The airport, 5:01 am. The waiting area is empty, save for one occupied seat. It faces one of the large window panes that overlooks the tarmac. A slender, white plane stands ready, wheels solidly on the ground and the passenger tunnel connected to the hull. But no one is boarding.

EE sits in the chair, or a better word would be ‘lounges’ in the chair. It’s not a regular seat, it’s tilted backward to make it easier to nap while waiting. The hard plastic seems to impede their comfort as they shift to push a travel pillow behind their neck.

EE: “Lately I’ve been thinking about some things. Like our cultural obsession with coming of age stories.”

There’s no one else in view.

EE: “I think it’s tiresome how it paints your teenage years, and often your early twenties as some magical time; like a before, then a becoming, and everything else after. As if adulthood is something that arrives after a single period of struggle as if it’s not a continuous, Sisyphean task to grow up, mature, and age.”

Despite the emptiness, the words are not carried far. The space is silent.

EE: “If you ask me, we keep on coming of age into various stages of our life. I’ve found myself shifting shape every so often, through sudden moments of clarity and longer periods of withdrawal. Some people claim they still feel like they’re 20 when they’re 50, but that’s not at all my experience. Sometimes it’s like my past selves don’t exist at all, as if they were subsumed by a newer me, absorbed into something different altogether.”

A crumpled bit of paper flutters along the ground as the air shifts. A chair to the right creaks, as if someone just sat down. But it remains empty.

EE: “Do you know what liminal means? It is an intermediary state between different beginning and end states, conditions, or areas. It’s a term that became a pop-culture thing – yeah I know about the backrooms – but it was originally used by sociologists to define the state someone is in during a ritual. While undergoing a ritual you are no longer who you were before, yet you still have to become who you will be when it ends. Often your status within your societal group is upended during a ritual, floating between child and adult; lovers and family; outcast and accepted.”

In the distance an escalator activates, but no voices are heard. EE looks up briefly, then immediately continues their train of thought.

EE: “Don’t you think our world lacks rituals? Well, the Western one anyway. I’ve been considering this lack for a while now and I believe it’s a space worth filling. There’s something about meaning that can only be found by allowing yourself to pass through a state of unease and uncertainty. A moment when your world closes off, and becomes unrecognizable, forcing you to travel through the strange and unknown, until this new world reveals itself to you and you rejoin reality, rejoin your community. I wonder how we could create space for that in a secular world.”

EE looks pensively at the airplane outside.
A low rumbling sound is heard, like a sigh bubbling up from deep within the earth.

EE: “I know, I should get going. I got unstuck but now I’m afraid I prefer to wander without any commitments. And I’m not even halfway there. Wherever there is.”

In the distance, a light pink dusting of clouds reveals the first rays of morning. It makes the top of the plane outside shine with hints of lavender and peach.

EE: “You’re right. There’s something else waiting for me on the other end of that flight. Now it’s just a matter of getting on it.”

EE sighs, just as the earth had. They seem reluctant to leave but eventually get up and walk towards the boarding area. There’s no one at the check-in. They look back, eyes focused somewhere out of view, they nod almost imperceptibly before they turn around and head down the corridor to disappear into the tunnel. Their silhouette stretches on the ground, then fractures into many overlapping shadows until they slip away into the morning sun.

Credit
Image – Little girl from Verses For Grannies, Suggested By The Children… illustrated by Dorothea A. H Drew (1899) Free public domain CC0 image.
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

We sit high up in an elderberry bush, its trunk so thick it rivals many of the surrounding trees. Its clustered flowers make it look like we’re floating on a fluffy, creamy cloud. It’s peaceful up here. 

Away from the ground is safer, somehow.

For a long time, we just gaze up at the sky and imagine what it’s like up there. What it would feel like to fly. 

Going somewhere far away. That must be nice.

Then you take my hand, and we’re off to our hideout between the bay trees and rhododendrons. The soil is always moist here but that doesn’t matter for real explorers of nature like us. We crouch down and watch some nearby birds intently, making sure they never spot us. 

Staying hidden is safer. Keeping secrets is how you survive.

We play a game where we’re in a secret magic society that obviously has to save the world, but we agree that’s like a “long-term goal”. We mostly need to do very secretive cool things and baffle anyone with our cleverness and sorcery. It involves complicated spells and rituals around an old tree trunk. 
We also need to dress up as princesses; of course, there’s nothing better than flowy gowns and flower crowns. 

