Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Samantha Campas, author of She’s Such a Good Kid!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Samantha Campas

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Samantha: Lots of things—dark, deep water; an empty house late at night; death. I think it all boils down to a general fear of the unknown. I’m not someone who does well when faced with uncertainty. Oh, and centipedes. Those little guys really freak me out.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

S: When I was small, my dad gave me unfettered access to his book shelf, and that included his complete collection of Stephen King. I read The Body, The Stand, The Shining, and Salem’s Lot all cross-legged on the office floor. I was probably way too young to read those books, but they were the reason I dreamed of writing scary stories of my own.

Frankenstein is, in my opinion, the perfect novel. I read it for the first time when I was in the fourth grade and it influenced everything about me. While it’s technically a sci-fi novel (Mary Shelley invented the genre), I think horror also beats at its heart. Stephen King made me want to write something scary, and Mary Shelley made me realize how complex and moving that scary thing could be.

The Thing and Alien were my introductions to horror movies, and they’re still my favorites to this day. They sparked a deep love of creature features. Even the goofy ones! Black Sheep and The Velocipastor are a lot of fun. I’m also a sucker for campy horror. Scream is a classic for a reason, and I recently watched and loved Freaky.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing She’s Such a Good Kid?

S: My favorite part of writing She’s Such a Good Kid was the chance to weave in cultural moments and memories from my own childhood. I’d never written a story based on a Latine myth, so the opportunity to remember what it felt like when I was young and first told about La Llorona meant a lot to me.

Plus, I think we have some of the best scary stories. Not just La Llorona, but El Cucuy and El Chupacabra, too. I remember being petrified whenever I had to take our dogs outside at night because I was convinced one of those monsters was waiting in the dark. I’m very grateful that I got the chance to share those types of experiences through this novella.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

S: That horror as a genre was created to confront and discuss the fears of the time that the story was written. Horror is about more than just being scared. It’s an incredible mirror into what people were afraid of during that period of history. Talking about my favorite novel again, Frankenstein was an examination of the anxiety surrounding medical and scientific developments that seemed to challenge the natural order of things. Alien tackled a lot of the fear about capitalism in the late 70s. If you want to understand the past better, I think the best place to start is to read or watch horror.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

S: It sounds cliche, but I write. Writing is how I process my emotions, thoughts, and experiences. And if I’m feeling too low to write, I read. The written word is such an important point of shared human connection. It helps to remind me that I’m never alone.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

S: Campy horror like Lisa Frankenstein or Abigail, creepy novels like The Ruins or Vampires of El Norte, candles that smell like a forest, a big fluffy blanket to hide under, and a hot tea and chocolate for when it gets too spooky.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

S: Body horror! I love it so much. Horror loves ‘the other,’ and what’s more othering than something that makes your own body feel like a stranger?

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

S: More diversity of perspectives and cultures, for sure. Non-western cultures have such rich storytelling histories and it’d be amazing to see more monsters, cryptids, and myths than the typical ones we’re used to. It’s not a book, but the movie It Lives Inside is a great example of a unique take on the possession genre.

Also, more Mexican-American horror. Writers like Isabel Cañas are writing incredible books that use the unique lens of the Southwest to tell stories that are steeped in important history.

CL: What’s next for you?

S: My debut, Blood Chemistry, is coming out from Primero Sueño Press (S&S) in spring 2027. It’s a paranormal horror romance about a vampire hunter who is hired to protect the man-turned-vampire he used to love. I’m so proud of this book, and it’s got Latine vampires! I can’t wait to share it with you all.

Thank you for joining us, Samantha! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘She’s Such a Good Kid’ here!

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Nicholas Perez, author of The Vanisher!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Nicholas Perez

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Nicholas: Failure. I’m always scared that everything will go wrong, no matter what I’m doing. Whether it’s writing, querying, grocery shopping, or working–I worry I will do something wrong. My family has always told me to not have such a grim outlook, and they’re very right to, but the possibility of failure always gnaws at the back of my head. The process of having to start all over on something or to drop it completely because it isn’t working is something I hate facing. And before you ask, yes, I have many abandoned WIPs.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

N: It’s funny because I didn’t like horror for the longest time. I hated being scared as a kid, but I kept watching things, and eventually reading, and felt that pull to things I feared. I guess the American version of The Grudge was my first push into horror though I did not take my own steps until years and years later when I watched the French horror film RAW. That was a deeply unsettling film for me, but now that I think about it, despite how influential it was, it wasn’t the media that made me a genre writer. That would have to be the novel Jawbone by Ecuadorean author Mónica Ojeda; it’s a Lovecraftian Andean Gothic novel that is so cerebral and disturbing, but it went to places that no American horror novel I had read before went to. There’s an overall commentary about girls who are coming of age who are feared by others–sometimes they fear themselves–and it left me breathless, startled, and amazed.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing The Vanisher?

