West Liberty University

by Creed Kidney

Harlow woke up, the starkly white ceiling greeting him as it always did;
a crack had begun to run along its face, staring down at him with a toothy smile.
The sound of gulls pierced his senses as their cries floated lazily on the sea breeze.
The house shook a little as the rocky foundation was hugged by the raucous ocean;
the skinny, wooden window frames squealed in fear. He sat up, throwing his legs
down onto the plank floor; he was still in his uniform.

Harlow stretched his arms above him, groaning into the empty room for
nobody to hear or comment on; he brought his hands back down to his lap and
turned his head towards the window. It was sunny today. He thought of his
mother across the bay, she quite enjoyed the sun.

Before picking up his cap, Harlow would undo his brass jacket buttons one at a
time, always starting at the collar and working his way down. He fingered each of
them individually, taking the time to feel their shape and relearn their texture;
they were cold in his thin, long fingers. Once it was off, and his white linen shirt was
exposed for no one to see, he would lay the jacket beside him and rise from the bed,
he would then begin to undo his belt; turning slowly, he would walk to a wooden
chair in the corner of the room to rest his belt against its back. Returning to his
original position, Harlow would then begin to unbutton his pants; they would drop
to the floor in a heap around his ankles. As Harlow stood there in the room in his
shirt and boxers, he felt the cold, salty air kiss his exposed skin; he closed his eyes
as he felt his body awake in a rush of goosebumps. He thought of the girls back
home on the island.

Then he thought of his elder brother, Heller, who got to stay on the island
and work with their father at the post office. He thought of Heller in his uniform,
unlike the one he had just taken off, and what the buttons might feel like; they must be
different, unique. How lucky Heller is. He thought of how all the girls wanted his brother.

Harlow reached for his right wrist; on it, an insignificant rope bracelet.
He pulled it tight against his scarred skin. Quieting his thoughts, he stepped out of
his pants and laid back down on his bed, his hair raising from the chilled, patchwork
quilt. Harlow closed his eyes.

After a few seconds, he opened them again, once again greeting the grinning
ceiling. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, stretched his arms into the air,
and looked around the room; his jacket had slid off the bed and onto the floor,
beside it was his pants still in a heap. In the corner of his room, his belt lay against
the back of a wooden chair.

Look at this mess, Harlow thought to himself, I ought to be ashamed of myself.

Reaching across his lap, he absentmindedly tightened the cord bracelet further.

*

Sitting at his desk, Harlow wrote in his journal, occasionally adjusting his
cap to look out over the empty, vengeful sea.

Dear diary,

I fell asleep last night in my uniform; Uncle Alistair would be disappointed.
I tried to make up for it as best as I could by going back to bed in my underclothes
and awaking as I normally would; I left my clothes a mess as a consequence to
myself. I let myself get ready after I had tightened my bracelet and made my bed.
For breakfast, I had two eggs and a piece of bread. I will need to make a note of this
next time Officer Walden comes to the lighthouse so I can request the proper
number of provisions. The sea has been quiet today. Captain Dorcha appears to
be docked at Tinneas still from yesterday evening. There must be many bodies
for him to pick up; I hope mother and father are alright.

I thought of the girls on Tinneas today; those that are left at least.
I felt shameful. I had jealous thoughts of my brother, as well. I tightened
my bracelet quite hard.

I must be better.

Harlow

*

After boiling two potatoes on the stovetop, making sure to note the loss in
his supply log, Harlow climbed the winding, wrought-iron staircase to the top of the
lighthouse for the first time that day; seating himself just below the lantern room
on a step near a window that looked out past the gallery, he sat his potatoes beside
him and drew out a small flip-open knife. He looked at it for a moment, rubbing
his fingers along the weathered, mahogany guard; it was a gift from his Uncle Alistair.
Drawing himself away from the thought, he pulled out a small, square cloth
and began to gently wrap one of the potatoes, saving it for later; feeling the
successfully swaddled vegetable in his hands, he sat it down, once again, beside
him and smiled, trading it for its unwrapped counterpart. He then began to carve
away at the potato, peeling away its skin to fall down into the throat of the
lighthouse, and cutting away small slices of the meat for himself to eat.

As he listened to each individual slice, the blade working its way through
the flesh of the vegetable until finally coming back into contact with the palm
of his hand, he remembered the way his father carved away at the turkey on his
fourteenth birthday; his strong hands grasping the large, sharpened knife that
dug into the skin of the cooked bird, he remained deeply focused on his task,
as to not cut one slice imperfectly. After some time, the sound of Harlow’s potato
seemed to be reminiscent of turkey meat; soon after, he found himself sitting
in the dining room of his childhood home. He sat, rather small, at the head of
the table, across from his father, still working on the turkey; behind him, a large
bay window looked out onto a quiet, cobblestone thoroughfare.

His brothers, Heller and Hackett, were seated together to his right; Heller looked
to his father’s work as well, making idle chatter about the post office and how
much mail his father delivered that day. Hackett, the youngest of the three brothers,
sat drowsily in his chair, his elbow propping up his head, as he made lazy circles
with his spoon along the center of his empty plate. Harlow smiled, remembering
it was his birthday and not one of his brothers, and that his parents had made today
extra special for him; he wasn’t sure as to why his fourteenth birthday was any
reason for a turkey dinner, but he wouldn’t dare complain or question.

His mother, coming from behind his chair and out of the kitchen, brought
various other dishes to the table: mashed potatoes, beet salad, and homemade
bread. With each additional plate, Harlow’s excitement only grew. Seeing him grin,
she leaned down to kiss Harlow on the cheek, wishing him a happy birthday.

After his father was finished carving, he sat down to Harlow’s left, across
from Heller and Hackett, with their mother beside him; smiling at one another,
Edda and Landry Haganhai joined hands, reaching to invite their sons to join them
in prayer as they blessed the meal that the Lord had so graciously bestowed upon
them. Their heads bowed, dinner began with a sustained, almost whispered,
“Amen.” Between bites, Harlow would look around at his family as they each enjoyed
their suppers individually and would think of how thankful he was for all of them.
Hackett would occasionally do something rather comical, making everyone at
the table laugh; Heller would tell of his day spent working with a local farmer
or blacksmith, their father would proudly remark about his son and encourage
Harlow and Hackett to try and follow in his stead. Edda would occasionally look
over to Harlow as her husband and other two sons were immersed in some
conversation and speak to him directly, asking him about his day or how he
liked the food, rather quietly, so as not to interrupt the main discussion, but just
loud enough for Harlow to know that his mother would always be there for him.

As dinner neared completion, Edda raised from her seat and went away
into the kitchen, returning with a small, yellow cake, doused in powdered sugar;
sitting it in front of Harlow, his father pulled out one, small candle, and placed it
in the center of the confection. Looking down at the wide-eyed boy, his father lit the
candle with a match and told his son to make a wish. His family looking to him in
anticipation, Harlow filled his lungs with air, closed his eyes tightly, and blew out
his birthday candle, wishing that he would someday work alongside his father in
the island’s post office. As his brothers cheered and his father bent down to tussle
his son’s hair, Harlow found it funny how the lonely, smoking candle reminded
him of his Uncle Alistair’s lighthouse, on the tiny Isle Ghrian.