This world should be full of magic. Why isn’t it?

I braid your hair and decorate it with daisies. You give me a necklace made of long willow twigs. We huddle in the tent and draw intricate pictures of beautiful, adventurous ladies, one drawing scribbled over another, all in ballpoint pen. It’s a jumble of lines when we’re done — another secret only we can unravel. Stories that no one will ever know about.

You can only entrust yourself with the truth. And the darkness.

We play hide and seek; we run and laugh; we bike; we pet the animals at the nearby farm. We bask in the sun, but never long; there’s always something else to do, something else to see, somewhere else to be. Like in the ditch near the road! There’s so many wildflowers there, we pick a bouquet to take home.

If only we could go and discover the world without fear. There’s so much to see and learn.

Some afternoons should go on forever, and in my mind they do. But even the power of imagination can’t stop the real world from turning, so I’m forced to go back to my wanderings eventually. 

I hear someone call for dinner, so it’s best you go now. You say you don’t want to, but your growling tummy betrays you. You demand I stay longer; we could play more? I sadly shake my head and give you a long hug. I do need to tell you something before I go. 

Not about the future. I know you have a million questions, but my answers won’t do you any good. You seem to understand. We’ve always had a good sense of what should remain unknowable. Mystery is important for a good story, after all.

So instead, I say that you should heed the warnings of the Ghosts, just as the Dreamer is the closest thing to an oracle you will ever meet, fortune tellers be damned. And the Artist is your friend; never forget! There are going to be others too, but don’t worry about that; I’ll take care of them. Just like I will take care of you.

I guess that’s what I came here to say today. In this idyllic memory turned fantasy. 
You no longer need to protect yourself from the world by hiding away. Everything you are, everything I was, and still am, I can hold that for us both now. 
It’s weird to become an adult. Really weird, but also comforting. 

In a year, I’m going to be the same age our mother was when she had us. I have no idea how this happened, yet inside, it feels like I was supposed to be this age all along. Like I finally belong, like we finally belong. We’ve been 40 years old since the beginning.

You laugh as if I just told the world’s greatest joke. We hug again, you peck a kiss on my cheek, then you turn and run towards the old caravan. You stop to wave at me at least three times before you finally disappear from view. That stuff really runs in the family.

I blink away some tears and step out into the oncoming dusk. Someone else is calling me home.

Credit
Image – Little girl from Verses For Grannies, Suggested By The Children… illustrated by Dorothea A. H Drew (1899) Free public domain CC0 image.
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The wind still wails; its voice fills my ears, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s peaceful here on the ground. Really, if I keep my eyes closed and my mind as quiet as I can, I could just let the stillness envelop me, and I’m sure the air would become motionless around me. 

Perfect. If it weren’t for those DAMN BELLS.

Who the hell disturbs my peace with this incessant jingling? I wrinkle my eyes shut harder and try to will the sound to go away. Unfortunately, it seems my efforts have the opposite effect; the sound is now coming towards me. The bells tinkle erratically somewhere on the left, then to the right of me, until they come to a halt unsettlingly close to the top of my head. 

“Oh, my Liege, this simply will not do! It will not do!”

It’s only through my cultivated power of denial that I can keep myself from jumping up. I can’t repress the jolt that goes through my body, but I will NOT open my eyes. I refuse.

“Sire, are you still in bed? At this late hour? I would never dare say that you are lazy, never!, so it must be that you are gravely ill, or worse!, extremely comfy.”

Of course, the bells tinkle as he giggles to himself. 

I can’t help but glance at the annoying newcomer through half-lidded eyes. My first impression is a smudge of color, an outfit with too much of everything to easily make sense of it, and I can’t see his face at all. I open my eyes fully, and a man in a tight, quilted costume comes into focus. He’s a patchwork of red, purple, cream, and gold fabric; the long sleeves of his jacket dangling precariously close to the ground. He wears an odd hat that has two ears sticking up at the top. Tiny copper bells that chime softly with each movement adorn the cap and sleeves. But despite the crazy getup, what is most remarkable is the beautifully crafted mask that obscures his face; it has the shape of a fox’s head, with fur meticulously carved into what must be wood and then painted with the finest of brushes to an almost lifelike effect. It gives me no idea whatsoever of what this person looks like, aside from a vague flicker of Marigold behind the guise.

“Eh. Who are you?”