N: I hope this doesn’t sound edgy, but definitely the body horror parts. I learned some new words before writing that, like “flense,” so I felt that my descriptions were stronger than the last time I wrote scenes like that. There’s different ways to write violence and body horror, sometimes it can come off brutal, but you still don’t quite feel the fear of it and you maybe only flinch a little. Other times you can write it to where it’s descriptive and has a psychological/emotional bent to it and readers feel the pain and disturbance in their soul. Gothic writer Ann Radcliffe said something about the difference between terror and horror, I think.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

N: I’ll answer both of these. An underrated story is “The Executioner’s Beautiful Daughter” by Angela Carter. Arguably, you could say it isn’t a horror story, but it still has an unsettling opening and ending, both which tie into each other and Carter’s subtle commentary about who truly wields power over what is permissible and taboo in culture. The story opens with the eponymous executioner, well, executing his son for the crime of committing incest with his sister and then Carter gives us a history and anthropology of their culture and I will leave it at that. As for an underrated fact, it’s that the person of Lord Byron himself is the template for the common Gothic male vampire. He was the inspiration for alluring undead threat in the short story “The Vampyre” by John Polidori, Byron’s and one of his many (assumed) ex-lovers. “The Vampyre” is not the very first vampire story, but it does predate Carmilla and Dracula. If a vampire is self-destructive, wild, seductive, and ruins those around him, then Polidori’s grudge still lives on.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

N: There are two things that are always important to me when writing darker moments: the characters’ mental reactions and their physical reactions. The Platonic concept of the union of body and soul/mind has always been central to my writing. Our souls/minds experience the world through what our bodies touch and our bodies are guided and informed by our souls/minds to navigate those experiences. When my characters witness something so horrible and disturbing, how their bodies react and how their minds slowly become unstable is important to me. In those darker moments I seek to answer, what are my characters truly thinking deep down in the face of horror? What primal thoughts are rising to the surface and what that was repressed is returning? Are their bodies trembling in fear or passion? I am also influenced by Julia Kristeva’s concept of abjection. To paraphrase, the moment of abjection is so horrifying because the boundaries between what is you and what is not you and you hate become undone; there’s a fear of transference, connection, and fluidity. My characters don’t want that, though some of them may secretly desire it.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

N: Of course the aforementioned Jawbone, the film Pearl, the video games Signalis and Silent Hill 2, and the anime Shiki.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

N: Sci-fi horror. There’s so much to work and so much potential to focus on a sub-genre that deals with the advancement of technology and its shortcomings, what lurks in the depths of space, and what terrors our future holds.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

N: Some better takes on Lovecraftian horror. It can be done and there’s some out there, like The Lighthouse, but I don’t believe that Lovecraft’s horror can’t be adapted to the big or small screen. Also, with so many new and diverse authors getting published, there can be so many refreshing takes on it. Tamsyn Muir and P. Djèlí Clark have both some different things with it in their writing.

CL: What’s next for you?

N: I recently finished a revision of my necromancy book after a year, so I am querying that. I am also writing a YA vampire WIP and a YA brujo boy WIP, the latter is based on a discussion I had with Kamilah Cole about the movie The Covenant (who remembers that!?). In terms of Adult books, I am writing a science fantasy in the vein of The Book of the New Sun that is inspired by a line spoken by Hera in book four of the Argonautica (if you know, you know). In short, I’m still writing. Heh heh.

Thank you for joining us, Nicholas! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘The Vanisher’ here!

Last summer, my first horror short story “The Vanisher” was published on Chain Letter. It was a psychological thriller with an absolutely brutal climax that made readers both sickened and fascinated. However, I wasn’t always into horror. If you had asked me as a child if I was ever going to write anything horror-related, I would have flatly told you, “No!” But things change. I got more and more into horror as a young adult and discovered it had so much more to offer than just terrifying, vengeful ghosts and violent slasher killers. Here are the five pieces of horror books and media that got me wanting to write in the genre.

1. Silent Hill 2

One of my favorite video game systems was the PlayStation 2, which I unfortunately had to share with my older brother. I played so many good video games on that as a kid. When my brother finally moved out and took the X-Box with him, I was left with our beloved PS2 and when I started to make my own money I went to GameStop to search for copies of old survival horror games and I eventually got a copy of the original Silent Hill 2. I had a vague idea of what the franchise was about and always heard that the second game was the best—and boy, was that ever true!

The game is about James Sunderland, a man who gets a letter from his dead wife saying she’s waiting for him in their special place in the now abandoned town of Silent Hill. When James arrives, he’s greeted by twisted-looking monsters embodying his deepest fears and desires, a beautiful woman who looks like a sexier version of his wife, an annoying little girl, a broken woman looking for her mother, and an aggressive young man. Silent Hill 2’s atmosphere and dreamlike storytelling is what pulled me in. It was more than just a man fighting monsters or a town turning into a darker, rusted version of itself due to a lingering curse. The amazing soundtrack by Akira Yamaoka lent to the sins and tragedies of the characters and the guilt that haunts all of them. There are some disturbing things in the game, the least of which is the infamous Pyramid Head and mannequins scene, but they were things that never made me want to look away.

Silent Hill 2 not only pushed me to writing horror—I have forever been trying to write my own teen or YA Silent Hill kind of story—but also made me want to get deeply psychological with it. How tormented are my characters in the face of their threats and how much are they telling the truth? One of the main themes of the original Silent Hill games is certain characters confronting their deepest, darkest fears or repressed memories. The second game is the prime example of that theme and it taught me to have my own characters face that same confrontation. Because if your characters aren’t facing such a fight to begin with, then what’s even the point of writing horror?

