All I felt was a shove at my derriere (obviously it was my brother) and I tumbled into the circle manned by the legs of many people and stared directly into the black almond eyes with a hint of red in it. And there was a stench. Probably of my shock and fear.

I squealed slightly (although I wanted to scream but I partly lost my voice in that moment) and scrambled up to my feet, trying to get away. But some people held me up and tried to calm me down.

This time when I looked at what beast those eyes belonged to, I found that it was merely a white Spit but a strange one at that. It seemed to be lacking its front legs. Although I know today that it must be a genetic anomaly, back then in Class 1, when this incident took place and I was peeking through circus tents curiously, it spooked the hell out of me.

Years later during my graduation, my friend and I were fooling around riding her Kinetic Honda when we met with an accident. I remember while I was passing out, a swarm of people were rushing towards us from as far as my fading peripheral vision reached. The last thing I saw before passing out was the same pair of almond eyes with a hint of red in them. Only this time he smiled at me and said,

don’t tell anyone!

I didn’t.

It’s always been awkward for me.

The meetings, the greetings.

While it was easier to get over my glossophobia by class V (Vaidehi Miss did such a wonderful job with the ‘stuttering me’ that I am unabashedly proud of her efforts), one-to-one personal interactions are still difficult for me to handle.

This one time, while being introduced to a cute boy who had newly come into our class, I distinctly remember that I forgot my name. Makes me cringe every time I think of it. I mean, who does that?

My brother would often hurl jokes at me for my overly shy and under-confident demeanor. One day he said, ‘you’re as awkward as a blind dog in a meat shop’. Although it was educational to learn that metaphor, it gave me the tingles somehow.

In any case, there was no denying that I was quite bashful and awkward in my skin, for I did have my share of weird, or whatever one may call it, encounters.

This one time I was walking down to the library on a warm Sunday afternoon. Suddenly this man stopped me, physically barricading my forward movement. Sweaty. Dark-complexioned. Dark brown eyes encased in reddish sclera. Middle-aged. Haggard old clothes. Greying hair. A cloth rug-sack dangling on his shoulder.

He looked desperate and disoriented, trying to blabber something in kannada, while I was sweating bullets at this unexpected confrontation.

Turns out, this man was a teacher from Dharwad, a city in northern Karnataka.

As if apologizing, he narrated a harrowing tale of being stranded in Mangalore, ‘for ‘academic activities’ where he was robbed off his luggage. He had no money or contacts and had approached me as I looked like a ‘student’, who may be willing to help a ‘teacher’. He said that he was absolutely embarrassed but didn’t know how else to get back home.

He obviously needed some money.

At that moment the woman in me clearly doubted everything about this episode. There was a plethora of feelings.

First, the fear.

He is going to slit my throat.

He may throw acid at me.

He might pull out a kerchief soaked in chloroform to subdue me.

Second, the sinking victim feeling.

Why me?

Did I wear something revealing?

Do I look like I have a lot of money?

Third, guilt.

What if he isn’t lying?

What if Papa was stuck in such a situation?

With a defensive demeanor, I walked past him in a rush thinking about all this. I wanted to just disappear. Yet a bit further, the thought of my father in a similar situation stopped me. I decided to give him whatever little money I had, even if he was tricking me to extort it.

I traced my steps back, found him and gave him the money.

He said,

You are a ‘vidyarthi’, I am an ‘adhyapaka’ all I can bless you with is ‘vidya’.

By the time I reached the library, it felt eerie, as if someone was staring at my back. I turned around to find the same teacher standing across the road. Only this time, he looked confident, had a smile on his face and with an all-knowing gaze whispered in kannada,

don’t tell anyone!

I didn’t.

Hostel life was disorienting for me. I was out of home for the first time. But there was also a new sense of freedom: no Mama hovering over my head. So I’d get out for strolls in the canopied lanes of the neighbourhood with bonsai-lined houses every now and then either with a friend or alone, usually at dusk. The aroma of the night-blooming cestrum flowers was heady and added a romance to the air. And a migraine, after.

One evening, I noticed there was someone trailing me during my walk. I turned around and saw a man, probably a vagabond in oversized baggy clothes walking behind me. He had bloodshot eyes, salt n’ pepper spikes for hair, but the most weirdly familiar thing about him was the spring in his walk. It was like he was missing his arms entirely, so, to be able to balance himself on his two legs, he would spring up and down like a kangaroo, or maybe a two-legged dog.

As cautious and self-preserving as I was, I quickly walked around to a bakery near my hostel. I decided to spend some time there, so that the stranger would simply move on.

I spent a good half an hour in the bakery indulging in their delicious sugar doughnuts and savoury chicken rolls after which I decided to head out, only to find the strange little springy man waiting unabashedly for me. With no other way to mask my location from him, I headed to the hostel with him trailing me. That night I peeked through my balcony at the road in front of the hostel. This guy was still standing there, staring up.

I panicked and wondered whether I should tell this to anyone. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I gave up walking and peeking through the balcony for a bit.

After a week, I went out to meet some batch-mates nearby. I consciously scanned my surroundings every now and then but couldn’t find the stranger anywhere. With some respite in his absence, I got out for my walk the next day to get some air. Just as I hit my favourite bonsai-lined house, he came out of nowhere right in front of me and began blabbering. The sheer shock of his encounter sent me sprinting until I  tripped over something and fell face down. By the time I managed to get back to the hostel, I had a torn pair of jeans, a sodded T-shirt, a bleeding knee and elbow, a bruised chin and the nightmare of having been touched by him.

No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get him off the hook. He was everywhere: at my college, the library, the bakery, the nook, the corner. Everywhere.

A time came when I started meeting a guy friend in the evenings, of course, trailed by the springy man whom I still hadn’t mentioned to anyone. One night as I peeped through my window, I saw him standing at the hostel gate with a bouquet of dried wild weeds. The moment he caught my eye, he pulled out a match box and set it on fire, did something obnoxious and scooted away springing.

Although it felt uncanny, I was relieved thinking I wouldn’t see him again.