“Why, I am your jester, of course! Your Majesty, how could you forget your faithful servant? Oh woe is me; have I been forsaken by my master? Have I been cast out of your magnificent court without a two-week notice?”

“I… what? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please just go; I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
I close my eyes again and vaguely wave my hand as a matter of saying goodbye. 

“I am dismissed, like a dog! Oh, what a miserable day for a noble, clever fox.”
I can hear him sink to the ground next to me. Reluctantly, I look over and see his face — the mask — next to mine.

“Seriously, who are you? And why are you wearing that…” I gesture faintly at his whole deal “…outfit?”

“Oh, could it be that you cannot remember me because my beautiful visage is hidden behind this exquisite mask, Your Grace? Well, let me remedy that posthaste!”

He removes the mask with a flourish while keeping his face hidden with his ridiculously long (and noisy!) sleeve. It’s only when he reveals his eyes — while giving a coy wink — that it dawns on me that he is in fact an actual fox. A black one.

I stare for a minute, but then decide that this might as well happen. Nothing should come as a surprise in your own mind, and yet often that’s exactly what happens. All I manage to say is “I see.”.

“Do you still harbor doubts when gazing upon my snout? I know! I should prove myself to you, My Lady. Prove that I am still your ever-cunning, charming, and handsome jester. Surely you will not deny me then!”

Before I can protest, he jumps up and immediately launches into an intricate dance. He moves his elegant limbs to create a precise beat while simultaneously juggling what look like glass balls that he seems to pluck out of thin air. The longer the dance goes on, the more exaggerated his movements become; the more improbable the juggling act, the more intense the rhythm of the bells. Through it all, he keeps holding my gaze and laughing with a toothy smile. I get the distinct feeling that he’s gauging my reaction to his every move. He’s clearly not satisfied as he tosses the balls into the air, never to be seen again, while he makes increasingly complicated cartwheels and somersaults, never once missing the beat, of course.

I watch with growing astonishment as he suddenly pounces down with an elegant arc—like foxes do in winter to catch prey below the snow. To my horror, I see how he smacks face-first into the ground but somehow shakes off the impact and lets himself fall on his back, roaring with laughter. I can see a trickle of blood coming from his nose, though.

I sit up immediately. “Are you alright?” 
“Of course, Your Excellency, never better,” he hiccups as he continues to laugh. 
“You’re hurt!”
“‘t is but a light concussion, My Lord, nothing to worry about. But I am very touched by your concern. Could it be?” I don’t know how he manages it, but it feels like he’s blushing.
“Could it be…you like me, Ma’am?”

I groan loudly. What was all that for? What does he want from me? What the ever-loving fuck is going on? 

Just before I can launch into an exasperated rant, I realize that there hasn’t been any wind here at all. Not since he arrived. 

“Wait. Why isn’t the wind pushing you back? I mean. I… I’ve been stuck here for so long. How did you…”

He cuts me off. “It’s profoundly simple, My Queen. You ignore it and dance.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I mean, yes, I’m a jester after all. But it still works! Come. “

He holds out his hand, and I take it. With unsteady feet, I follow his lead, at first unsure about what to do, but he guides me without hesitation. I still stumble; we both do, step on each other’s feet a couple of times, and miss our turns. Not that it matters. We move, and the world becomes a blur; our momentum picks us up and carries us. Carries us beyond the pit. 

“So all I had to do was dance?” I’m laughing as tears pour from my eyes.

He nods and says, “All you have to do is dance,” then adds, “My Friend.”

Credit
Image – Fox by Arnold Peter Weisz Kubínčan. Free public domain CC0 image.
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

I open my eyes, and I know from the first flicker of light that I’m back in the pit again. I wish I could explain how I got here and why, but it’s honestly something that defies explanation. One day you’re fine, and the next you’re in the pit—that’s all there is to it.

I know what you’re thinking; you’d expect it to be dark here, muddy or moist probably, the walls cold to the touch, and not a glimpse of the sky in sight. A real pit is like a dungeon, right? Maybe you imagine me lying here, at times despondent, other times desperately trying to claw my way out. Crawling, climbing, with arms and legs trembling from the strain, only to fall back into the depths again.

But it’s not like that.

The pit is a brightly lit space. It’s not blinding sunlight, but the subtle grey of an overcast day. The diffuse light wraps itself around everything here, keeping any shadows at bay. It’s hard to say why this unsettles me so.