Harlow recoiled, the scene quickly clouding around him, as he dropped
his potato onto the step below him; reaching for his hand, he realized
he had dug his knife into the meat of his palm.

*

Seated once again at his desk, Harlow looked out to the sea, now
restless and gray, as it spit up at the windows and slammed itself into the
sides of the lighthouse. As he traced the delicate linen lines of his now bandaged
left hand, he thought of how the ocean might feel, how it might toss his weak,
lengthy frame to and fro, how the cold water might crash onto his skin, how it might
awaken his senses, and yet drown everything else in the world out;
he thought deeply on how nice it might be to be consumed by the water’s
terrifying beauty.

The window splintered in front of him, something had hit it; his attention
brought back, he peered deeply at the spidery fragmentation, just strong enough
to keep the window, as a whole, intact. The sea seemed to tease him.

As he began to consider what might’ve been thrown up against the glass,
he caught a glance of Captain Dorcha’s ship out on the water, spotlighted
momentarily by his lighthouse’s circling beacon. The ship rocked back and forth,
up and down, upon the temperamental waves, occasionally being
overcome entirely. Tinneas was barely visible through the pelting rain,
but every few moments he would get a snapshot of a few colorful houses from
his tower’s godly eye. He thought of his family’s little green house on the main
street of town, hoping everything was all right, safe from the weather and the
plague; he thought of his mother and father, Hackett, and Heller.

Just as he began to reach for his bracelet, he heard a loud thump,
seeming to come from above. Quickly spinning around in his chair,
he looked up to the ceiling in anticipation–had something hit the roof? Was it a wave?
The sound had a note of metal though, almost a ting, but more than
anything it sounded like something had hit the lighthouse, perhaps the sea had
thrown something up against the tower. Wanting to investigate, Harlow slowly
began to rise from his chair, his eyes still affixed to the ceiling; with no following
thump, he looked towards the door that would lead him up to the first gallery
of the lighthouse, just below the lantern room. He thought of what his
Uncle Alistair would do, he thought of how he wouldn’t have any fear.
Would Heller be afraid?

With that, Harlow walked slowly towards the door, grasping the iron
handle with his right hand, and turned it slowly; the door sank into the belly of the
lighthouse with a slow screech of its tired wood and aged metal hinges.
The room was dark, except for the occasional orange flicker that would escape
from the lantern room and dance down the walls of the tower. Harlow began
to ascend the stairs, taking his time to find the best footing on each individual step,
and getting to know the storied texture of the winding handrail.

Upon reaching the level of the gallery, Harlow reached out towards
one of the windows, looking for anything that might have been thrown up from
the sea as an offering to the beacon in the chaos of the storm; seeing nothing,
he turned to face one of the last windows, facing north towards Dorcha’s ship.

There was something black on the balcony, resembling seaweed in its moving,
snakelike sprawl; peering closer, Harlow followed the tendrils to what seemed
to be a gray, collapsed mass of some kind. Confused, he prepared himself to
deal with it after the storm’s passing, as he concluded it was most likely just
a mass of some ocean grass; but as he began to make his descent back into
the bowels of the lighthouse, a particular rotation from the lantern seemed to slowly
illuminate the form, highlighting its curvature and design in a soft orange and yellow.

It was a body.

*

Dear diary,

I cut the palm of my left hand open while peeling a boiled potato
for my lunch; I was daydreaming, so the accident was entirely my fault, but now
I have used another piece of the roll of bandages that could’ve been utilized
for something more serious. The potato was good, but my hand hurt very badly.
I pulled my bracelet tight the whole time I was bandaging my wound for my mistake.
I had a second boiled potato for dinner. I wrapped it very nicely; it was very good.

There was a terrible storm yesterday, one like I have not seen in a long while,
at least not since Uncle Alistair was still here with me. A window on the first floor,
looking out towards Tinneas and the sea from the main hallway of the house,
was cracked fairly badly from a particularly strong wave. It is my theory that the wave
picked up a small rock or shell and spit it out like a projectile into the glass.
I’ll need to make sure I mention this to Officer Walden so he can make sure
the necessary arrangements are made to have this fixed.

In the midst of the storm, I saw Captain Dorcha’s ship out on the water,
he must have departed from Tinneas some time when the weather began to change.
A few particularly big waves seemed to overcome his deck completely,
I hope he didn’t lose any cargo.

There is much to do, I hope my hand heals fast.

Harlow

*

Standing in the doorway to his room, Harlow looked down at the girl lying
in his bed; her collar bones exposed from the ill-fitting shirt he had put on her,
he thought about what she might’ve looked like when she was alive.

Her dark hair had mostly dried, pooling down into curls upon the quilt pulled
up over her breasts. Upon her face, a countenance of deep sleep, from her small,
pouted upper lip, to the full, and plush lower; her eyelashes fanned down
towards her soft cheeks, those which rested on her doll-like jaw. She was freshly
dead, a victim of whatever plagued the Island of Tinneas, and a passenger
lost to sea from Dorcha’s grim ferry.

Harlow felt himself grow red from the memory of finding her, naked,
on the balcony of his lighthouse, and how her slender form felt cradled in his arms
as he descended the staircase with her. He remembered dressing her and putting
her in his bed, pulling the quilt up to preserve her dignity. Watching what life
was left in her come back to the surface as she dried and rested.
He thought of touching her.

But then he wondered if his brother, Heller, had known this girl when
she was alive. Had he seen her hair when it was still full of life, framing her delicate
face as it danced to the sea breeze? Had he heard her laugh, her voice?
Did she feel things for his brother like all the other girls did? Did he feel things
for her that Harlow had felt for so many girls before? Did he touch her body when
it was warm and full of pulsing blood? Had they touched each other?

At this, Harlow recoiled into the hallway, slamming the door shut in front of him,
and opting to go check on the lantern room, pulling his bracelet taut against
his skin as he ascended the twisting staircase.

*

“May I call you, Afton?” Harlow asked the girl in his bed.

The girl said nothing in return.

“I think that name suits you quite well.”

Harlow busied himself with his hands as he sat in the corner of the bedroom
on a small wooden chair, occasionally tugging at his bracelet or picking
at his scabbing hand, not knowing what to say,

“You know, they don’t bury people on Tinneas because God told the
elders who settled there that it was a sacred place, hallowed ground, they call it.”

The girl continued to lay silently in bed.

“It’s kind of funny, if you think about it. It’s like God’s testing us
in a way. He leads our families to this island, telling them that it’s a holy place not
to be desecrated, and yet he sends a plague upon our people that kills hundreds.
It’s as if he’s waiting for us to slip up, for us to do something we’ll regret and
go against his promise.”

The sound of waves and the wind rolled over the little house on the sea,
shaking it gently.

“Luckily, we have Dorcha and his crew to ferry the dead away,
but if we didn’t—what then?”

Harlow looked longingly at the girl, his eyes pleading for some kind of answer.

“I guess I’ve never really even thought about where Dorcha takes
the dead, other than simply—away. You were about to find out.”

A beam of sunlight comes flooding into the room from the window
across from the bed, illuminating the dancing dust particles.

“Maybe God is testing me too, or maybe both of us, maybe he wants
to see what we’ll do. It seems like he tried to give you a burial at sea,
but you were stubborn about that weren’t you?”