2. Jawbone by Moníca Ojeda

Jawbone (Madíbula in the original Spanish) is a translated horror novel by Ecuadorian author Moníca Ojeda. When I first saw a post somewhere online advertising it about five years ago, it merely mentioned that it was about two friends in an all-girl Catholic school named Annelise and Fernanda and that creepypastas and Lovecraftian influence were involved. Then I finally read it and I was absolutely blown away. It wasn’t anything I was expecting.

The book is about Annelise and Fernanda, but also their new teacher Clara. Annelise and Fernanda form a cult with their other friends around what is first a Drag God, but then it becomes a White God, and soon their rituals and Annelise’s obsession with it, Fernanda, Clara, and the death of her little brother twists into something unsettling. The teacher Clara is haunted by her dead mother who abused her as a child. Overtime, Clara’s mind deteriorates as she witnesses Annelise and Fernanda’s activities and reels from the rejection of her mother’s love and a previous incident where two students broke into her house. The book’s prose was nothing I had ever seen at that point. Characters’ thoughts and dialogue run into each within the same paragraphs, phrases are often repeated close together, and some of the things depicted on page are so bizarre, disturbing, and wild my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

Jawbone is ultimately about girls about to become women and the darker side of relationships between mothers and daughters and Ojeda portrays it all with such beauty and cruelty. It is deeply unsettling at so many points, especially its final pages, and it does truly read like someone’s gradual mental breakdown. However, the book is not solely shocking imagery and ruminations on the taboo, it’s also greatly clever, drawing upon other horror authors and media, especially H. P. Lovecraft and Herman Melville. There’s a part in the book where Clara reads Annelise’s essay about “white horror,” and if I had all the power and money in the world, I would have that chapter placed in a Best of Horror anthology or write a PhD dissertation on it. Obviously, I am not a woman or a girl, but Jawbone was probably the first piece of horror I encountered that made me want to include a feminine or woman’s perspective in my horror writing. Men and women can both be terrified by the same things, but they may be both terrified for different reasons. Jawbone made me want explore those gendered fears in horror.

It also made me want to read Moby Dick.

3. Higurashi When They Cry

Originally a series of Japanese visual novels and then eventually an anime, Higurashi is set in a small village in Japan in 1983 following five friends (eventually six). Every story arc is about these five friends and at the end of each one, some of them die brutal deaths and when the next arc begins everyone is alive again. At first, it seems like all these arcs are vignettes that just happen to have the characters and take place in the same village, but I will not spoil the truth for those unfamiliar with the franchise.

When I was in high school, the first season of Higurashi made a big splash in the anime and manga spheres of the Internet. We all saw anime girls brutally murdering their friends and then dying horribly afterward. One of the videos I remember rewatching a lot back then was a compilation of the character Shion Sonozaki laughing her unhinged laugh while she killed people or other people watched her, frighted. Shion might be considered the foremother to the “She did nothing wrong” trope. Only the first season had been dubbed into English and available in America, so for the other seasons we had to rely on fan subtitles until Sentai Filmworks, and then later Discotek Media, licensed the later seasons though neither company ever dubbed them.

Higurashi can definitely be seen as an “edgy” show, especially it you’re an outsider looking in, but I think something that remains at the heart of each arc, or at least the ones I watched, is the nightmare of losing all those close to you and having to live a life without them. In some arcs, a few or only one of the characters survive and we see them later as adults still grieving from the loss of their friends. But it also shows the absolute, soul-crushing struggle one has to go through to prevent that. Higurashi was the seedling for me wanting to write horror in the future because it showed me that brutal violence is not the only aspect of horror. The stories as to why some of the characters become murderers are often tragic and you’re always left knowing how all of it could’ve been prevented, especially in Shion’s case. It told me that when teenagers and young children are the ones committing the acts of violence, then something horrible has happened and it’s okay to tell that kind of story, even if some people wouldn’t want to look at it.

4. Sabella by Tanith Lee

If you follow me on any form of social media, then you know that Tanith Lee is my favorite author of all time. Her prose is gorgeous, no matter what genre she writes, and her stuff is all so dark, beautiful, and thoughtful all at once. The very first book I read by her was a Gothic sci-fi novella called Sabella about a vampire on a Mars-like planet who is stalked by a mysterious young man after she kills his brother. At the time, I had never seen Gothic and science fiction mashed together, nor did I think it was possible. Lee, thankfully, proved me wrong.

The eponymous main character, like many literary vampires before her, ruminates on her monstrosity and whether or not she has a soul worth saving. Lee brings Sabella’s thoughts to life through her unique prose and imagery, perfectly balancing both the Gothic and sci-fi elements of the book, never bringing them into conflict with each other. There’s also an interesting discussion on religion and whether or not Jesus would accept a vampire’s prayers.

Lee has been getting a slow resurgence in certain online spaces and I’m thankful for it. She wrote about vampires in other books too, but the book in question is the one that made a great impression on me. Sabella made me want to write horror because it told me you can bend the rules. Not everything has to follow the strict rules of its genre or subgenre; you can have a vampire in space while still having dead mothers haunting the narrative and an old house as the site of the original trauma. It also just made me want to write more beautifully, I don’t think I’m quite there yet but hopefully someday. It made me want to write more about vampires and think about their monstrosity. Monsters are always in horror, but how many of them think about their souls?