One day around dusk, I was returning from lab duty at my hospital. I couldn’t get a ride but wanted to return to my room before I had a headache. So, I took the shortest route I knew on foot. It was warm but breezy and the time for trees to shed their leaves. Although it was way past siesta time, it was quieter than usual.

I was startled by someone who cooed at me from one of the houses. I turned and saw the same springy man. He was standing in one of the porches. Only this time, he stood more confident and upright. And when he spoke, he did not blabber. He looked straight at me, smiled and said,

don’t tell anyone!

I didn’t.

But I felt something wasn’t right. Something mighty was weighing me down.

I got back to the hostel. Deep in thought, I crashed into a girl retreating with a cup of tea.

She immediately retorted,

What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?

I left for  home that week. Lying down one night, I stared straight out of the window at the full moon, letting things cross my mind freely.

Am I crazy?

Why can’t I talk to anyone about things?

Can people see that something’s not okay with me?

Then suddenly outside my reverie, I noticed someone jumping from one terrace to another. In the stillness of the world past midnight, he seemed like the only thing evidently moving.

Is that a thief?

Or a banshee?

The hair on my body stood starkly up. My heart was thudding like an engine with no escape. It was as if everything I knew had ceased to exist and I was in a corner of a white room with no doors or windows. I was staring into the biggest pair of black eyes with a hint of red at an alien suspended in thin air. This creature was so close to me, only the open window separating us.

The moment I felt blood in my legs, I sprang and dashed out to my parent’s room. As I was about to wake Mum up, the creature leapt to the window of this room and whispered, with decided eyes and an all-knowing smile,

don’t tell anyone!

I didn’t.

But a part of me spoke to me.

And I wrote down all that I can’t say.

Maybe someone someday will read this and know what to do.

“Garrett?” A muffled voice from a room nearby.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Garrett shook his hands, dropping more rain to the floor and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Do you hear something buzzing?” He surveyed the living room but couldn’t locate the sound. “What is that?”

“I think it’s my cell phone.” She did not exit the room. “I couldn’t find my plug, so I’m using the old one. It shouldn’t be buzzing. Can you check it, please?”

“Nothing like almost starting a fire.” He zeroed in on the cell phone but then looked over at the small kitchen area nearby. He remembered how she used to love to cook and how the kitchen would be bright and smell so good. Now, it was dark and the dishes piled up in the sink. “Guess we’re having takeout again,” he said.

“Are you coming out of the room?” but she didn’t answer him. “Lately, I don’t know what’s wrong with you.”

He moved toward the cell phone, passing by the couch and stopped near the window. He could smell the rain from outside, still feel its dampness on his skin, but it was warm in the apartment. Lately, she was either hot or cold, so she would leave the window open and turn up the heat. But then she would lock herself in the room.

“Are you coming out?” Still, no answer.

On a table near the window was her cell phone with the old cord plugged into an outlet next to it. The buzzing grew louder, and the phone felt hot in his hand. Little white sparks popped into the air and landed on the floor. Shit, he thought and quickly grabbed the cord from the outlet, forgetting his still wet skin, and a large spark popped on his hand, a shock raced through his body. He fell back, feeling a strange sensation of slipping through the floor and falling, just falling, further and further away.

“Garrett? Garrett?” Her voice brought him back. “You okay?” She still didn’t come out of the room. “Garrett, answer me. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He felt strange as he sat up, resting a hand on the couch. “Give me a minute.” He pushed against the floor with his other hand, making sure that it was solid. It was. But the room blurred around him, his body hummed, his fingers and toes twitched. He struggled to his feet and looked for the cell phone and cord. The phone was still on the table and the damn cord was in the outlet. He ripped it out of the wall and received another shock. “Damn it!” He dropped the cord to the floor.

“Garrett?”

“Are you coming out?” He shook his head. “Forget it.” Her cell phone rang and he reached for it. But when he held it, that strange sensation returned and he felt himself fall.

A bubbling sound snapped him out of it. He looked toward the kitchen. It was bright. There were hardly any dishes in the sink but what was next to them? He held the phone and approached the sink. It looked like a bottle. A baby bottle? The bubbling grew louder; the phone buzzed.

The strange vibration returned and the kitchen darkened. The dishes were piled up in the sink again and there was no bottle with them. And no pot bubbling.

She slipped out of her room and walked toward the bathroom. “Hey, you okay?”

“Fine.” He scratched his head. “I know I saw it.”

“Saw what?” She didn’t wait for an answer, closing the bathroom door behind her.

The phone rang again, chased by that strange vibration, and the kitchen brightened with more bubbling sounds. Crying filled the apartment. Was that a baby?

The phone rang again. “Come on.” The kitchen turned dark. “What the fuck is going on? Am I losing my mind?”

“What’s your problem?” She opened the bathroom door a crack.

“Did you hear a baby crying?”

“What?”

“A baby. Did you hear a baby crying?”

“No.” Her voice shook a little. “Why would there be a baby crying in here?”

“I don’t know. What about the pasta? I thought you were making us dinner.”

“Dinner? When was the last time that I cooked us dinner?”

He couldn’t remember, but there was a pot that was just boiling over. And there was a bottle, a baby bottle in the sink. A baby was crying but she was right. Why would there be a baby crying in here?

The phone rang again, and she said, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Tell Florida to stop calling me with their damn robo calls.”

“She said…”

“This isn’t Florida calling.” He recognized the voice, but it was impossible. It was his voice. “Hello?”

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Where are you?” He flinched at the man’s tone, and the call ended.

The kitchen was bright and there she was, wearing blue jeans and a white flowered top. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her light brown arms moving almost rhythmically as she stirred the pot. She smiled and he hadn’t seen that smile in a very long time.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know. Like I’m someone else.” She turned off the stove.

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the phone in his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. What are you wearing?” She laughed. How he had missed that sound!

“Wait. What do you mean by what I’m wearing?” He glanced at the couch and the manila folder was gone. “I’m wearing my work clothes and they’re wet from the rain outside.”

“Rain? They didn’t predict rain today.”

He touched his coat that was still draped over the arm of the couch. It was dry. He glanced over at the apartment door. No muddy footprints. No droplets of rain on the wooden floor and the carpet by the door was a different color, brownish red.