Harlow chuckled to himself, smiling at the girl in his bed.

*

Dear diary,

Officer Walden has yet to arrive on Isle Ghrian to check in on myself
and the lighthouse this week. To be honest, I’m not sure when the last time was that
I saw Walden, but I know I’m beginning to grow nervous about my supplies.
I’ve been trying to ration them, but it’s been difficult. At least the crack in the
hall window hasn’t gotten any worse.

I haven’t told you this yet, but I’m sharing my quarters with a girl named
Afton who was lost at sea. I’m not sure what to do about her yet, but it’s been
nice having someone to talk to again. I’ve been sleeping in the kitchen on some
blankets so she can have the bed to herself. I think it’s a fine arrangement.

I haven’t changed my uniform since I rescued her, though. I don’t want her
to see me like that. I’m doing my best to respect her, so even getting a change
of clothes from my room has been difficult.

I know I struggle with jealous thoughts of my brother, and I often think
of the girls back home—but now I have a girl here, and perhaps by being
modest, I’m being better than my brother.

Afton is something that Heller will never have.

Harlow

*

Sitting beside the bed in a wooden chair, Harlow held his head in his
hands; he whispered softly so as no one else might hear,
“Afton, may I tell you something?”

The girl laid in silence.

Harlow pulled out his mahogany fly-open knife; flipping the blade to
be exposed, he rubbed the cool metal against an elongated scar
that stretched across the palm of his left hand.

“My Uncle Alistair gave this to me the day after my fourteenth birthday.”

The sea outside the house was empty and cold, churning quietly
under the gray sky.

“When he arrived, my parents called me down from my room to tell
me that I’d be going to stay with him in the lighthouse for a while
to be his apprentice.”

Harlow pulled violently at his bracelet,

“Not Heller or Hackett, but me, I was the one to go and work with my
mother’s brother in the lighthouse. Even though they all knew how much
I wanted to stay on the island and work with my father.”

The girl was silent.

“I know it might be silly, it’s not like he was some skilled artisan
or tradesman, but it was something he loved, something he took pride in.”

Not a single gull cried out, even the sea itself seemed to whisper.

“That’s all I wanted.”

Harlow began to cry softly into his hands as he laid his knife down
upon his thigh, and, for a moment, just a split second, he swore
he felt the girl reach out to comfort him in his moment of weakness.
Raising his head up, he wiped away his tears and sighed deeply.

“But that was six years ago, and Uncle Alistair is gone,
and Officer Walden might never come back, and
I’m not even sure what remains of my family.”

The girl remained buried under the covers upon the bed.

“I have you now, Afton.”

Reaching out, Harlow moved the quilt slightly to expose the girl’s arm;
laying his fingers upon her, he felt his skin awake in a rush of sensation.
He took a moment to exhale as he trailed his fingers down her slender limb,
until clasping his hand with hers.

*

Dear diary,

I have run out of food. It has been weeks now since any sign of Officer Walden
returning has even crossed my mind. I haven’t even seen Captain Dorcha’s
ship again since the night of the storm.

I continue to light the beacon every night, not for any specific reason
at this point, rather than the fact that it is simply my duty.

My love for Afton will keep me alive.

Harlow

*

Entering the room, Harlow slowly closed the door behind him;
looking down at the girl in his bed, he began to undo his jacket’s brass buttons,
making it a point to start at the collar and work his way down. He fingered
each of them individually, knowing full well their shape, remembering how
he learned their texture; they were cold in his thin, long fingers. Once all the
buttons were undone, he let it drop to the floor, exposing his undershirt to the room.
He would then begin to undo his belt, letting his pants fall to the floor in
a heap around his ankles. Stepping out of them, he would move to hang his
belt against the back of a wooden chair in the corner of the bedroom.
Turning slowly, he looked, once again, at the girl in the bed.

Slowly stretching his arms into the air, he slid off his undershirt and boxers,
standing naked before the bed; his skin, a rush of goosebumps,
as the cold air kissed every inch of his exposed body. He thought of his Afton.

His long, thin legs began to carry his gaunt frame towards the bed,
until lying down with the girl. He touched her body, feeling all that was left of her;
she was cold and smooth in his hands. As they laid together, he thought
of his brother, Heller, and how he never felt the form of this girl, never kissed her face,
never touched the very bones of her body.

Reaching across her frame, he pulled at his bracelet for one last time.

Snapping, the lovers laid to rest.

by Alaina Gracey

“Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh!”

The alarm blares incessantly from my bedside table like a newly hatched chick begging
its mother for food. Its face reads 8:30, am or pm redacted. I glare at it from under the thick
mound of blankets I’m trying to sleep under before reeling my long arm out to shut the device
up. Once all is quiet again, I sigh and slowly try to drift back to sleep, or pretend to anyway.

It’s not like he’s going to let me get away with that, not today. I promised him we could
go today, down the highway. I promised him that I’d be ready this time. A pit was forming in
my stomach at the thought. It would be a long drive. I’d only ever been in a car with him once
before, back when he drove me here.

I have no idea how long ago it was. I stopped trying to count the days. Time was such
a pain to keep track of here anyway. I figured, why bother? With all that gross existentialism
swirling in my head, I had no choice but to sit up. Couldn’t very well fake sleep with all that on
my mind. I stood up out of bed, letting my bare feet touch the cold, hardwood floor. I missed
my own home for a second, back when I had stained, ratty carpets instead. This place he drove
me to was certainly nicer than my real home, but I couldn’t help feeling that sweet wave of
nostalgia, remembering it.

I walked downstairs and noticed a hot cup of coffee, two eggs, and a slice of toast
waiting for me on the kitchen island. Steam is still evaporating off it.

“Aaaw! You shouldn’t have! For me?”

I said this to the open air, not really expecting a verbal response. He never spoke, or he
might not have been able to, so I always just pretended he was talking back to me.

I sat down at the island and started slowly eating my prepared treat. Normally, I was
pressured not to eat, after all, it was pretty pointless now. But like hell I was ever going to give
up bacon and eggs!

I looked outside the window. Dreary, cloudy weather as always, not a single drop of
sunlight or color. This place was all open desert, nothing but a solitary road stretching out
into… well, I’ll never know. Oblivion, I suppose. Another thing I missed was the weather. Just
once, I would’ve liked to see another blue sky. Guess it was too late now.

His car was parked out front, the only one in the driveway. It was a big, bulky jeep
painted black. Dorky, little thing!

“Guess we’re taking your company car?” I asked.

Silence in return.

“Why are you being so shy today? I said we could go today, I meant it. Come on out
here, let’s enjoy each other’s company!”

He appeared from around the hall, shrouded in his thick, black cloak that came all the
way down to the floor like two, imposing gates. It was the same color as his jeep. Describing
him fails human perception. Even looking right at him, I couldn’t tell you what his face looked
like. It always changed. Every time I blinked it’d be different. Sometimes, he looked like a
reasonably attractive man, sometimes a gaunt woman, sometimes even an unfathomable abyss.
Right now, he had a pale, human skull for a face.

A long time ago that would’ve shocked me, but, at this point, I liked to think we were
close friends.

“Really? That’s what you’re going with right now?”

“…”

“Guess it’s fitting at least.”