5. Signalis

Signalis is a sci-fi survival horror video game that can best be described as Silent Hill in space, but imagine it was written by Gene Wolfe. Or perhaps Tamsyn Muir is a more appropriate choice? Vajra Chandrasekera? José Donoso? All of them? Anyway, you play as Elster who is a Replika, a cyborg/android kind of thing, searching for a mysterious albino young woman named Ariane on a mining facility planet where the former Replikas have all been corrupted and turned violent. A cancerous red growth is slowing consuming everything too.

Up front, Signalis is one of those stories that is guided by unreliable narration and anyone who plays it will have different interpretations of the narrative and events. It’s a psychedelic masterpiece that leaves your brain scratching with each new reveal and will make you want more even after you’ve reached the conclusion, which may not even be your first conclusion (wink wink).

Signalis is one of those games where if it existed in book form, I would like to say, “Man, I wish I wrote that!” It’s a game I’ve constantly thought of ever since I first laid eyes on it. Video game writing is different from book writing, of course. The former can do more because it’s a visual medium and allows players/readers to interact with the story more directly. Nonetheless, Signalis made me want to write horror because, like Sabella, it told me the rules can be bent. Perhaps Wolfe is the more appropriate writer to cite here because Wolfe’s series The Book of the New Sun might be the closest thing to Signalis in book format minus the horror aspect. However, the game is more than just its obscuring narration and grim visuals, it is a tragic story about one young woman’s desire to end her own pain. About the lengths another woman will go for love even if that love will never be returned like it once was. As one video essay said, it’s love at the end of the world.

Signalis made me want to write horror because it showed me how much emotional depth can be put into horror even with an unreliable narration. It made me want to get wild with my worldbuilding and storytelling, to create things that both boggle the mind and terrify it.

If there’s anything consistent that these five examples have taught me over the years, it’s that horror is the space where anything can happen. Not just in terms of the scares or bloodshed, but also in how you portray that story. They told me I could talk about my deepest fears and longings in a genre I once thought I would never tread in. Horror can be cathartic for a writer sometimes; it certainly has been for me. Even if I never become a commercial horror author, the genre will always allow me to be the most experimental and confront things that I never would have confronted before.

Read Nicholas Perez’s story, The Vanisher!

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Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Alexis Richoux, author of The Dead Come Talking!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Alexis Richoux

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Alexis: A lot! Off the top of my head: dark water, two very specific dinosaurs, geckos, birds, and Sidney Crosby in a shootout (derogatory/affectionate.) The concept of the loss of autonomy, unreality, and time-loops (read: trapped with no way out and no clear fix) also give me the creeps.

^ girl who is not having a good time.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

A: I’m not sure I can pinpoint just one; I’ve always been fascinated by horror elements in media. The first book that ever scared the mess out of me was Wait ‘til Helen Comes by Mary Downing Hahn, and from there it was the Dark Secrets anthologies from Mary Chandler. I loved movies like Super 8, and Chronicle, Jennifer’s Body, shows like Stranger Things, and Hemlock Grove, but if I had to pick one thing, it’d have to be IT by Stephen King. Which is hilarious, considering I was terrified of clowns growing up.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing The Dead Come Talking?

A: Threading my culture and family into the story! It’s a love letter to my grandmother, the land that raised me, the water that’s kept my family for generations, and a language we’ve all but lost. There are little golden threads of everything I love about being from Louisiana shining through the tapestry of this story. I wanted this story to be so full of love—for family, for land, for self—but sticky and suffocating at the same time. It was so fun to create.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

A: All the Dead Things by Bear Lee! It’s such a fun horror story—you really can’t help but like Lydia. It’s unapologetically queer, and violent, and heartbreaking, and way funnier than it has any right to be. And honestly? Valid crashout on Walker’s part. Bear’s got such a way with bending the worlds they create to their will, and it’s a shame more people don’t know about All the Dead Things!

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

A: Cry my way through it, let myself be scared. I find my stories are better if I write from feeling those emotions—rage, sadness, regret, happiness, fear, wanting; I process by letting them live in a story. There’s a catharsis in letting yourself put the scariest, worst thing you can think of to paper knowing nothing bad will come out of it—it’s just fiction! Put those barbies in the blender and pulse ‘em! Who cares!

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

A: IT (2017 movie), fungi, creepy circus music, werewolves, and clowns. See below for the life-long evidence of my clownscapades. She’s a certified Clown Girl.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

A: Folk horror! I love exploring mythology in writing, but also just in general. There’s so much world out there, so many people to learn about, and folklore is one of my favorite tools to explore with. I created a monster for The Dead Come Talking out of a phrase that just means something has the same name as something/someone else, and used my own cultural influences to build it out–using those elements is so fun and really creates interesting opportunities to stretch your creativity.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

A: Athletic Horror! Hockey, baseball, football, competitive diving and swimming, lacrosse—everything! There’s so much potential for all types of horror with sports as an environment and as the killing thing itself. I’ve read some really cool sports horror, and I think it could be really fun to see more of that. Also more women that just straight up suck—I want her and I want her morally destitute!

CL: What’s next for you?

A: I go where the wind takes me, so who knows! I’ve got some stuff in the works, but no solid destination quite yet. If you wanna keep up to date with what I’ve done, what I’m doing, and where I’m going, you can check out my website (alexisrichoux.com), my Substack (@alexisrichoux), and my Instagram (@littlelionslibrary)! I’d be happy to have you around.

Thank you for joining us, Alexis! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘The Dead Come Talking’ here!