“You okay?”

A baby cried.

“Can you watch the pasta? It’s ready. I have to check on Anna.” She hurried away from him. “Garrett? Earth to Garrett?”

“Anna? Who’s Anna?” The phone in his hand rang again. “Come on,” he muttered.

“Your daughter.”

“What?”

“Don’t hang up on me.” He was back on the other end of the phone. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t know who you are.”

“Don’t you, Garrett?”

The kitchen was dark and muddy footprints stained the greenish-brown rug. Droplets of water rested against the floor. He touched his coat. It was soaked. But there was no pasta ready to be served, there was no baby, no Anna.

“What happened? Why do I keep switching… realities?”

“I don’t know,” he said and the call ended.

“Jen? Jen?”

“I’m still in the bathroom,” she answered. “Who were you talking to?”

“Jen, I need to talk to you.” He approached the bathroom. “Please, open the door. Jen, please.” He could hear her sigh on the other side. “I have to ask you something but not through the door.”

The bathroom door opened and Jen stepped toward him. She was wearing a pair of gray jogging pants and a black T-shirt. Her hair was down, hugging her shoulders, and her light brown arms folded in front of her chest. She seemed thin compared to her other self and her face was wet like she had been crying.

“Who’s Anna?”

The color drained from her face. “How do you know that name?”

He stared at her and it hit him. She had been crying a lot lately but she never said why. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” She laughed and it was not that beautiful sound that he had heard a few moments before. This laugh was bitter. “Am I okay? No, Garrett, I’m not okay. Now, how the fuck do you know that name?”

“You spoke her name.”

“No, I never did. Never to you.”

“You said that she was…” The pain in her eyes pierced through him. “Never mind.” He stepped back. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

“She was what?” Her voice was a whisper, and tears slipped down her face.

“I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry, Jen. I’m just confused right now.”

“You’re always so lost in your own shit.” She slammed the bathroom door shut.

The phone rang again and it was him. “Help me,” he said. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in the apartment but which one?”

“No, not anymore. I think I fell through the floor this time and I’m still falling.” Those words chilled him to the bone. “I need to get back. How do I get back home?”

The phone went dead. “Hello? Hello?”

“Another robo call? I swear that they don’t stop calling me from Texas.”

He looked at Jen, who smiled back at him, setting the table.

“So, why are you wearing those clothes again? You’re dressing like you did when you worked at your old job.”

He looked over at the couch. No manila folder. “I left that job? Why would I do that?”

“Because of your supervisor, silly. You couldn’t stand working for her and it was too much stress for you. So you left, and now you have a better, higher-paying job. You  can wear casual work clothes. Oh, can you get Anna, please? I changed her diaper and she just needs to be carried into the kitchen.”

“You want me to hold her?”

“I thought we got past that. Never mind. I’ll get her. You just take a seat, and I’ll be right out.”

The phone rang again. “I have a daughter?”

“Don’t you care that I’m falling somewhere God knows where?” He flinched at the man’s tone. “Yes, you have a daughter. At least, I do. What happened to yours?” No answer. “I don’t think I’m falling anymore but I’m not back at the apartment. At least, I don’t think so. Where are you?”

“Your place.” He sat at the table and looked over at Jen but she didn’t have the baby. She was his Jen and she was staring at him like he was crazy. “My place,” and the call ended.

“Seriously, who are you talking to?” She asked.

“No one. Just myself.” He smiled at that, but Jen did not look amused.

“Were you going to place an order for dinner or are we just skipping that tonight?” She looked at the phone in his hand. “That’s my phone. Why are you using it?” She reached for it but he moved away from her.

“I was going to place an order. I’m sorry I’m using your phone. What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t care. Where’s your cell phone? Why don’t you use it instead of mine?”

“Where is my phone? Shit.” He searched his pockets. Nothing. He checked his coat. Still nothing. He checked the manila folder. “Thank God,” he sighed, but his phone was dead. “I have to charge it.”

“Fine. Use my phone. I don’t care.” She moved away from the table. “I’m not hungry anyway. I don’t know why I even came out of the bathroom.”

“Jen.” She looked at him. “What did I do to you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. For almost a year, it’s been like living with a stranger. We barely sleep in the same room anymore.”

“So what? You miss the sex? Is that it? Is that the only thing that you miss?”

“No. Yes.” He stepped closer and reached for her but she pulled away from him. “I miss us, Jen. What we were once.”

“We were a fucking mess, Garrett. We still are.” She stormed away from him.

“I know about Anna.” She froze mid-step but refused to look at him. “I know about our daughter,” and the painful look in her eyes broke his heart. “Why isn’t she here with us?”

“Who told you?” Her voice filled with venom. “Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I want to know! Now,” she screamed, and he flinched.

“You. You told me, Jen.”

“Me? I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing tonight, but it’s not funny, Garrett. I’m not laughing.” No, she was crying.

“Jen.”

Jen covered her mouth and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Her sobs still escaped the room.

“Jen? Jen, please talk to me.” He hurried over to the bathroom. “Please,” but she didn’t answer him.

The phone rang in his hand. A baby giggled.

“Something wrong with dinner?” Jen asked.

“What?” He looked down at the plate in front of him. The pasta looked good, but his stomach turned. He felt cold, sick. Maybe, the human body was not meant to slip in-between worlds, if that was what he was doing. “No, dinner looks good.”

“You okay? You’re pale. And why are you holding my phone? Where’s yours?”

“It needs to be charged.” He looked at Anna.

“She was cranky today.” Jen bounced the baby on her lap and gave her a little piece of pasta. “We kept ourselves busy though.”

He continued to stare at Anna. “She’s beautiful.”

“Why are you looking at Anna like you’ve never seen her before?”

“Jen, can I ask you something?” He looked at her.

“Sure.” She ate some pasta.

“Was there a moment where you might not have had Anna?” He watched Jen’s fork crash into her plate and she almost choked on her food.

She covered Anna’s ears. “Why the fuck would you ask me that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You have no right to ask me that.”

“But I’m asking, Jen and I need to know. Please. Please, Jen.”