“…”

I finished my breakfast slowly, just trying to pad it out as long as possible. This would
really be the last time I could enjoy something like this, so I figured I’d cherish it while I could.
He watched me intently, sitting on the other end of the island. I was tempted to offer him
some, but I don’t think he could eat either. Finally, I sighed at my empty plate, feeling a sudden
sense of dread fall over me.

“Ok. We can go now.”

He then tossed a set of keys my way. They slid loudly across the island, stopping just
short of falling into my lap. I stared at them, pretty thrown for a second.

“Y-…you want me to drive?”

“…”

“Um… Are you sure about that?”

“…”

“Ok… I… I guess I could do it. It’s just down the road, right?”

He nodded slowly. That was one of only a handful of gestures I saw him make, so I
knew he at least understood me when I spoke.

I got up from the island and followed him outside. It was cold as usual. Even though
we were in a desert, it was still freezing. I got into the driver’s seat of his jeep, and he sat
comfortably in the passenger’s next to me. I reluctantly put the key in the ignition and turned
it, spurring the engine to life. For a second, I froze. My body instinctively locked up. He
peered over at me, which I presumed to mean he was worried.

“I… I’m ok. It’s just been a while, you know?”

“…”

“Yeah…”

My muscle memory came back quickly. I took the vehicle out of park and started
driving down the empty, desolate highway. The house slowly faded from the rearview mirror,
sinking under the horizon line as if it were quicksand. I drove slowly at first, maybe
about thirty, but, as we went along, I sped up. The road was completely abandoned, with not
another soul in sight. That’s how it was after he found me.

I quickly began to feel isolated, more so than usual. It was easier to pretend everything
was normal from inside the walls of that house, but here, driving through vast nothingness, it
was too eerie. There was nothing but flat, harvest-colored desert and sickly grey skies. There
was no wind or life or sound.

I fiddled with the air conditioner and the radio. All we got was static. He looked over
at me again, possibly getting annoyed with my fiddling with his car.

“I just wanted to check if you guys had any good stations here. It’s too damn quiet!”

“…”

“Right. Guess no radio. Yeesh. Can’t imaginee how you deal with anything here”

He shrugged, which got a chuckle out of me. Something about that nonchalant
reaction just hit me right in the funny bone. I needed a laugh right now, it was the only thing
that could ward off the creeping dread invading my headspace, especially since I could tell we
were getting closer. It’s hard to really explain, it’s not like I really knew where we were going. I
had never driven this road before. But I had this pit in my stomach that seemed to knot up
more and more as we continued forward.

Finally, I could see it, rising slowly up over the lip of the horizon. Where it all ended
and began, I suppose. My hands tightened over the wheel, my heart pounding faster and faster
as the smell of smoke and crude oil gradually saturated the air. I started to slow down again
and finally stopped in the middle of the road.

My eyes are locked on the mangled wreck of an old car, my old car. It was crashed off
the side of the road in a shallow ditch. The front of it was crushed in on itself, and all the
windows were either shattered or broken. Fuel had leaked from the exhaust and formed a
small, still pond around the disaster, like it deserved its own, personal mote to wall it off from
the rest of the world. I stared at it for a long moment, quivering ever so slightly. He placed a
firm hand on my shoulder. Startled by the sudden contact, I glared at him, though I more
shaken than angry with him.

“Do I have to? I… I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m not ready. Let’s go back. I’ll do
it another time.”

I grabbed the key to turn it, but he stopped my hand and looked me straight in the
eyes. He shook his head softly. I could feel my eyes growing hot.

“Why does this have to be so hard? Why can’t I just get this over with? I don’t want to
stay in this place, but I’m scared to move on.”

He tightened his grip on my hand in an assuring way. I chose to read it like a, “I’ll be
right behind you” gesture. Just something to give me confidence. Not very effective essentially
coming out of my own brain, but it was appreciated, nonetheless.

“Right… I can’t turn around now…”

I took a deep breath before opening the driver’s side door. Walking around our
vehicle, I could see the wreck in all its visceral beauty. It was perfectly suspended in time, not a
single detail out of place. It looked exactly how it did the night it initially happened. Even the
intense smell of whiskey flowing under the rank odor of petroleum was still freshly lingering.

I took a nervous step forward. Then another. I kept my eyes on the shattered front
window, where I knew I’d find it, what we had been looking for this whole time. I stepped
down into the ditch. The smell of chemicals overwhelmed my senses and made my eyes leak
even more. I thought for a second I would pass out. But then, when I peered in through the
shattered window, everything went cold.

It was slumped over the wheel, half hanging out the windshield and showered in
broken glass. The arms were mangled to such a degree that they could barely be considered
appendages anymore. And the face, a visage of vacant emptiness staring into the pit of my
soul.

It was me. Or, rather, what used to be me. What was me before I was brought here.
Before I met him. Before that night. Before I chose to drive on the highway. All at once, it all
flashed before me, more vivid than ever before.

It took me a while to realize I had been holding my breath or that my eyes were
burning. I exhaled sharply and let my tears start flowing. I couldn’t remember the last time I
cried or even felt emotions that intensely. Couldn’t really speak on what emotions exactly.
Some fear, some loneliness, but mostly relief, relief that I had finally done it. I had finally made
the drive and saw myself. Gently, I reached inside and shut its eyes, allowing it to rest after all
this time.

I felt his hand on my shoulder again, and I wiped my tears away.

“See? I did it.”

He nodded gently.

“So, now what? Do I get to leave? Where do I go? The good place, right?”

He shrugged, and I shoved him in a playfully frustrated manner.

“You jerk! You seriously don’t know? Isn’t that a part of your job?”

He shook his head slowly before opening his robe. Beyond the black cloth curtains was
a gateway to what I could only assume was the abyss. Nothing but the dark unknown lay
before me, yet it felt almost inviting to my weary soul.

“In there, huh?”

He nodded.

“Ok… got it… Um… Thank you, for everything. I know this took a lot longer than it
probably should have. I’m sure most of your clients just get this part over with as soon as
possible. Can’t blame em’. This place sucks.”

“…”

“… Alright. Got to admit, I’ll kind of miss you. I assume we don’t stay in touch after this.”

He shook his head silently, looking almost as melancholy as I was, though that could’ve been
more of my own interpolation. I took another breath, then, and gazed around at the desert. At
the grey sky. At the highway.

Then, I took one, last step forward.

by Madison Cavicchia

Winter

Joy got up early every Christmas morning to watch the sunrise. This year wasn’t any
different, except Joy didn’t wake up today because she had never gone to sleep. When the
nightmares started, she vowed to keep her body awake as long as she possibly could. She didn’t
want to see everything go dark behind her eyelids and worry about when they would decide to
open again, if they did decide to open again. She wasn’t sure if anyone had control over that
anymore — when they awoke and when they became droopy and fell, wilted as a sunflower
plucked from the earth too soon. And what happens after the fall?

There was no smiling sun to greet her today, nor her parents, usually up by 6 am and
brewing coffee beans, the scent tiptoeing across floorboards and into her bedroom. They were
still upstairs, brooding opposite their daughter — asleep. This season came thirsty for blood
and drained the life from their bones, finding Joy and biting her, too. If she closed her eyes too
long, she could still see the outline of gnawing teeth marks, glowing red.