People love to ask me how I got into writing horror and my answer is always this: I don’t know. And that’s true! I can’t pinpoint one specific thing in my life that made me go, “I can do that too.” I’ve just always been this way. I was always the weird kid—I’ve loved black cats and scary ghost stories and folklore and monsters my entire life, even when I’ve been terrified of them, and it’s always been natural for me to bring those elements into my writing. Even when I was a middle schooler playing around with my first stories, they were always a little bit darker, a little bit heavier.

Now, you could argue that growing up outside of New Orleans had a heavy hand in my interests—and you’d be right! There’s something magical about growing up in Southeast Louisiana. I’d always find myself looking for the rougarou in the spaces between the trees as the car flew across the spillways, but only ever found an alligator or two, and what I swear was some kind of sea monster (my parents still argue with me on this one, but I know what I saw and it was not normal.)

That said, if I had to narrow it down, the following list is what I’d use to answer the question: Why Are You Like That?

1. Wait Till Helen Comes by Mary Downing Hahn

   

When anyone asks what got me into horror, this is the first story that pops into my head—I’m immediately transported back to being about nine or ten years old, reading this in the half-dark, and going “Oh my God, I hate this.” Must not’ve stuck, seeing as I read it until the cover fell off and now I’m writing scary stories of my own.

Wait Till Helen Comes is a story about sibling rivalry and grief, and a ghost trying to drown a little girl in a pond. The main character, Molly, has to learn to look past her dislike of her step-sister, Heather, in order to save her life. Bone-chilling for a children’s book!

2. Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island (1998)

   

Hear me out on this one! Yes, the Cajun accents are bad. Yes, it plays heavily into Louisiana stereotypes. Yes, I’ve watched it in the last two months and still got both the heebies and the jeebies. Yes, I absolutely wore the tape out on the VHS. More than once.

The movie follows the Scooby Gang to New Orleans where Daphne intends to hunt a real ghost to get her ratings up, but things go left—as they often do with this group—when they’re invited to Moonscar Island, which is said to be haunted by the ghost of the pirate Morgan Moonscar. Supernatural hijinks ensue and introduce us to the concept of werecats (big fan.)

My parents had to buy replacement tapes (they also had to replace Cyberchase(2001) and Witch’s Ghost (1999) but that’s a conversation for a different listicle.) I still listen to the soundtrack from this movie. Skycycle really did their big one with It’s Terror Time Again.

3. IT by Stephen King

   

I’d venture to say that every horror lover has a King novel that they feel is theirs. IT is mine. Everyone that knows me knows how much of an impact IT had on me. It’s the only book I own multiple versions of and I love every iteration—the book, the limited series, the movies (not you, IT: Chapter Two.) Hell, I’d even throw Welcome to Derry on here! Pennywise has always been the appeal for me—I love the way fear is described and used in the story, how it’s personified through this supernatural something that manifests as a common fear, how it can’t scare grown ups because being an adult changes the way you approach your fears: you get bolder, braver, develop a sense of logic, and overall, you just learn how to do it scared. I’m also a sucker for a circus theme and love a good clown. Everybody wins (except the losers.)

4. Interview with the Vampire (2022)

   

Rolin Jones, thank you for this. Interview with the Vampire is one of those horror cornerstones that I’ve had a complicated relationship with over the course of my life. The books are great, but I don’t love them. Louis and Lestat have always been compelling, but they didn’t move me the way I would’ve wanted. Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise were both fantastic in the 1994 film, but I always felt like I was missing something, that maybe IWTV just wasn’t for me, at the end of it. Enter: IWTV (2022). Cut to: me eating my words. All I needed was a little diversity, a representation of New Orleans that felt familiar, and right, and real, and Jacob Anderson as Louis de Pointe Du Lac, and now it’s one of those shows I watch just to rewatch again 15 minutes later.

Interview with the Vampire is a story about love, above all. It brilliantly captures the way love can twist and bend itself into something horrific, a trap made of teeth to keep you pinned in place. There’s something for everyone: hot vampires, compelling narratives, grief, grief, and more grief. Gallons of blood and several tons of guts, beautiful religious imagery, and relationship drama (your ex is my ex and he killed my daughter but now he’s in a situationship with the guy who wrote your autobiography and also??? my mom is his mom (i think?) but also my lover? help me??) It’s earth-shattering and heartbreaking, and I can’t wait to see Sam Reid as Lestat (Rockstar Edition) in Season 3.

5. Hemlock Grove (2013)

   

You have to hold my hands for this one. Okay, now look me in my eyeballs when I say this: I never said this one was good. I just said it found me at a very formative time in my life, okay? Okay. Great.

I can’t make this list without including this show. Roman Godfrey and Peter Rumancek had such an impact on my psyche that I truly shudder to think about who I would be if I’d never watched this show. It combines a classic horror trope with a murder mystery while weaving elements of Eastern European folklore throughout the narrative. Vampires and werewolves on a journey of becoming enemies-to-friends-to-“there’s something weird going on with those two” and a ton family drama come together to make something gory, and hard to watch, and a little bit sexy, and best of all…there’s no happy ending!

Big points for the casting on this one: my favorite horror guy, Bill Skarsgård, and my favorite Indigenous actress, Kaniehtiio Horn, all in one place? The show might be a mess by the end, but the folklore and the cast are enough to keep me around.