She looked at Anna, who played with a rattle in her hands. “Yes, there was a moment,” she said.

“Why? Why would you do that?”

She laughed. It was that bitter laugh. “Why? Because we weren’t in a good place, Garrett. I didn’t think we were going to make it and I didn’t want to bring her into that. It wouldn’t be fair to her and I didn’t want you to stay with me because of her.”

“So, you were going to decide not to have her?”

“You have no idea, Garrett. No fucking idea.” She flinched. She forgot to cover Anna’s ears. “She’s too young to remember anyway and you know what, Garrett? If I had made that decision, it would have been my choice.”

“What about me?”

“What about you? You were lost in your own shit all the time. You forgot about me.”

“I never forgot about you. I’m sorry if it seemed that way.”

Anna started to cry. Jen quickly hugged her. “Why are we even talking about this? I decided and now we have Anna. And we are doing much better together. All of us. Aren’t we?”

He flinched at her question, thinking about his own Jen. “Yes, we’re doing much better now.”

“And if I had made that decision, it would have torn me apart.” She looked at him, tears pouring down her face. Now, she seemed like his Jen. “It would have ended us.”

The phone rang and he felt as if the floor gave way. He fell through the wooden surface and into nothing and he couldn’t stop falling. Would his other self be able to save him?

Somehow, he pressed the phone to his ear. Please, he thought. Please, save me. “Are you there?”

He said, “I think I’m returning home now. Are you?”

“I’m falling and I can’t stop falling.” The phone beeped in his hand. One bar left. “Help me.”

“What’s wrong with Jen? Your Jen.”

“Leave her alone.” The darkness closed in. The phone beeped. “I need to get back to her.”

“I’m home now.” His voice sounded distant. “You should be too. Good-bye.”

“Wait! Please don’t hang up on me!”

He felt himself fall, hitting against a hard surface. It was the wooden floor of his apartment. He was lying in front of the bathroom door and Jen was stepping out of the bedroom with her coat on and a suitcase in her hand.

“Oh my God, Garrett. Are you okay? And why are you still holding my phone?”

“I’m okay.” He struggled to sit up on the floor. “Where are you going?”

Jen looked at the suitcase. “I think you know the answer to that. Now, are you okay?”

“Not if you’re about to leave me.”

“I have to.” She moved past him. “I should’ve left a long time ago. I don’t know why I didn’t.” She opened the apartment door.

“Jen, please, please don’t go.”

The phone rang again. The last bar fading as if warning this would be the last time but maybe, it would be better, if he was there. He wanted to see Jen smile at him like she did before. He wanted to see Anna but the phone just rang again.

“Don’t let her leave,” he said. “She needs you and you need her.” His voice faded away.

“Jen, I know it was a hard decision that you made.”

“Do you?” She glared at him. “You don’t know anything.”

“Yes, I do.” He stood up and moved over to her. “I know, Jen.”

“Yeah. What do you know?”

“That you didn’t think we were going to make it and you didn’t want to bring her into that. You didn’t want me to stay with you because of her.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “Those are my thoughts, not yours.” She looked at him. “How do you know what I was thinking? You couldn’t know. Maybe I talked in my sleep. Did that person on the phone tell you? Who were you talking to?”

“I saw her. I saw our daughter, Jen, and she was beautiful.”

Jen slapped him across the face. “I’m sorry, Garrett. I don’t know why I did that.”

“I deserve it. I should never have made you feel so forgotten.” That word made her mouth fall open in surprise and he took her hand in his. “We weren’t in a good place and you were right to think that we weren’t going to make it. I didn’t think we were going to make it either.”

“How do you know all this? How could you possibly know any of this?”

“Because I do know, Jen. I know. I know how hard that decision was for you and that I wasn’t there when you needed me. I was lost in my own shit and I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Jen.”

“It’s too late, Garrett. It’s just too late.” She pulled her hand away and wiped some tears off her face. “We’re still a mess and nothing’s going to change that.” She walked into the hallway.

“You’re right.” She paused at his words. “You said that if you made that decision, it would have torn you apart.” She looked at him. “You were right about it ending us because here we are at the end.”

“I never said any of that.”

The phone buzzed in his hand. The last bar faded away.

“Could I say one last thing before you go?” He brushed a tear aside.

“Okay. One last thing, Garrett, and then I’m leaving.”

“You would have loved her.”

“Who?”

“Our daughter, Anna. For the few minutes that I had with her, she was amazing, beautiful. She had my eyes but your face. And she giggled, Jen. I didn’t get a chance to hold her and I wish I did now. But I saw her and you would have loved her.”

Jen burst into tears. He hurried over to her, hugging her tight. “Did you see her,” she whispered into his ear. “Did you really see her, our daughter?”

“I did. Do you believe me?”

“I don’t know why.” Her eyes met his. “I do but why now? Why today?”

“I don’t know.” He took the suitcase from Jen and led her back to the apartment. Their feet rested next to the muddy footprints. “It must mean something.”

“Maybe it does. Maybe we will see her again?”

He touched her face. “Maybe we will,” and she smiled at him with that smile.

“Oh, one thing,” Jen said.

“What?”

“Can I have my phone back?” He laughed, closing the apartment door behind them.

It was a tradition with us. We would gather on the terrace in front of our offices every Midsummer Eve as the sun slowly went down into the sea and tell stories. Not the usual anecdotes about what happened to this or that mutual acquaintance but stories, in the truest sense of the word. Snippets of legends we had heard so long ago, we could hardly remember them properly, myths we adjusted for the occasion, dreams we thought would fit the eerie atmosphere, when the sun seemed to refuse to set and the world felt as if it had ground to a halt. 

We became different people during those evenings. Usually, we were typical nine-to-five office workers, not revealing much about our personal lives except for conventional, socially acceptable snippets: significant others, children, vacation spots. We steered clear of deeper topics: fear and dreams hiding in the forgotten corners of our minds, how we saw the world, the songs we heard in the night. We could not mention those under the neon glow of office lights.

Yet for one night a year, we became something else—or maybe it was the only time we thought it would be safe to be entirely ourselves. The real us, who still remembered ancestral fears, who saw beyond the trappings of our modern existence into a darker, lonelier world, where forests and seas and stars were sacred and more than just objects in the background of our busy lives.