I lift my head and look down the narrow corridor that is the pit—or is it a chasm, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s impossible to tell where it begins or ends; its edges are somewhat translucent, like endless curtains billowing in front of an open window, the morning breeze lifting them up ever so gently. It’s neither cold nor warm here; the ground below me feels neither solid nor soft; the air isn’t humid, nor is it dry. It’s as if this space only exists in the way that it does not.

A thought comes to me, a simple one: what if I just keep lying here? For now. Until this fatigue (why am I tired?) runs out of my bones, to settle in the soil below. It can’t hurt to rest for a while; I’ll only need a minute, then I’ll be fine.

It’s a comforting thought, and I let my head fall back to the ground, satisfied with no longer having to defy gravity.

—

I have no way of knowing how long it’s been since I last opened my eyes. It’s always light here, always day. I decide to get up, stretch out my sore limbs (why are they sore? ), and start walking. I take two steps, maybe three, when an invisible force hits me in the chest. A sudden gust of wind that, ironically, pushes the air from my lungs. I fight to keep my footing, but the force is relentless. It targets the center of my body and pushes and punches until I can feel my ribs ache. I manage a couple more steps before I slump down. A trickle of desperation runs through my mind, but quickly the comforting thought returns: I just need another rest. Give it some time, and it will be okay. I’m sure it will be okay soon.

Yeah. It will be okay soon. Sleep resets the brain, and I know I’ll have more clarity when I wake up.

—

It’s been several days, I think. I’ve made no headway so far. Every time I move, the wind returns, as if it knows my every thought and move. Sometimes I manage to push forward a bit, but more often it just forces me back several paces; I’m not even sure I’m any further than I was when I first woke up here. It’s hard to tell in this place where time seems to have no meaning. I know there has to be a way out, but I can’t recall—it’s so hard, SO HARD, to remember anything here.

The comforting thought has now settled into my gut: what is the point of getting up? Hmm? Only an idiot tries the same thing twice (more like a hundred times, a thousand?) and expects different results. What’s the harm in staying here? It’s not like I can move anywhere else anyway.

I guess that makes sense. Better to preserve my energy and wait for a better moment to try again. I should try again, right?

Right?

—

It’s been…I don’t know, I really, really don’t know. Some days, I believe I’ve been here forever. I’m haunted by vague recollections, specters of a different time: running down a hill, the wind in my back (is that even possible?), the sky bright and sunny. I move, and the world becomes a blur, my momentum picking me up and carrying me. Carrying me.

What a cliché! That never happened. I’m just imagining things now; I’m probably recreating memories to construct a false sense of hope. As if things were ever different. Come, pay it no mind; let’s calm down before we do anything stupid. 

The comforting thought has been less comforting as of late. It still reassures me that I’m doing the right thing, to take it easy and rest (am I really resting?). But then why can’t I shake this anxious feeling?

Sometimes, and this will sound silly, I wait until the thought is gone to try and get up. I move unexpectedly, hoping to catch the wind off guard, moving sideways, crawling on hands and feet, scooting my butt forward in the hope I can outsmart… I don’t know what, but something. I think I’m at least making some progress this way, but I have to be quick because the thought is never far. I have to be patient (this isn’t my strong suit, if you haven’t noticed) and focused (yeah, that one neither).

If only I could trick myself into not thinking. Things would be so much easier. I could—oh I think I have a plan that could work! I’ll move backwards, there’s no way they can see that coming—

—

i’m down again. maybe this time i i won’t get up.

i had gotten so close, SO close, to…yeah, whatever
the wind hasn’t stopped i’m not even moving a muscle but it won’t stop

it’s unrelenting

i can’t do this

i’m done

Credit
Image – Reclining Nude (1905) by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Original from The National Gallery of Art. Free public domain CC0 image.
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

The plate is tiny — no more than a saucer for a cup, really. It’s red, of course, just like everything else in this room and this house. On the plate lies a delicate sliver of a veiny substance, impossibly thin and almost translucent. It’s draped on top of a dollop of white foam that sparkles even in the dim light of the dining hall. I can’t imagine the skill it took to present it in such an artistic way without it all falling apart at the mere suggestion of a touch.

The Widow is seated across from me, a vision in pale, pale silk, her eyes covered by a veil. I know she’s looking. Waiting for the first and only bite.