It never used to be this way.

Joy peered out the living room bay window. What was left of the chilled December air
had swept itself into a cloudy grey mess, making the snow-covered ground look extra frosted
and bitter. She shivered; even inside and underneath her pajamas and robe, Joy still felt cold.

She stepped away from the front window of her parent’ss’ living room. Her neck felt
stiff, and she had a slight headache. It was strange to be back in her childhood home after
several years of college and occupations across the country, but she was going to have to get
used to the jolting change in scenery. At least, she must get used to it for a little while — until
the dust settled and everything went back to normal. Maybe not normal and maybe not back;
just until all of this went. . . somewhere.

Joy glanced at the piano beside her. The lack of outdoor sunshine made it appear as
though the instrument was grey and decaying. This Christmas, the house would be silent. Even
though the flowered wallpaper and old family photographs in picture frames cried out for
music, there would be none today. Her eyes darted, fixating on the lamp fixture beside the
couch, an object of distraction, feeding her recent inclination toward numbness. For a brief
moment, Joy was entranced, feet planted to the floor and brain floating upward toward light
static — oblivion.

She couldn’t help it. Joy glanced over at the piano again; she told him to be careful,
driving so late at night.

Why didn’t he listen?

Spring

Joy took one quick look around the kitchen —  empty shelves, little white take-out
boxes decorating the countertops, dishes piled into ceramic mountains — and volunteered to
go grocery shopping this week. Her parents didn’t object. She knew they were tired, too, and
she wanted to help, give them some kind of relief, take something (no matter how small) off of
their plate. Her parents were grateful yet surprised by the offer; Joy hadn’t left the house
in weeks.

The automatic double doors opened to a building bustling with mazes of people all
zipping and pushing their carts in different directions, faces glued to their grocery lists. Feeling
overwhelmed, Joy looked down at her own list and read aloud the first item written in her
mother’s shaky cursive:

“Strawberries.”

She took a deep breath and migrated past the bakery items toward the fresh produce
section. There were several options to choose from. Thinking of her father, Joy decided on the
cheapest brand. She touched the plastic carton and felt dizzy, her mind transporting her to a
memory at her grandmother’s house twelve years ago.

“Be back before lunchtime!” Joy heard her grandmother’s voice echo from the front
porch, as she and her younger brother Cyrus waddled down the hillside, small metal pails in
each hand. Their grandmother lived on a modest farm in southern California, and near the end
of every April, Joy and Cyrus had the delicious task of picking strawberries to be baked into a
golden pie.

“I bet I can pick more strawberries than you can,” Joy teased.

Cyrus shook his head. “Not true! Last year I filled my buckets up way before you did.”

Joy always admired that about him. Cyrus had never shied away from a challenge; until
the end, he believed in himself without abandon.

After this banter, the two decided the only way to crown the best berry picker was to
make it a competition. Grandmother was the judge. She would count each individual
strawberry and decide on the winner. The winner, of course, would get the largest slice
of pie for dessert.

The siblings arrived at the strawberry patch and parted ways, eager to prove the other
wrong. The air smelt of earthy dirt and sweet mint wafting from the next field over. Joy began
to inspect each berry, grabbing only the largest, hoping to fill her buckets fast. She left the little
buds that were not yet developed, still white and waiting to be pollinated. Her short brown hair
gleamed in the midday sun. Joy’s mother had just cut it a few days prior. She was unsure if she
liked the feeling of keratin ends tickling her neck and shoulders, but Cyrus thought it looked
almost magical, the way it was free to bounce and blow in the wind, no longer weighed down
or tied back in braids.

Where was Cyrus? She hadn’t seen him in a while, and there were only so many hiding
spots in this area. Joy wandered up and down lines of strawberry plants when she heard a
rustling sound behind her. She turned around and squinted her eyes until she saw Cyrus sitting
on the ground, nestled in between two bushes, munching on the tart berries.

“Does this mean I won?” Joy asked, startling Cyrus. He scrunched his nose.

“Actually, I changed the rules.” Cyrus had a smug expression on his face. “Whoever
eats the most strawberries is the winner now.”

Joy smiled. “Let’s call a truce.”

“Okay,” he replied, taking another bite of fruit.

Joy sat down next to her brother and began to tuck into her own strawberry stash.
Then they made the trek back up the hill, returning to their grandmother with half-empty
buckets and red-stained smiles.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

Joy blinked as she left her trance-like state. Her eyes burned from the fluorescent store
lights. Her ears were ringing. She looked over her left shoulder and saw an older gentleman in
a plaid, buttoned shirt staring at her, a look of concern cast over his face.

“Are you alright?” He asked again. “You’ve been standing here for quite some time. Did you need help —”

“No, I’m okay,” Joy interrupted. “Just a little distracted, that’s all. Sorry. I’ll get out of
your way.” She snatched the strawberry carton to put in her cart and scurried to a different
aisle, leaving the confused man standing amongst the produce.

Summer

Joy’s parents had gone back to work. Bored, Joy felt a sudden urge to clean. She tied
back the dark hair that now cascaded toward her abdomen and began in the living room,
picking up a pair of brown chunky sandals and placing them with the rest of her shoes,
underneath the entryway bench by the front door in the living room. She wore them on a date
with Charlie last week. She noticed him while she was out walking around the neighborhood,
and they talked for a while, catching up. They hadn’t seen each other since Joy graduated from
high school. Charlie used to sit next to her in algebra, and she had to lend him pencils almost
every class. She knew she’d never get them back.

Charlie asked her to dinner, and — caught off guard — Joy said yes. They went to a
small restaurant on the other side of town and continued to converse. When he mentioned
Cyrus, she stood up and left.

Joy grabbed the duster from the kitchen pantry and walked back into the living room
to gloss over end tables and the fireplace mantle, stopping at the piano hidden in the corner.
She pondered whether she could even touch it again, let alone spend time wiping away the
grime from its wooden exterior.

Cyrus took lessons because of her. When they were younger, Joy begged her mother to
let her play an instrument for months, and eventually, she gave in, coming home from work
one afternoon with a small keyboard. Joy marveled at the opportunity that lay in her eight-
year-old hands and brought it upstairs to her bedroom. As she began to play a few scattered
notes, a little face appeared in the doorway.

“What’s that?” Cyrus asked his older sister, curiosity piqued.

“It’s a little piano. Isn’t that cool?” Joy said. She showed off the newfound prized
possession and then turned back around, banging more keys.

“Yeah,” Cyrus responded. His big brown eyes grew even wider, as he continued to
watch her play.

A stout and kind-hearted woman from church named Miss Carol would come over
every Wednesday at 4 pm to teach Joy scales and chords and little songs. She looked forward
to seeing the silver car pull into the driveway each week. After a few lessons, Joy’s mother saw
that her daughter appeared serious about her musical venture. She invested in a larger, wooden
piano, the same instrument that Joy now stood in front of, duster in hand. As Joy’s time with
Miss Carol continued, they began to notice a visitor watching them from afar. When his
mother wasn’t looking, Cyrus would sneak into the living room to listen to his sister play. One
day, Miss Carol caught him peering from the hallway and asked if he’d like to join.

“You’re gonna take up all of my time with Miss Carol!” Joy protested.