We took turns telling our stories. There was no particular order. Midsummer Eve did not ask for hierarchies. Or maybe there was a hierarchy but it was hidden from us. We could not understand it.

Then came the night Kaya told her story for the first time and we never got together again to share our tales on Midsummer Eve.

2

Kaya had always been an unknown element for us. She did not take part in usual office banter, the classic back-and-forth with which we occupied most of our breaks. She did her job and went home. We didn’t even know where she lived—well, someone in Human Resources probably did, her records had to be stored somewhere—but none of us had felt inclined to investigate further. Kaya was a good worker but otherwise invisible and we all had the feeling that that was what she wanted.

Until that year, Kaya had never taken part in our Midsummer ritual. One year, she made her excuses and said something had come up. Another time, she got a phone call in the middle of our outing and had to leave. All innocuous incidents. Not enough for us to suspect that she was avoiding the moment she would be asked to tell a story as the sun went down.

In truth, I don’t know why Kaya was there that evening or why she answered our challenge so readily. Perhaps she wanted to show us what real stories could do, how they could overturn reality and ruin the veil of safety between our imaginations and us. Maybe she knew too much and was tired of bearing the burden alone. Or maybe she had not meant to do it. Maybe she had no idea her story would have such an impact on us.

“It’s your turn, Kaya.”

Kaya looked at each of us in turn and for a moment we were afraid that she would refuse. But then her face changed and I could swear she was no longer only herself, as if there was someone else inhabiting her body, someone in a reckless, mischievous mood, willing to unleash chaos just for the sake of it.

“Look over there,” Kaya said, pointing up ahead. “What can you see there?”

As one, we followed Kaya’s finger.

“Water,” I said. “The sea.”

“I think I see a boat,” someone else announced.

Others nodded sagely. I didn’t because I couldn’t see any boat and I suspected everyone else was just playing along.

“The sun,” the new guy in marketing said. “You’re talking about the sun, aren’t you?”

“No, she’s talking about the gulls. Look at them, circling the horizon.”

“I think she’s talking about one gull in particular. It’s the closest one, right? The one with the black head?”

 By now we were all pitching in, enjoying the game for its own sake, forgetting its main objective. Kaya was watching us with a faint smile as if we were children and she was an adult indulging us. Eventually, she shook her head.

“No—I meant none of those things. I was wondering if you could see the shadow on the water.”

We were silent. None of us wanted to say it but we all knew there was no shadow on the water.

“It’s alright,” Kaya said. “I know you can’t see it, yet. You will, once I finish my story.”

That should have been our warning. Our sign that we shouldn’t do this. That we should ask Kaya to stop. At that point, though, we didn’t care about warnings. We wanted to see the shadow on the water.

3

“My grandmother told me this story,” Kaya began. “She knew it from her own grandmother who had heard it from a fortune-teller, traveling with a circus. The fortune-teller had sworn it was true.”

We all nodded. Our stories often began like this. I am certain none of us thought there was any truth in such an introduction. Still, we allowed ourselves to believe it, if only for one night. In those brief hours, all stories had the possibility to be real. Even the most outrageous ones. Especially the most outrageous ones.

“The fortune-teller came from some exotic southern land,” Kaya went on. “She did not like our country. It was too cold, too dark. There were creatures she did not know whispering at every crossroad. And there was a shadow on the sea.”

She had not seen the shadow when she had first arrived. Then, one day, she overheard the sword-swallower mentioning a shadow. And then on, the shadow was always there on the sea, calling out to her but repelling her at the same time. She was surprised she had not noticed it from the beginning.

“What is that?” she asked one evening when she was sure she could not take it anymore.

 What bothered her the most was that no one seemed to ever talk about the shadow on the sea. It was as if the thing was normal for them. As if every sea should have its shadow.

“That,” Bert, the sword-swallower, said. “That is the shadow of the lighthouse, of course. What else would it be?”

 The fortune-teller frowned.

“I don’t see any lighthouse. How can it cast a shadow if it’s not there?”

Bert looked at her as if she was a child who had not learned the true ways of the world yet. It annoyed the fortune-teller to no end. She was at least ten years Bert’s senior.

“It’s the lighthouse of souls, Hilda. Of course you can’t see it.”

The fortune-teller’s name was actually Hadil, not Hilda but Bert had never been good at remembering names he had not heard around him since birth.

“A lighthouse of souls. What does that mean? Whose souls?”

Bert shrugged.

“Mine. Theirs,” he added, jerking his head towards the rest of the troupe who were swaying drunkenly several paces away, completely oblivious to the conversation. “Now that you’ve noticed the shadow—yours.”

Hadil trembled. The words were like ice to her.

“Why mine?”

“You wouldn’t have seen the shadow otherwise. It only appears to those whose souls are already trapped inside.”

4

That night, Hadil dreamed about the lighthouse for the first time.

She first saw it as a column of smoke, swaying against the red horizon. Hadil was flying above it and as she got closer, the smoky column gained substance and turned into a tower of stone with a point of light at the top. Only the light was not yellow, as it should have been. It was green.

Hadil found herself descending quickly towards the lighthouse against her will. One moment she was seeing it from above, the next she was inside, standing at the foot of the spiral staircase that led up to the tower.

Hadil hesitated briefly. She did not know if she should go up or try to find a way out. Logic and the inclination for self-preservation whispered to her that she should remain on the ground floor and try to escape. But when she tried to follow that sound advice, Hadil found that her feet would not move. She could not go anywhere but up. Something was compelling her to climb the stairs.

Hadil had seen many things in her lifetime. She came from a long line of fortune tellers, witches and priests. Her kind could speak to gods and spirits of the earth often appeared in their dreams. Hadil herself had witnessed sacrifices to dark forest gods, ritual dances and initiation rites that took one to the blackest places. Wraiths had chased her and once she had even battled an ancient basilisk. She was not afraid of the unnatural. Ghosts and spooks were familiar to her.