6. A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snickett

   

If we want to get really technical, A Series of Unfortunate Events is a dark comedy/mystery series. However, my own personal opinion and experience is that this is a comedic, gothic horror series for children. You’re going to look me in my face and tell me The Reptile Room isn’t a horror novel? The Wide Window? Three kids having to outrun and outwit a certified creep (who kills every single relative of theirs!) after their parents die suddenly in a tragic accident? Sure, it’s a little absurd, but it is horrific at its core.

The Wide Window was always the one that scared me the most. The house on unstable stilts, the agoraphobic aunt with a truly concerning amount of anxiety, the lake filled with leeches, the hurricane that destroyed everything (Hurricane Katrina trauma, anyone?) The aforementioned aunt being eaten alive by leeches? Yuck, yuck, yuck.

This series is still one of my top recommendations when my friends ask what books they should grab for their kids. I think they made me smarter, and more creative, and I loved them. Still do. Probably always will. I hope my writing always has a little bit of Mr. Snickett’s style to it.

I’d like to use this moment to give an honorable mention to my high school show, Teen Wolf, for introducing me to the concept of using sports in horror! Imagine you’re a teenage werewolf and your girlfriend’s family is trying to kill you, but you have a lacrosse game after school and your co-captain turned into a weird were-lizard-thing and now no one’s happy, and your lacrosse coach is still just gestures vaguely like that.

Could never be me. Big ups, Scott McCall.

Anyway.

I could probably find a way to make this list way longer than it has any right being. The moral of the story—be the weird goth kid, get really into that one Swedish actor, pick up a Steven King novel, and watch that weird little kids movie. Keep being the weird adult that makes your coworkers a little confused. You never know how much fun you’ll have if you don’t.

Read Alexis Richoux’s story, The Dead Come Talking!

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by Alexis Richoux

The Dead Come Talking

Alexis Richoux

The slam of the door bounces in her skull like a thunderclap.

It’s muggy out, the air electric the way it always is before a storm—it carries the scent of an approaching threat, all river silt and salt water, the promise of destruction heavy on her skin. Out here, so deep in these woods, the swamp is judge, jury, and executioner, and if you’re lucky, your sins will be few and death will be swift.

Eliette D’Entremont’s greatest sin has always been wrath. She can’t keep herself from writhing in it as it crawls out of her, like a jagged-skinned reptile emerging from the pit of her stomach.

“Fine!” The spit flies from her mouth as she flips both middle fingers at the welcome sign hanging on the weather-worn front door. “I don’t need you.”

The words slur and tumble as she trips across the porch, the age-soft wood catching on the spike of her heels. The night is quiet, save for the sign banging in the wind. Eliette pauses, and stumbles back across the porch, reaching out for the thin, wooden panel. The rope it hangs from is frayed, rough, and scratchy against her fingers, and she stares down at the words burned into the front.

Bienvenue Chez Nous

It’d been such an argument. She hadn’t wanted the sign, or the welcome mat under it, for that matter. JP insisted upon it, saying it made the house complete. Told her that her Mamere’s stories about inviting the spirits in were just that—stories.

It’s only a sign, Li, he said between smacks of the hammer. What’s the worst that can happen? He, of all people.

She yanks the rope, grinning as the hook snaps, trying to ignore the dizziness in her head. Flinging the sign as hard as she can, she watches it slice through the air until the wind knocks it sideways and rolls it into the underbrush at the edge of the house. There’s a startled hiss, a skittering thump, and a dark shape darts across the yard. She barely hears the muted splash of whatever it was—nutria, probably—sliding into the creek that runs through JP’s property.

Good riddance, she thinks, wobbling to the edge of the porch.

Her nails dig into the banister as she lowers herself onto the steps. Her head still dizzy, eyes floating on a sea of liquor, and God, she could really use a glass of water but her fucking boyfriend doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. She huffs and tugs her skirt down to keep the splinters out of her thighs.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It’s their anniversary, for god’s sake! They worked up the nerve to make the hour-and-a-half drive into the city, which they never do because they both hate it, but they did it and they were going to have fun! They started at one end of Bourbon Street and essentially crawled their way to the other side, JP hauling drink after drink Eliette’s way.

Relax, baby. He smiled down at her the way he used to when they were younger, like she was the reason for the rise and fall of the tide. I’ve got you, don’t worry.

So she tossed back the shot he held out to her, and leaned into his side, reveling in the weight of his hand on her waist, tucked tight against her ribs. The music thrummed under them, the bass of a live drum kit kicking through their chests as an aging guitarist wailed out a solo. They swayed against each other and got lost in the noise of the crowd as JP leaned down and pulled Eliette’s mouth to his.

Electricity shot from her head to her toes as she snaked herself around him, feeling the solid expanse of him under her chest, giggling into his mouth as she went three sheets to the wind off the taste of him, and cheap liquor, and the city itself.

It played out like that, bar after bar, until Eliette could hardly walk over the cobblestones without JP’s hands on her waist to keep her from falling. She tiptoed over an imaginary tightrope—really, the edge of the curb to avoid what she knew was a puddle of piss—and lost her balance, her laughter cracking through the night like a gunshot as she fell into JP’s chest.

That’s when it went sideways.

