saw a potted plant and observed a drop of water on one of the leaves. My vision seemed to zoom into the droplet. I saw its reflection. It was reflecting the entire universe. Like looking at a black hole curving light. I saw everything in that drop of water. I saw the back wall of the room as a line, like a tiger's eye, and, on one side, was the room I was in, and on the other was everything else. For a moment, I shifted myself perpendicular to normal space. For a moment, I perceived a higher dimension. And when I shifted my perception back down, I did so on the other side of that line. I was outside of the closed room. I was standing on the other side of the wall. I hadn't moved in the normal sense. I hadn't walked in any of the normal directions on an XYZ access. I hadn't simply waited years for the room to decay and moved through time. I'd seen a direction that has no name and moved through it without thinking. Without knowing how. And then, I was outside.

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#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #WalkThroughWalls #HigherDimensions #FifthDimension #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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Of course I didn't call room service. I know better. But I blush with shame as he asks just the same. He would have seen or heard. And I was taught the rules. I know the rules. I am not to engage unless expressly authorized or permitted while in transit. It's too dangerous. A single word could give us away. He is kinder than I expected. He places both palms on the door and speaks in a soft voice. I know what he is doing and I can feel the strengthening of the door, like it's knitting itself together, filling in the gaps. He has already looked through the peephole. He has already identified the man as an employee by his energy. He has already seen the clean, white towels he holds as he cries “room service” before knocking again. He opens the door and I can hear him say. “I'm sorry, but we didn't call down for more towels.” “I understand that you can tell what room calls come from at the front desk, but we didn't call down.” “Okay. Thanks.” I could not hear the person in the hallway. He closes the door. He does not turn around. His shoulders slump and he sighs. He places one hand on the each side of the door and speaks another incantation. This one is weaker because must cover a larger area, but the walls become denser, like rock. I can feel it. That's why I was chosen. I can feel things in the air; when they are stretched or pulled or twisted. I can feel it. I can twist things, too, but I need training. I can feel his anxiety. Not fear. Fear tastes bitter, and this is merely sour. “We will be having chicken for dinner.” That's code. We are being followed and they are close. He may have seen them. Based on the walls, they must have guns. He wouldn’t have pulled that much into them for just fists or knives. He walks toward our balcony. We're on the 7th floor; the top floor. He slides the door open and I can see him studying the corner of the building. We are right on the corner, so the corner of the building is just to the left. He leans out and places his left hand on the building and speaks to it, while holding his right hand in the air. I can see the air thicken, like a blanket. He can't see it, but he knows what he is doing. I lament that we have no books, no guides, but he doesn't need books. Besides its forbidden to travel in the open with our materials. Our minds are the only tools we may take when we travel. I hear hard taps at the door and wall. I know they are coming. He motions for me jump over the railing and I do. The fall is swifter than I'd like but safe, like diving into water. We both touch down safely. He sees a wandering dog and motions toward it. It tilts its head and looks at him, before trotting over, wagging its tail. He bends down, gently places a hand on each side of the dog's face and stares into its eyes. The dog barks excitedly and yips, it's tail wagging even more. I know he is talking to the dog. That's his gift. He can talk to animals. Any animal really. Knowing the language is not enough, you have to know how they think and he does. He always has. He pats the dog on its head before standing back up. “They know about the Jeep.” That means we cannot drive away. But he didn't say anything about the tunnel, so they do not know about that. We have to make it on foot. Two people burst out of the side door of the hotel and quickly stumble into each other. They did not expect to see us. I can tell. They are holding their hands over hidden guns and are walking stiff-legged toward us. He makes a sign with his left hand and traces a vertical symbol in the air while simultaneously tracing another symbol on his leg with his right hand. “Hang on to me.” I'm little. So I climb onto his back and he runs, faster than a man can run. And the two people who came out of the hotel do not see us. They see us still standing there and they will until they make it to the spot. I can feel the hum of life twisted into new designs, I can feel it slowly unraveling, but it should be tight enough. The road is clear, the trees are singing. We find the silent spot and enter a shadow which becomes a room which becomes a tunnel. He nods to the others there. They were waiting for us. To rescue us. I ask if I can trace fire as we move forward and he allows it. I drag my hands on the walls and twist the dirt and leaves into blossoms waiting to bloom, full of fire and smoke. I know they will be coming after us, even in here, but we have a head start and this is our place, in the earth. We speak to it and it responds. They call out to false gods and beg for scraps of favor or power. We mold what is already present. We are stewards of the awash power always present in the living earth, the planet itself. We contradict the will of all outsiders so we are called monsters and cultists. They seek to syphon the life for their own uses, we cooperate and stay within. The earth listens and, as we move, changes itself behind us. I can hear them entering the tunnel now. They found the shadow door easily enough by following our path, but they do not see what the earth has done. I feel a blast of heat, smell the musk of singed dust and skin blown down the path and the screams of those who went first. Cursing and yelling as they call water out of the ground and water must oblige them such is their power, but it resists. The elements do not resist us because we make no demands, only requests. We reach the other end, our safe haven and he puts up a barrier behind us. Makes the air like glass, like plastic. They cannot pass and can only gnash their teeth as we exit to our city, home. Our safe place. Deep. He does a card trick for a child waiting at the exit. “Pick a card.” The child draws the 7 of Hearts. I do not see it, but I know it. “Hold it close to your heart.” He winks as he says this. The child does. The man shuffles and concentrates and speaks in a deep, hollow, whisper. This is the language of snakes, the language of the wind. Of Metamorphosis. I did not know he could speak to the wind. “I'm losing the image of your card” he says, but it is part of the trick. “Can you look at it again?” The child lifts their hand and gasps. The card has been replaced by a $20 bill. “That's right.” He said snapping his fingers. “I bought your card for $20.” He holds up the 7 of Hearts, “See?” “Please keep the money.” He says even before the child's parents can offer it back. He is kinder than I expected.

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#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Magic #Magick #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ or send a letter to Creative Commons,543 Howard Street, 5th Floor, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

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