 Despite her knowledge, Hadil was sure she had never felt such strangeness and such malice as she did now, climbing the stairs to the lighthouse tower. The lighthouse of souls, Bert had called it, and Hadil could tell it was true. She could feel them—millions of imprisoned souls shadowing her, surrounding her, speaking of millennia of despair, begging to be set free.

Hadil’s heart was breaking. She could not stand to watch so many souls suffering. It did not matter that their owners were long dead or that they were alive and did not know what was happening to their souls inside the lighthouse. All that mattered was the suffering—Hadil had never been able to witness suffering without trying to help.

“Help how?” a voice that sounded like Bert’s hissed in her ear. “You’re trapped here like the rest of us. What could you possibly do to help?”

When Hadil woke up, she was back in her bed in the trailer she shared with the two ballerinas. They were both fast asleep but they now looked lifeless to Hadil. As if their souls no longer belonged to them.

5

Days passed, deceptively uneventful. Bert did not act as if he was aware that Hadil had encountered his soul in the lighthouse. But the more Hadil looked around, the more she realized everyone she knew had their souls imprisoned there. The lighthouse had claimed the entire town.

“This won’t do,” Hadil decided. “They have to be set free.”

It wasn’t just altruism. She could feel her own soul becoming tangled inside the lighthouse. She dreamed about it every night now. She had to find a way to break the spell before her own soul was completely claimed. Otherwise, there would be no escape.

Hadil searched the lighthouse from top to bottom. She discovered that the green light at the top of the tower came from the captured souls. But why was there a light there in the first place? What was it supposed to guide?

Apart from the souls, there seemed to be no one else at the lighthouse. Still, every night, Hadil was sure she could sense an absence. Something was about to arrive or had just left. Hadil never managed to encounter whatever it was but she suspected that creature was responsible for the missing souls. Maybe, if she dealt with the creature, she would be able to free the souls. She could make it give them up. Or, as a last resort, she could kill it, and that would release its hold on the souls.

Hadil knew things the people in those parts did not know. She knew spells that would keep her asleep for days without killing her. She could remain inside the lighthouse when the soul keeper came. She would be able to confront it.

“You are mad,” Bert told her. “Madder than I thought you can be and that’s saying something.”

“But you will help me,” Hadil insisted. “Bert, you would be helping yourself, too.”

 She had come to Bert that morning and presented her plan: she was going to place herself in a three-day trance. Bert was to remain by her side and make sure nothing happened to her body in the real world. If she showed signs of distress, he was to try and wake her up.

“I’m surprised you’re asking me to do this,” Bert went on. “I was sure you didn’t like me.”

That much was true. Hadil, however, had learned a long time ago that not liking someone did not necessarily have to mean not trusting them. She trusted Bert more than she had trusted anyone else in her life.

“You will help me,” she repeated, and it was not phrased as a question—they both knew that that’s what Bert would do.

Bert lifted his hand and touched Hadil’s shoulder briefly.

“I wish I was coming with you.”

 Hadil wondered if Bert also dreamed of the lighthouse.

“We both have a part in this. Yours is here. Mine is in the lighthouse.”

“Do you know what to do?” Bert asked.

Hadil nodded curtly.

“Find the person who is holding the souls and convince them to free us—one way or another.”

6

Hadil prepared a potion and whispered secret words over it. She lay down and repeated a few other words that her grandmother had taught her long ago when they were hiding from a sand-spirit. She was aware of Bert watching her uneasily but she did not say anything. Bert was never going to understand her ways but he would still obey her instructions.

She found the lighthouse instantly. She was once more on the spiral staircase. Her soul was struggling like a captive moth against one of the windows, as if suspecting there was the possibility it could be freed. Bert’s soul was next to hers.

“Don’t worry,” Hadil told them. “After tonight we will all be free.”

She climbed the stairs. Sensing her determination, several souls followed her. They formed a protective barrier between Hadil and the lighthouse. Hadil smiled, wondering if she knew any of them. The only souls she could recognize were Bert’s and her own.

The room at the top of the tower was the same as ever. The green lamp threw trembling shadows on the floor as hundreds of corrupted souls swayed around the lamp. Only the most damaged souls powered the light. Hadil doubted she could save those. But she could put an end to the indignity they were forced to suffer. That would have to be enough.

Hadil did not know how long she waited for the dreadful presence to enter the tower. It felt too long. Her potion would only last three days. Then, she would wake up, whether she encountered the enemy or not. She was beginning to think she had gone about this all wrong. The keeper of souls would only come when her dream self was not there. He would wait for her to wake up and all this would have been for nothing.

After a while, when she was ready to give up hope, Hadil heard heavy footsteps on the spiral staircase. She tensed. Souls were light. You could not hear them as they moved. This could not be another dreamer, either. Not many would have managed to get up the stairs before they woke up. This was it, then. Their captor was finally on his way.

 In those moments, as she listened to the lumbering footsteps, Hadil wondered what she would see. She imagined green slimy creatures dragged out from the sea, or misbegotten monsters, half-human, half-beast, with claws and fangs and yellow eyes. She thought of a gigantic spider scuttling towards the green light to feed on the souls.

What entered the room was a dwarf, much shorter than Hadil. Its shadow was gigantic in the light of the candle he was holding but the creature itself was small and wizened. He looked as if he was barely holding himself together. Hadil suspected he would have crumbled into a million pieces, had it not been for the souls keeping him alive.

The dwarf’s skin was white to the point of being translucent; his sunken eyes were green and empty. He himself didn’t have a soul, Hadil realized. Whether he kept it imprisoned in the lighthouse with the others or he had lost it some other way, it was hard to tell. Nor did it matter. He was the enemy, and Hadil could not have sympathy for the enemy.

 The dwarf did not notice Hadil at first. He shuffled to the window and looked outside. The sea was restless. The dwarf rubbed his hands together, grinning.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Good. More souls for me. Storms always bring more souls. Good.”

Hadil stepped forward.

“Why do you need the souls?”

The dwarf froze, although his shadow still shivered and swayed. Some of the souls disentangled themselves from him and fluttered towards Hadil. Others remained bound to him, unable to break free. Slowly, the creature turned around and Hadil sensed that if she looked too long at him, she would be trapped inside the lighthouse forever.