She looked up to find JP’s jaw clenched tight, the muscle jumping as he glared ahead of them. She turned to find a familiar, ice-blue gaze trained on her—Vince. An excited thrill shivered through her as he tipped his head in her direction, a crooked smirk on his full lips. She blushed ferociously and turned into JP’s chest, hiding her face in her mess of dark hair.

JP’s hands tightened on her waist, and she could feel his heart thundering against her. A nervous giggle trickled out of her before JP hauled her up over his shoulder. “We’re leaving,” he growled as he headed off towards the square. She beat at his back, kicking and squirming until he finally had enough and put her down on unsteady feet behind the Cathedral.

She glared up at him.

He glared down.

And then they fought the whole way home after she stomped her way to the parking lot. She stewed in the passenger seat, glaring out the window at the shape of the trees in the darkness. The rage ebbed as they drove, and she just began to relax against the seat when JP looked over at her and said, “You told him we were in the city, didn’t you?”

Eliette spun on him and snapped, “So what? What the fuck is your problem with him?”

“He’s obsessed with you!” JP spit back.

Eliette spluttered, blood rushing to her face. “He’s not—it’s—he isn’t! He’s just being nice!”

“Oh, bullshit.”

Eliette’s back bumped against the seat when JP threw the car into park.

“You’re just jealous.” She glared out at their too-white house, stark against the night like a beacon.

JP barked a laugh, keys jingling as he ripped them from the ignition. “Yeah, okay, Eliette.”

“You always do this,” she groans, trudging up the steps after him. “Why do we always have to fight?”

JP huffed as he shoved the boots off his feet and said, “If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

She let out a sound halfway between a snarl and a scream before throwing the book at him in French, too fast for him to understand, and slammed the door behind herself. She turned the lock button on the knob on instinct as she entered and now she was sitting outside at two-thirty in the morning, trying to keep her hair from getting stuck beneath her damp armpits, waiting for JP to open the door and tell her to come back inside.

She leans her head against the railing and closes her eyes, focusing on the sounds around her: crickets and frogs and the rain on their tin roof. She listens harder, trying to find the sound of him moving through the house; she can usually hear it when he starts padding down the hallway, his feet heavy against the wood floors, but it’s silent now.

Seconds pass, and then minutes, and the wind falls from Eliette’s sails as she eases herself back up onto aching feet. JP’s not coming for her, and she’s not going to spend all night on this porch like some flea-bitten mutt.

She stumbles down the porch steps, and shrieks when her ankle twists.

“Fuck!” Mud splashes up to her neck as gravel bites into her knees. The pain sobers her and she reaches for her purse, digging around for her phone. She’ll call JP and apologize, and he’ll let her in the house before helping her clean up. Then he’ll drape one heavy arm over her, and she’ll fall asleep with the smell of his cologne clogging her nose.

A deep frown tugs at her lips as she knocks around in her purse, feeling its contents. A tube of lipstick, the vintage cigarette case she stole from her Mamere, the rounded edges of her ID and credit card, and an ancient stick of gum, but no phone. She wracks her brain, searching for the memory of when she last saw it.

The image of JP sliding her phone into his pocket under dim bar lights flits through her mind, and a new flicker of anger licks up her spine. She was too gone to care at the time, content to let her man hold onto her things as she let loose, and now she feels like a damned fool.

Bats erupt from the trees as her scream cracks through the night. Rolling thunder swallows the sound, taking her despair with it as it tumbles over the land. She opens her mouth to scream again, but Mamere’s voice hisses through her mind.

Make enough noise and you’ll find something you had no business looking for.

She clams up, hands shaking in her lap. She knows better, was raised better, than to cause such a fuss this late at night. So she does what Mamere would do, and fishes the cigarette case from her purse. She tucks one between her lips and listens to the sizzle of the paper and tobacco catching fire. Breathing in deep, she sighs against the smoke curling in her lungs as the heat warms her from the inside.

JP hates when she smokes, says it makes kissing her taste like an ashtray. She hates when JP drinks, says it makes him act like a Grade A asshole, but there’s a fridge full of beer behind that locked front door right now.

She figures they’re both allowed their vices, here and there.

The rain is coming down again, and her hair is stuck to her back in dark clumps. She leans over, cigarette trapped between her lips, and picks up the little gator statue they hide the spare key under—one last ditch effort before she heads down the road to her parents’ house.

Nothing but earthworms and pill bugs.

She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Something dangles over her head—a desperation, or a sadness, some feeling she doesn’t quite know how to name. She wishes Mamere were here; she’d know the answer and would be able to help Eliette name her shadow in French if she couldn’t figure it out in English. Sure, it’d take a pot of coffee, three cigarettes, and a plate full of biscuits and gravy to do it, but they’d get it done.

Eliette sniffles and scrubs the back of her wrist across her nose before rolling up to her feet. With one last look over her shoulder, she flicks her still lit cigarette into the grass, hikes her purse up her arm, and sets off, swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

It takes all of five minutes and one unexpected hole in the ground for Eliette to give up on her shoes.

She sighs when her feet hit the ground, all that tension and soreness melting out of her as she stretches and sinks into the mud. It’s cold, and gritty, and it sends a shiver up her spine, but she doesn’t mind it.

Never has.

JP complains when she runs around barefoot, and she’s never quite understood it. They grew up together on this stretch of road, tracking mud in and out of their parents homes to the point that the D’Entremonts and Surrettes started playing rock-paper-scissors when the weather report would come in—losers hose the kids down in the yard. JP’s family was on the short end of the stick more often than not, but it didn’t matter. They’d end up at Mamere’s house anyway.