Miss Carol replied in a patient tone, “Joy, dear, we can still share plenty of time
together. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, if your brother wants to learn to play too, I’m sure I
could extend my visits here,” she winked at Cyrus. Joy huffed but conceded, hiding her
excitement that Miss Carol would get to stay at her house even longer now.

So, Cyrus began lessons too, and Joy learned to cherish the time they spent sitting
together on the piano bench, bonding them even closer than they already were. Eventually,
Joy’s ambition fizzled out, and she quit. But Cyrus continued to soar. She beamed with pride in
every recital audience watching her little brother’s passion and talent unfold. Sometimes at
home, he would convince Joy to play songs with him again — late at night, when nobody else
was listening.

Maybe I should call her, Joy pondered, still thinking about Miss Carol. The last time she
saw her was at Cyrus’s funeral about seven months ago. She recalled her warm embrace and
her soft, tearful voice whispering, “It’s a real shame; he was such a light,” into Joy’s ear. He was
such a light. Joy felt her chest tighten and tried to take long, slow breaths, something she learned
to do in moments like these from her therapist. She decided against the phone call, walking
away from the untouched instrument to clean the window sills.

Fall

Joy stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding an old pair of red craft scissors in
her right hand. She already had her hair parted into two pigtails, bound by pink elastic ties. She
raised her shaky hand so the blade sat just above her left shoulder and stared, concentrating on
making sure the line she cut would be as straight as possible. In quick motions, the scissors
opened and closed, creating muffled crunching sounds from the metallic against each dark
strand. Joy found the noise oddly satisfying and continued chopping until she cut all the way
through. She paused for a moment, looking at her lopsided self in the mirror before moving
on to continue her work on the other side of her face, severing the final ponytail with gusto. It
fell from her scalp like dead weight, and Joy witnessed it all go down in clumps decorating the
marbled sink.

Her head felt lighter. Everything felt lighter.

Winter

Embers spat and popped from the dwindling fire, and twinkling lights decorated a
large pine tree displayed in the living room. It was Christmas again, and Joy and her parents
had spent the day lounging and preparing for a small dinner feast. Joy and her mother crafted a
delicious spread of side dishes: golden roasted potatoes, fresh green beans sautéed in garlic and
butter, and a rich gravy sauce for the turkey Joy’s father broiled that morning. With the table
set, they dug into their plates in comfortable silence. For dessert, they shared slices of
strawberry pie, Cyrus’s favorite.

Hours had passed since the meal, and Joy’s parents had gone off to bed early, still tired.
Joy was left to sit alone in the living room. She found herself staring at the piano.

She stared for so long that her eyes forced her to go back in time. Joy saw herself and
Cyrus on the first Christmas since the two began piano lessons. They had been so proud to
show off their newfound skill, begging Miss Carol to find a festive duet to play for their
parents. Miss Carol picked “Silent Night.” Joy could almost hear her and her brother’s small
hands stumble through the first few notes while they sat next to each other on the piano stool.
She blinked and was thrust back into the present moment. Her fingers ached.

Joy stood up and walked over to the instrument. She sat down and pried open the
dusty key lid, listening to it creak as she pushed it up and away from herself. She traced her
fingers over the keys, careful not to touch them with too much force. Joy culminated the
courage to press down on a white key: C. The note resonated throughout the living room
followed by a moment of silence. Then, Joy played another tender note, and another, filling the
space with noise. Eventually, these sounds took intrinsic shape, molding into “Silent Night.”
Joy played the song over and over again, waking up the piano. She closed her eyes and held
them shut for a long time. Then, she opened them. The gnawing marks were still there; they
would always be. These scratches that cradled past heartache had faded to permanent scars,
but their red glow was beginning to subside, looking almost pink.

She felt like she could finally breathe again.

Outside, a sunset peaked into the window beside the piano, warming up the black and
white keys and Joy’s skin. It glossed over the atmosphere, reflecting soft pastel hues in each
individual crystal of peaceful white snow that lay outside in the blistering cold; earth’s cozy
blanket from heaven. As the dark of midnight enveloped the sky, Joy continued to play.

by Autumn Duckworth

The woman in her mid-twenties sat in a navy blue, cushioned chair with a book resting
openly in her lap while she enjoyed the late-morning sunlight streaming in through the
window. The stream of light illuminated the caramel-colored streaks in her otherwise mousy
brown hair, and the flecks of amber in her green eyes seemed especially bright as she gazed
towards the cloudless sky. She remained in this state of solitude until she was approached by
another woman, at which point she closed the book in her lap, the gold cross on the cover
glinting in the sun’s rays.

“Mrs. Katherine, it’s time for you to take your morning medications,” the woman in
scrubs states, handing her a small container full of different prescriptions.

The container resembled what she used to put her ketchup in at fast food restaurants,
she mused, as she took it from the woman’s outstretched hands. It was always a different
woman making the rounds, offering candy-coated miracles. Katherine did not argue with them,
not anymore. She never understood why they had sent her here, why what she had done had
been so wrong. Despite all this, she did understand one thing, the green and yellow pill kept
her happy enough that the thoughts that used to plague her came less frequently. They kept
her happy enough that she truly believed she may one day rejoin her daughter.

She handed the container back after she had taken the multitude of pills and turned
back towards the window. She did not regret the actions she had taken, even if the
consequences were a great number of court-ordered years here. She had done what was
best for the sake of their future, a decision she would have never taken lightly.

#

The tan carpet on the flight of stairs in their home had squelched as her husband
ascended them. Each waterlogged step had caused the heaviness in his heart to grow as he
found his wife standing at the top, clothes soggy.

She had looked the same way the night she had been baptized. He remembered how
proud she had been, taking that step for a Christian rebirth, so that she could further her faith.
She had been practically glowing when she emerged from the pool of water; she was grinning
from ear to ear with the weight of her previous sin lifted from her shoulders. She wore a
similar expression to that day as he looked up at her now, still making his way up the stairs.

Why didn’t she look upset with the situation they had found themselves in? Their bank
account had taken too much of a hit from past medical expenses, and this accident would
be detrimental to their funds.

The birth of their daughter was not an easy one. Katherine had developed severe
preeclampsia during her third trimester, and she had to be kept on bedrest in the hospital until
the birth. The bills had stacked up quickly from the complications she had endured. While
their daughter had been a complete blessing, concern over his wife’s health still tainted the
memories of those last few weeks before she was able to safely deliver.

He thought again about how they wouldn’t have the money to fix the burst pipe, let
alone the water damage that came along with it. Why hadn’t she called? If she had let him
know sooner, maybe the damage from oversaturation in water wouldn’t be to this extent in the
house. They still would have had time to decrease the damage.

It had always been like this though. Katherine was always the had always been one to
take matters into her own hands instead of seeking outside help when she needed it.

“You should take Emily to your mom’s house while I try and figure out this mess…,”
he started with a sigh, looking down at the floor in dismay.

He remembered when they had first found out that Katherine was expecting. It had
been terrifying, finding out they were going to be first-time parents, but she had never seemed
more excited. Happiness had seemed to radiate from Katherine when she would feel the
movement of their child in her stomach, urging him to do the same when they would be
lying down in bed together. That euphoria quickly fizzled out after the birth. The first week or
so, she was so withdrawn that he had started to worry about leaving her alone. However, his
days off with pay had started to dwindle, and he knew they couldn’t afford to take a hit on
their weekly income.