“You should not be here,” the dwarf hissed. “Everyone wakes when I come.”

He was jabbing his finger at her while he spoke, although he was not touching her yet. Hadil stood her ground.

“Well, I am still here. And that means only one thing. I want you to free the souls.”

The dwarf tilted his head.

“Which souls?” he asked mockingly.

Hadil took a step forward.

“All souls. Every single one.”

She reached out and her hand fastened around the dwarf’s arm. The touch made her shudder. The skin did not feel like that of a living being but like some strange thing at the bottom of a muddy lake, slippery and sinuous. The strong stench of seaweed made her choke.

 “You will give us what I ask for,” she said, speaking clearly, her voice steady. “Every soul you have taken, you will set them free.”

The dwarf creature stood still for a long time as if Hadil’s words had turned him to stone. He had not encountered defiance in his prey before.

“What can you do to me, desert daughter?” he challenged. “I am from a world different from yours. My laws are different laws.”

Hadil shook her head.

“No law can accept the stealing of souls. My soul does not belong to you. None of these souls do. And I am here to get them back.”

The dwarf’s laughter sounded like the crack of dry branches consumed by fire. Hadil shivered but did not release him.

“Even if you free the souls and dispose of me, there are more of us in the world. At the right time, another will take my place. The lighthouse can never be destroyed. It will always be there, and it will always pull souls to it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hadil said. “Because my soul will be free and so will everyone else’s that is here now. As for what comes after, those people in the future will have to attend to it themselves.

She abruptly let go of her opponent, flinging him backwards. The dwarf staggered but remained on his feet.

And suddenly, he was not a dwarf anymore but a tall, slender creature, so dark it could have come from the caverns beneath the earth where no sun had ever reached. This was something older than Hadil and her desert, than sea or land, or life as Hadil knew it.

Hadil sprang at the creature but it knocked her down. She got back on her feet. Her next blow caused her enemy to stagger, moving closer to the window.

The fight between Hadil and the soul-stealing dwarf was a summer hailstorm and a winter blizzard. It was the sea engulfing the shore and the forest fire swallowing ancient trees, the sky tumbling over the unsuspecting world. The dwarf was skilled and had the strength of a dozen men. But Hadil had her will and her stubbornness, and she was not going to give in to some thieving upstart.

The battle lasted two days and two nights—Bert would tell Hadil this later, when she woke up. She had no idea of the passage of time while she was fighting. All she knew was that moment when her life hung in the balance and the fate of so many souls depended on her victory.

On the third night, Hadil’s strength was fading. She had fallen and the dwarf was now standing above her in the shape of an eagle beating its gray wings and striking at Hadil with its beak. Hadil tried her best to keep him from plucking out her eyes. She pulled out her small knife and struck at the beast.

She could not injure him but she did force him to turn again into a dwarf. Hadil watched as he staggered backwards and noticed how close he was to the open window.

Hadil gathered her failing strength and got up. She was shaking and her limbs were barely obeying her anymore. The time had come to put an end to this. She launched herself at the dwarf who slipped and fell out of the window.

Hadil fell against the edge, panting. The desperate cry of her enemy echoed in her ears.

“I killed him,” Hadil thought and the notion struck at her heart.

The creature had stolen her soul and the souls of so many others. It had to be stopped. He certainly would not have hesitated to kill Hadil. Still, none of these arguments could make Hadil feel any better.

As she knelt there with her entire world overturning, she suddenly felt a warm touch on her face. It was her own soul, come to comfort her. Hadil smiled.

“Hello. It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

She became aware of the other souls, some coming to greet her, others fading back to their owners. She watched as they flew, leaving a golden trail behind. There would be many shooting stars above the sea that night.

7

Hadil opened her eyes to find herself back in her trailer. Bert was leaning over her. He was crying.

“Hadil,” he whispered when he saw she was awake.

It was the first time that he had bothered to say her real name and the syllables sounded sweet and bright on his lips. Hadil frowned, noticing the glint behind his eyes.

“You’re different.”

“You gave me back my soul,” Bert reminded her.

She watched the new softness in his features and decided she could like him with a soul.

“You did it,” Bert went on. “You fought the darkness and won.”

Hadil shuddered, remembering the wretched creature and what had happened to it.

“Is the lighthouse still there?”

Bert shook his head.

“I can see no shadow on the sea now. No one can.”

“It’s only temporary, though,” Hadil said, thinking about what the dwarf had told her.

The shadow and the lighthouse would be back again. Bert did not seem too bothered by that, though. He embraced Hadil and she could feel that he was hugging her with his newly-returned soul. The soul that Hadil had given back to him. Maybe that was enough. Maybe the future did not have to be her responsibility after all.

8

Kaya finished her story. At first, we congratulated her. It was a good story: light versus darkness and good winning, at least for a while. What was not to like? Then, we remembered that “for a while” part and realized that Kaya had claimed she had been told it was a true story. That night, we all saw the shadow on the water.

I do not know which one of us dreamt of the lighthouse first or was the first to discover their soul was now imprisoned there. We did not talk about such things at the office. They belonged to our Midsummer festivities and we never held one of those since that night.

 Kaya left soon after. She did not hand over her notice or turn in her office equipment. She simply vanished. One evening, she went home and did not come in the next morning.

We wondered, of course. Did she go to confront the stealer of souls from the lighthouse as Hadil had? Or, since she had been the one to point the shadow of the lighthouse, was she its keeper? Was she the one who now held our souls?

Count Darius Misanthrope, heir to the Von Slaughter fortune and renowned scoundrel, points accusingly at the sanguine moon on the last panel of the last page of my painstakingly produced comic book. I draw. Then erase. Then draw. Then erase. Then draw, it seems, only so that I may erase. I bite my cheek and remove his limb with a single pen swipe. It’s his hand that’s the problem. His damned hand, with its damned fingers, refuses to look like anything more than a pack of hot dogs with scoliosis.

I really should get to bed. The witching hour does grow ever closer. I should go to bed and try again in the morning. And typically, I would. It’s just that I have the apartment all to myself, my focus unhindered, my creative juices able to flow freely, unthreatened by my partner’s affection.