There’s no one else left. The table stretches for what feels like an eternity in both directions from this singular point, where only the two of us sit. Everyone else is at the dance now. A few gave up before we even got started; the hors d’oeuvres always claim victims: eggs of minor shoulder devils, Bruschetta brushed with a generous amount of indulgent oil, Canape’s with creamy Schadenfreude. I suspect the flirtatious shrimp cocktail did the most damage, though. And that was before we got seated.
The gazpacho of an imagined summer’s past had some people sighing, longing for, and eventually chasing that sunset out of the dining room. Just a little nibble of the delusional salmon with a mousseline of grandeur floored at least three quarters the remaining crowd, so only a few even tried the subtle sorbet of soft selfishness. Two were left by the time a roast of sordid rapaciousness with a side of minty limerence was served; one was me, as you know, and the other: The Beast. But no matter their labored breathing and their mane shimmering with aggravation, they had to bow out after a small taste. I caught their broiling glance in my direction as they left, but paid it no mind; I was still starving. I finished the meal by licking the juice off my fingers. I then ate a handful of grapes of innocence to cleanse my palate, to prepare.

Because — the dessert is everything.

I can’t take my eyes off this perfect little piece of art. It’s no more than one mouthful; I can easily scoop it up all at once with a spoon. It feels heavy when I balance it in front of my mouth.

The Widow smiles in anticipation. Our most gracious host, Our Lady of Debauchery. As much as I’m wary of her intentions, I can’t deny her any more than I can keep myself from devouring her meals.

So I eat.

A sliver of hungry heart, on a bed of early morning dreams, hits my tongue like lightning hits the single oak tree out in the field. It tastes like the promise of happiness, sweet but balanced with the salty undertone of experience. The surprisingly crunchy edges mix oh so well with the foamy, fizzy lightness. I close my eyes and feel my mind’s eye tilt; down I go into the darkness, finally.

The fall itself is never scary. Once you know how to unclench your stomach, it feels like ultimate freedom, and an ecstatic joy takes over. It’s a match between exhilaration and terror, always teetering on the brink of profound destruction and total transcendence. I can imagine it, that life; more even, I see it happening in front of me. It hurts, but it hurts in its perfection, and I love it in equal measure to that hurt. The people here, they understand for they are fully molded to my wishes. So is the view of the ocean, the music that we sing, the breeze rustling our hair. I could live here, I think to myself, I could stay.

Then I hit the ground in full force. The roof of my mouth gives off the dulled, acidic aftertaste of something that will never digest.

I regain consciousness much, much later. The Widow holds me close as we dance to the last song of the evening. It’s not a graceful dance; it’s the lazy stagger of two people holding onto a moment that passed two hours ago. I can see Artist beckoning me near the door; they look worrisome. Worrisome and sleepy. I hesitate but take a step back from my dancing partner. I take her hand and kiss it; her skin feels like it was never exposed to the elements. As I look up and catch a sparkle in her clouded eyes peeking from underneath her veil, I can’t help but search for some reassurance.

She smiles knowingly. “Let me get you some leftovers before you leave,” she says.

Credit
Image – Human heart clipart illustration. Free public domain CC0 image.
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

There’s a reluctant light coming through the blinds when I wake. It’s very early still, the softest twilight of the not-yet-morning. My dreams stretch out their spindly limbs to catch onto whatever part of the waking world they can. Here and there, the fabric of reality shows tiny rips, allowing dark, oozing subconscious to push through.
But the bathroom calls, so I get up and fumble blindly to find my slippers. It’s cold, and the floor is even colder; I better make this quick. Two steps out of bed, and something about how the blackness wraps itself around my vision has me feeling wary.

It’s one of those nights.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot the first one. Good old Shade. Lamp shade, Shady, Shaders, etc. As per usual, she’s hanging out a couple of steps behind me. There’s no point in me looking her way; she’s nothing but a deep shadow, untethered from her surroundings; no discerning features, no face, no clothes, nothing. And she’s a real screamer too—nothing like a bit of extended eye contact to make her blast you with a bone-rattling cry that has your heart beating a million times per minute. So I keep my eyes in front of me, but I acknowledge her presence with a soft “hey babe,” and I keep going.

I sit down on the toilet and close my eyes while resting my head against the icy tiled wall to my right. It’s an attempt to keep me drowsy enough to fall asleep easily once I return to bed while simultaneously staying awake enough to not do anything stupid. You know, like talking to ghosts.