“Oh, don’t worry John,” she said, a smile, as pure as freshly fallen snow on her lips,
“she’s in a better place now. She’ll never have to endure the pains we have. She’ll never know
the despair I’ve felt. She’s happy. She’s already home.”

He seemed to be startled at that. Katherine had never had an easy life, but he had
thought things were starting to look up again. She had slowly become more engaged with
their little family; oftentimes, she was found humming her favorite hymns — the most
common being “God Will Take Care Of You.”

Confusion distorted the features on John’s face. “Is she napping?” he asked, inquiring
again about their 6-month-old daughter.

“No dear, she’s returned home. She will never be unhappy again — she will have all
her heart desires,” she said, pausing briefly. “She will have lived a life without sin. All we have
to do is trust in Him.”

Fear leaped into his throat. Refusing to believe what he was hearing, he pushed past
her on a mission to get to his daughter’s room. They had picked out their daughter’s pastel
pink paint color months ago when bliss continually stained their cheeks a similar shade. They
had gone completely overboard during the nesting phase buying an array of items as “just in
case” measures.

Except he never made it to the end of the hallway. He didn’t get a chance to enter that
bedroom only a few feet down the hall and scoffed at the absurd amount of toys they had already
piled into the corner. Instead, he stopped cold, horror clouding his face as he looked into the
bathroom’s door which had been left ajar. There hadn’t been a pipe burst.

Standing on the bathroom threshold, he found his daughter floating lifelessly in the
overflowing bathtub, the faucet still running.

by Autumn Duckworth

Genevieve had found herself standing on the curb across the street from
her new home in Eastmill, measly belongings at her feet. Eastmill was nearly five
hours away from where she had been living before. It had once been a booming steel
mill town, bustling with people and jobs, but since the mill had been shut down many
years ago, it had developed into a small tight- knit community. There was rarely ever
any change that came about, and most people were moving out, not in.

The bookshop she had inherited from her Ggreat Aaunt Marge was a small,
tan, two-story building with an aged, hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the
porch that read Literary Delights. Inside, the first -floor consisted of rows and rows
of bookshelves ranging from the classics to more modern fiction and an absurd
amount of black cat figurines with glassy eyes littered about them. To her left was a
staircase that led to the second floor which her great aunt had converted into a
one- bedroom apartment. From what little information she had learned about Marge,
it seemed that the woman had no surviving children of her own, no immediate family,
and never contacted any of her more distant relatives which resulted
in the live-in bookshop.

While Eastmill wasn’t necessarily a bustling town, the bookshop always
had people milling about it. Genevieeive assumed that since there weren’t many
events happening in the surrounding area, people used the bookshop as a source
of entertainment. She had started to notice the same people comingame in at
the same time so often that she had started to learn their names.  There was Harold,
who only bought books with helicopters on the cover; Janice, who wore dark blue
eyeliner that hadn’t been in since the 80s and , continuously browsed the gardening
section; and Cooper, who had been coming every day after school because he was
recently put on crutches, which he had never gotten quite used to.

Per her normal routine, Genevieve sat at the counter watching the regulars
browse the sections that hadn’t been updated since she came into town.
Cooper, browsing the romance section —, knowledge she had previously sworn
to secrecy —, lost his balance on the crutches and knocked one of the porcelain
cat figurines to the floor, shattering it.

“Gen, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, trying to bend down to pick up the pieces.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Cooper. Those things aren’t really my style anyways,
but it felt wrong to redecorate this place,” she said, shooing him off to pick
the pieces up herself.

As she picked the shards up, trying not to cut herself on the sharp edges,
a shiny, glass piece caught her eye. Originally, she assumed that one of the figurine’s
eyes had managed to stay intact during the fall, but on closer inspection,
she realized that the glass piece was a small camera. A feeling of dread started
to creep up from the pit of her stomach as she turned her head from side to side,
realizing the mass quantity of figurines with their glassy “eyes” upon her.

Attempting to remain calm, she smiled up at Cooper, a cold sweat making its
way down her back. “Look, it’s like it never happened. Maybe this is a sign
I need to decorate anyway.”

Later that day, barely a moment past closing, Genevieve shut every blind and
locked the door all under the watchful gaze of a thousand eyes. She pulled each
figure from shelf after shelf until she had accumulated the entire shop’s worth on the
front desk, amassing to nearly 50. One by one, she clattered them to the floor,
each yielding the same results as the one before it —– cameras, on and recording
in every single one. The pit in her stomach seemed to only grow larger as she realized
the gravity of her situation; someone was watching her and had been for a while.
As she lifted her eyes from the scene on the floor to the solitary picture of her great
aunt that she had left on the desk, it seemed to almost stare back.

#

That night as she lay in bed, Genevieve thought back to life before she had
moved into Eastmill, pining for the life she had hated so much in wake of the
creepiness that surrounded her.

A yellow eviction notice had been tacked onto the worn oak door of the small,
olive-green townhouse that’s chipped paint revealed the uglier shade of green it had
once been many years before. The front door’s hinges, in desperate need of a
good spray of WD-40, had groaned loudly as she entered the home, tearing the
notice off as she went. The yellow slip took residency among the pile of bills
stamped with the word “overdue” in bright red, bold lettering.

Unceremoniously, she removed her bag, throwing herself onto the couch in the
living room while she shucked off the black flats she had worn so often this week that a
blister had formed on the back of each heel. A calendar sat upon the coffee table
with big red Xs angrily struck through the multitude of interviews that had happened
during the month. She felt that they seemed to stare mockingly in her direction.
The phone was silent, a zero blinking for the number of voicemails left on the machine,
its rhythm a steady laughter at her failure of procuring a callback from any of
the applications she had attempted.

As she settled into the couch, eyes drooping to a close from exhaustion,
a sharp rap sounded at the door. She hoped that the unscheduled visitor would leave
if she stayed silent long enough, but the knocking only became louder and
more insistent. Assuming it was Ms. Flora, her next- door neighbor, she dragged herself
from where she was lounging over to the door. It would have been just like
Flora to need something as trivial as a third of a cup of sugar just as she was laying
down to nap. Out of habit, she peered through the peephole which proved futile
since the landlord had painted over it last time he had given the door a fresh coat,
and she pulled it open.

Standing in front of her was a plump man with a receding hairline dressed in a
suit with a briefcase tucked up under his left arm; the right one was still poised to
start knocking again. “Genevieve Hollow?” he asked.

“Sir, if this is about the money I owe the landlord, I’ve been working —-,” she
began before he cut her off. “Ms. Hollow, I am unconcerned with the debt you’ve
accumulated. I have, however, been appointed as the executor of your
Ggreat Aaunt Marge’s will, and you, young lady, have been noted as the sole
beneficiary of her assets,” he said, pushing the rounded spectacles that seemed too
small for his pudgy face further up on the bridge of his nose.

Genevieve merely blinked in response at first, trying to process this information.
“I’m not sure you have the right household, I’ve never even heard of the woman
you’ve mentioned, but I’m sorry to hear of her passing,” she said, starting to close
the door to signal the end of the conversation.