Moi's back home getting her car repaired. You could say her dad's a bit of a mechanic, but Dr. Frankenstein may be more apt. A real sadist of the body shop. "Let the car die," I tell her. "Let me fucking die," begs the car. But Moi does as Moi has always done. She looks down her nose at the maroon car, rust spots pocking its hood, and whispers, "決して." I expect she'll be back in the morning. This is why tonight, tonight I will finish this drawing even if it kills me.

I thumb the volume on my phone. I’m on my second four-hour compilation of r/nosleep videos. I’ve forgone coffee, trusting the stories to live up to their name. Caffeine is great but has its limits. What my brain needs is to be threatened awake with tales of serial killers, woodland beasts, and haunted houses.

Most are fake, probably all are fake, but some seem possible, plausible even. A malformed deviant takes a child and does unspeakable things. A shapeshifting coyote scurries off the side of the road. Or the classic knock at the door with no one on the other side. Sure. Yeah. Probably fake. But plausible.

The pinky, meant to be but un petit phalange, has grown like a rampaging weed, exceeding the length and girth of the ring, middle, and pointer finger. Severed and redrawn palm up, each finger has mutated, growing multiple extra joints, more crustacean now than man. Again I try, this time drawing something that looks like a spider sneezed, its legs splayed out at its sides. My rage hampered only by my fatigue, I whimper a defeated, “Screw it.” I’ll just draw a fist and call it a night. The vibe doesn’t match the scene depicted, but the bags beneath my eyes are filling with the tablet’s glow, and soon all I’ll see is an oncoming migraine.

As I sketch, the video starts into a tale about a bladed madman. This madman, hatred in his heart and meth in his lungs, lived in the crawl space above the new tenant’s bedroom. This fresh-faced young woman told her best friend and boyfriend and neighbor and landlord, and postal worker about the sounds coming from her attic at night. They all agreed that, seeing as it was her first time in the big city and that she was a fresh-faced young woman, she was just easily spooked. Such a silly girl. “And maybe I am,” she considered. “Maybe I am a silly girl.” That was until she noticed a shortage of underwear. Then a few fewer bras. When her favorite dress went missing, she knew she wasn’t imagining things. She knew she’d have to go to the attic.

With his coy and even tone, the narrator delivers a tale that is stronger than any espresso and richer than any latte. Creepers living in an apartment, unbeknownst to the tenant, never cease to unnerve me. Something about your sense of security being ruptured. Something about the… the plausibility of it happening to anyone. How well do you really know your house? Especially for those of us who rent. How safe are you really in a house that isn’t and can never truly be your home?

The fresh-faced young woman, living on her own for the first time and with a profoundly mediocre boyfriend, musters the courage to venture to the attic. I give Count Darius Misanthrope a couple of squiggles to represent veins in his clenched fist. Fresh-faced young woman (FFYW) raises the loft door, actually a warped piece of plywood over a square in the ceiling, and pushes it aside. She hoists herself through its opening. I shade between the quartet of knuckles, hoping it’ll give the illusion that I’ve spent more than thirty seconds drawing them. Her breath heavy in her chest, FFYW aims the flashlight at the far end of the crawlspace, where she sees a tattered sheet pinned to the attic’s arch. A couple of wavy lines indicate that the Count rattles a righteous fist. As her fully realized, absolutely perfect fingers slide around the sheet, this curtain, she swallows, her mind racing far too fast to imagine what nightmare awaits her on the other side. Then, with the flashlight’s beam leading the way, she rips the sheet aside, unveiling the madman’s makeshift bedroom in all its calamitous filth. I click the floppy disk icon and a percentage pops on screen, telling me just how saved it is. But before it can be completed, before FFYW can truly take in the implication of that horrific tableau, she- I- We feel a quick succession of taps upon our back! Tap. Tap. Tap.

My butthole puckers like tightened drawstrings on a hoodie. The hair on my forearms reaches for the sky. A golf ball forms in my throat, and the image of an eight-foot-tall, craggy-faced pervert looming over my hunched body shudders madness to every corner of my mind. With the rest of my body busy pissing itself, my lizard brain, that instinctual survival mechanism, reacts with vigor. I bellow a bronchial battle cough and throw my arm over the back of my chair like tossing a log in a creek. Maybe I’ll get lucky and smack the twelve-foot brute in the nards. But I’ve never been lucky; my arm connects with no nards.

For those unaware, Bushyasta, also known as Bushyasta the long-handed, is the Zoroastrian demon of sloth. She embodies laziness, idleness, and procrastination. She takes particular joy in keeping productive men from completing their tasks. So when Moi and I rescued a chubby black cat who is lazy, adorably distracting, and slightly demonic, “Bushyasta” seemed the perfect fit. So while Bushyasta, or Bushy for short, is not terribly long-handed, when she does herself a big stretch, she is quite long-pawed.

With my arm gliding through the air, making contact with little more than confusion, I see a streak of pale blue on sleek black fur. The clatter of claws fills the room as a fat cat tries to gain traction on a wooden floor. They do, and moments later, I hear a meatball hoofing it down the hallway at top speed. Leaving me, once again, alone in the dark.

Immediately, I amend this. Every lamp, fixture, and nightlight is turned on. Even those loathsome overhead lights are made to wash the room. Next is r/nosleep, nullified with a swipe and replaced with silence. But what happened to FFYW?! Fuck FFYW! That shit’s fake, anyway. My heart slows. Sweat dries. Adrenaline simmers. I glance at the tablet. Mercy of mercies, all my hard work has been saved, one hundred percent saved. I take one final look at Count Darius Misanthrope’s lumpy outstretched fist and turn my tablet off. I’m done. Finished. But before I can finally r/gothefucktosleep, I must find Bushyasta, the feline goddess of jump scares, and throw myself before her mercy. This calls for a sacrifice, and I’m hoping a handful of kitty crunchies will suffice. I rattle the container, and just as thunder follows lightning, I feel the rumble of rolling chunk head my way. A moment later, Bushy, the Long Pawed extends an arm, no torment intended, just an insatiable hunger for snackies. And I know all is forgiven.