Not even 30 seconds in, and I can hear soft scratches at the door. I ignore them at first, but then it jumps to making mini splashes in the toilet’s water tank. I sigh and give in, looking behind me. Obviously, there’s nothing there. I figure that’s the end of it, but when I open the door, I can see a blur of movement near the floor. I finish washing my hands and want to move back in the direction of the bedroom when I hear scratching again, this time coming from the back. It’s loud too, which is unusual for Scritch; it prefers to hide itself in small spaces and make little noises here and there, just enough to be seen on occasion, but never so often that it doesn’t have plausible deniability.

My curiosity wins out, and I stumble further down the hallway. Scritch is sitting on the floor in plain sight. I notice it’s gotten smaller again. It used to be the size of a Rottweiler, but the years have chipped away at its presence, and now it’s no bigger than a rat. It moves like a rat too. It figures it has my attention, and it slips into the back room, briefly making the cat flap open and close before I can vaguely see it run into the garden. It disappears under one of the shrubs near the back wall.

As I try to follow where it went, I see a familiar shape near the summer lilac: a man wearing a long, classic-cut coat and a non-descript hat. His face appears like a painting — an amalgamation of crude brush strokes and drips of sallow color added by a palette knife. One big smear seems to suggest a thick mustache; a hint of ocher gold could be the frame of a pince-nez. As always, he looks up into the sky, gazing at the paltry stars above us. I step outside and glance up briefly; I don’t remember ever seeing the firmament so clearly and so abundantly; it usually never is in the city. “Guess I’m still dreaming, huh.” Stargazer eyes me, two dark spots shifting right under the brim of his hat, and nods, then shrugs. I’m wondering what that is supposed to mean when he points back at the house.

His wheezing voice forces out the words with great effort, “There’s… another — one — here.”
At this point, Scritch emerges from underneath the summer lilac, wrestling itself into all sorts of erratic shapes. Even Shade appears in the frame of the back door and seems hell bent on getting herself into my view, which is immediately unsettling in the worst way. She doesn’t scream, but there’s an uncharacteristic guttural sound coming from somewhere inside her two dimensional shape.

I take the hint and try to walk as briskly as I can past Shade, praying to the gods of sleep that she won’t freak out on me. I count my lucky stars when I reach the door and feel her presence floating behind me at a safe distance; the sound stops too. Oddly enough, the two others seem to follow me as well.

Walking back down the hallway, I give every shadow a sideways look, but nothing seems out of place. Nothing that makes my chest contract or the hairs on my neck stand on end. It’s only when Stargazer appears beside me and gasps out a barely audible “there —” that I see them too.

They’re sitting on the sofa in the living room, back straight, with their head bent downward as if reading. When I move closer, I can see that they are indeed holding a book. Never seen a ghost do that before. They turn around, and the deep lines on their face fold into a peaceful smile. I recognize them at once, and a hot fear grips me.

“Please don’t run.” Their voice is confusingly familiar. Of course I was going to run. Of course they would know that.

They wait for me to make a decision, and so I do; I stand still and do nothing. They let their fingers tap rhythmically on the cover of the book. I look at it, and they look at it. Their face lights up, and they only say “yes.” I think I understand.

“I’m only here to say this; the time is now, always now. Remember that.” They smirk; I get the reference. Of course they would know that.

Before I have time to respond, a flurry of blue light passes by the window, twirling strings of color that temporarily fill the room and my eyes. Then the ambulance is gone as fast as it came. I blink and find myself awake, in front of my couch, at four AM, with no ghosts in sight.

I inhale slowly, trying to calm my brain while also clutching at any memories of what just happened; otherwise it’ll all be gone come morning. As I stand there, the cold catches up to me again, and I’m forced to rush back to my bed, this time with better hand-eye coordination. Lying down, I stare into the dark and repeat every step and every image, locking it into a narrative in my mind. I keep rotating the events in my head until I hear a slight skitter underneath my bed.

“Yeah, I know, you’re right. Goodnight Scritch.”  I sigh and roll myself into my blanket. “And sweet dreams to the rest of you”, I add silently before falling into the deep abyss again.

Credit
Image – To All Appearances, It Has a Hand of Flesh and Blood Just Like My Own (1896) by Odilon Redon. Original from The MET museum. Used under CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License

Credit
Image – Hand with symbols. Used under CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication
Font – Bungee font family. Used under SIL Open Font License