In turn, he stuck the toe of his scuffed, black dress shoes into the opening,
causing Genevieve to pause to cause her pause as he rummaged for something
in his briefcase. “She expressed concerns that this news would not be well received,
but is this not you?” he asked, holding up a picture of Genevieve from her college
graduation with a diploma in hand. “Marge’s most noticeable possession that she
has left to you is a bookstore she owned in Eastmill; she assumed that you would
be most likely to keep the doors open because of your English degree.”

#

The euphoric feeling that she had when she first arrived quickly faded after
she realized that she was being watched by a stranger in her newfound home.
Less than a week had passed since the incident before Genevieve decided she
had to leave Eastmill.  After disposing of the cameras, at least the ones she found,
she had problems sleeping. Who was watching her? Why were they watching her?
What if there were more that she had missed?

Unsure of who she could trust, she stopped opening the store. Instead,
she found herself rarely leaving the apartment space, but the building was eerily
quiet without the normal trickle of customers. She became acutely aware of the
smallest sounds around her: the dripping of the kitchen faucet, the hum of a bulb
that would soon burn out, and a faint scuffling sound in the walls at night that must’ve
been rats. However, she decided she wouldn’t need to fix any of the problems
she had started to notice because she planned on taking the first bus out of town
in the morning.

Her items were packed in a deep purple suitcase, sitting by the bedroom door,
so she could easily grab it on her way out in the morning. She had spent the entirety
of the afternoon calling old friends and family that she had strained relationships
with to see if she could crash on their couches while she figured out a new
living situation, but time had passed so quickly that she had missed the last bus
of the night. Instead, she was forced to spend one more restless night in
Eastmill before she could pretend that none of this had happened. One more night
until she could figure out how to handle the situation she had found herself in.
One more fitful sleep until she was at a place she felt safe in again.

She drifted off to sleep at some point in between the questions racing
through her mind, but, in the middle of the night, she awoke from a tickling sensation
on her nose. Without opening her eyes, she shoved the hair from her face that
had been causing it, and burrowed deeper into the covers, but a dark inkling
made her feel as if she was not alone. With a deep breath, she opened her
eyes and found another pair staring straight back. Before there was time
to scream, the woman’s hand clamped down onto her mouth, both silencing
and suffocating.

“Oh, my dear Genevieve, welcome home,” whispered the woman
through a yellowed smile.

She could do nothing but stare into those cruel, dark eyes, the same ones
that watched the bookshop from the picture on the desk. She was unable to scream,
unable to breathe, unable to do anything but thrash helplessly under her grip.

“It’s always nice to get family together, don’t you agree?” Marge asked as
Genevieve’s world went black.

#

The world slowly drifted in and out of focus as Genevieve blinked herself
awake. She moved to rub the sleep from her heavy eyes as she recalled the
horrendous nightmare she had. However, her hand didn’t listen to her, instead staying
trapped down at her side. With a start, she realized that she was bound to a
chair instead of within the comforts of her bed. The shock of her situation only
increased as she noticed the table she was sitting in front of, and she was not
the only attendee. She was surrounded by other estranged members of her family,
long since dead.

Surely, she thought, this must have been a by-product of delirium.
There were 8 spots at the table, handwritten name cards marking the places of
the guests, but not all of them were full. Genevieve was positioned at the far end
of the table, directly across from the seat specifically marked for Marge.
To the left of that table setting was a place marked for Robert, her great aunt’s
husband, who had not seen the light for many, many years. The length of time
he had been exposed to the air had left his body as nothing more than bones,
tied to the chair to keep from falling forward onto the table.

Next to him were two much smaller figures: Cassandra and Clarence.
Presumably, they were her children once. Now they sat, rancid and decaying,
the flesh on their fingertips nearly gone. Maggots wiggled out of the boy’s mouth
which had fallen slack at some point in all the time he had been rotting away in
here. The two were adorned with mothballs and vanilla- scented car fresheners
in an attempt to mask the stink, but at this distance, the air was putrid.
The other three seats were unoccupied, two of their name plates blank.
The other read “‘James.”’

Trying to hold down the bile that had risen in her throat, she thrashed violently
in her seat attempting to loosen the bindings around her arms and legs. This went on
for twenty20 minutes before she calmed down and tried to find a logical way out of the
horror -fest she had been thrust into. She surveyed her surroundings again,
this time in hope of finding a way to escape. The dining room table in front of
her was set with silverware and plates., Sshe thought if she could manage to grab
one she mightay be able to cut through them. She had no idea where this place
even was though; where and who would she run to if she managed to free herself?
Pink installation was absolutely everywhere, and as a scuffling noise sounded
behind her, she realized that rats had never been the problem within the walls
of her newfound home.

“You’re trying to leave before dinner has even been served?”
asked Marge as she came in, taking her seat at the head of the table.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to be a proper guest?”

Genevieve swore her heart stopped for a moment. “I- don’t understand what
is happening,” she started, voice wobbling as tears welled in her eyes.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

Marge merely smiled in response. “Well, my dear, I just had so much fun
watching you take care of the store, I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving.
This dinner wasn’t supposed to happen until much later, but when that stupid
boy broke my cat, I knew you would be trying to high-tail it out of Eastmill.
People have a habit of trying to run,” she started,” “but I refuse to let my
family fall apart.”

The tears were falling fast now, mangled sobs escaping as
Genevieveshe tried to speak.

“Oh, I can’t stand that wretched sound. They all started with that,
but don’t worry, I figured out how to keep company without having to deal
with their moans and excuses. James, do you mind?” she called.

A short, stumpy man moved into view —- the same one that came to her
house with the will of her great aunt weeks ago. He had exchanged his suit and
tie for a t-shirt and apron covered in dark red, dried splotches. Marge came
around the table and placed her hand on either side of Genevieve’s head,
James looming over her shoulder with a sharpened blade in hand.

“After all of this nasty business is over, we’ll have a much more pleasant
time,” Marge said, a deranged smile upon her lips.

Immediately, Genevieve started thrashing as a last-ditch effort to escape
what she knew was inevitable. She screamed and cried, attempting to twist out
of the grasp of the woman in front of her. Marge was clearly unfazed by from
this reaction, acting as if she was dealing with no more than a rabid animal instead
of a helpless young woman.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to hear you and ruin such a lovely family dinner,”
she said, prying Genevieve’s mouth wide open. In a split second,
James had moved forward, and she found her severed tongue twitching
in her lap.

#

Eastmill was unfazed by the disappearance of Genevieve Hollow.
People were always leaving, there was nothing left in that small town. It wasn’t
long before another young woman arrived to take care of the store in her absence.

Accompanied by James, the young woman was shown around the
shop littered with entirely too many porcelain cat figurines. She was
brought up into the apartment to finish the grand tour of the place and
turned towards James with a smile.

‘You know, I’ve been looking for a fresh start. I hate to think that this
stroke of good luck came from the passing of one of my great aunts, but I think
this could end up being exactly what I needed. A forever home,” she said.

He smiled in response, “You know, young lady, I was just thinking the same thing.”

Inside the walls, Genevieve screamed silently for the girl to run and
never look back. She yelled without sound for what felt like an eternity,
never quitting while Aunt Marge put a new nameplate on the table.