Mamere was happy to have them around, lounging on her porch swing and making potions with her old mason jars and whatever they could dig up from under the house. She’d fuss them, especially if she caught them drinking from the hose, but for the most part, she’d let them play. Encouraged them to go knee-deep in mud puddles, to feel the earth under their skin and never once complained when it followed them into the house.

Then JP lost that part of himself.

She remembers him before then, all dark curly hair and big teeth he had to grow into. He was always so boy—so loud, and covered in dirt from digging earthworms out of the yard. He always liked that, sourcing his own bait. He’d spend the day after a rainstorm in Mamere’s garden under the guise of pulling up weeds just so he could get his worms. He sometimes had buckets full, like he walked right into a bait shop and bought all he needed for five dollars and a handful of pocket lint, and then he’d grab his fishing pole and disappear behind the saw palmettos at the edge of the yard.

Eliette wasn’t allowed past the tree line without Mamere, but she didn’t understand why—she was the same age as JP, just as capable of baiting a hook and casting a line, and it’s not like she’d go far; JP himself always settled somewhere close enough for Eliette to see the shape of his curls through the green.

She’d sit around and wait for him to come back, letting Mamere teach her to crochet until her hands ached and her eyes hurt, and then she got shooed off to the kitchen for a treat. Eliette would take it to the back porch and settle into her favorite rocking chair.

That’s where she was, in her rocking chair, working up some soap bag Mamere had her making for the Veteran’s Home, when she realized that something wasn’t right. There was an absence of sound, a sudden here-then-gone-vacuum of life, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Her eyes darted toward the tree line on instinct, looking for that familiar shape, but there was nothing.

She didn’t remember standing, or running across the yard, but she remembered stepping into the tree line felt like walking into a cavern of teeth, all threat, sharp and violent.

JP’s pole was halfway into the murk, can of Coke toppled over and sandwich in the dirt, everything left behind like he was raptured. She wanted to turn back, to yell for Mamere, but the sun was setting and something was wrong. Eliette looked around wildly, eyes catching over every vine and branch, searching for a sign, for some trail of breadcrumbs that would lead her to JP.

That’s when she saw it—that flickering glow twisting over the water. Green and insistent, beckoning to her like a siren’s song.

She knew better. Mamere drilled it into her head to not follow those lights, but something in her gut was gnawing at her to move.

So, she did.

She let herself be tugged along by a glimmering thread of knowing, keeping sight of the shimmering lights until she found herself at the base of a tree deeper into the woods than she’d ever been. She could hear it, a thrumming heartbeat and panicked breathing, and she looked up to see JP, covered in mud, clinging to the split between the boughs.

“What’re you doing up there?” She wanted to laugh, but there was something heavy against her skin. A threat she couldn’t see, only feel.

“I saw something, Ellie,” he whispered, hands shaking against the bark of the tree. “I saw it.”

“What it?”

“It was—huge!” JP sounded younger than his sixteen years, voice trapped high in his throat, eyes big as saucers in his pale face, just as dark as the hair around it. “I thought I was dead meat.”

“Well, you ain’t.” Elliette huffed, arms pulled tight against her chest. She could feel whatever was out there with them, too. A dark, tar-sticky energy that pulsed against her skin like a parasite. She didn’t know what it was—Mamere might, if she was brave enough to ask—but she knew it was dangerous. A flash of something terrifying fluttered through her mind—long, sharp teeth dripping blood and gore, a twisted spine and fingers too long for its hands, nails knife sharp and deadly. It chittered and crackled like glass, joints stiff and movement stilted. Fear shivered down her spine, the urge to run burning in the soles of her feet. “C’mon, we gotta go.”

“Eliette, I think—”

“John-Paul,” she hissed, teeth bared. “Get down or I’m leaving you here by yourself.”

She must’ve looked ferocious, if the way he scrambled down that tree was anything to go by. His foot caught on an exposed root as he hit the ground, and he crashed into her, grasping her arms in a too-tight grip. His hand was an iron vise around hers as he tugged her back toward Mamere’s, and when she glanced back over her shoulder, she could swear something glowing and blue was staring back at her.

That was the last time JP tracked mud through anyone’s house, and he couldn’t stand to see it on Eliette’s feet ever again. But now she jumps into the puddle in front of her, laughing at the feeling of silt clinging to her calves as she splashes. Her shoes slip from her hands, and she doesn’t spare a glance for them as she hops to the next puddle.

It’s a silly, petty act of revenge, but it fills her with something bright and fizzy. Green light sparkles as she plays, spinning around beneath the glow. She hums to herself as she skips forward, following the tug in her gut. It’s a familiar feeling, like a home-cooked meal settling into her stomach and warming her slowly from the inside out.

She chases the tails of the flashing-green lights as they dart through the forest. She doesn’t think twice about where her feet land, doesn’t look down, just forward. She trusts the lights to lead her where she needs to go.

Her chest expands with the freedom she feels when her feet hit the rickety bridge that stretches over the swamp, connecting land mass to land mass. It shakes under her, and the wind carries away the cackle of her laugh. The spirit lights bounce across cypress knees and through Spanish moss. The cicadas scream as she tears over the path and there’s a low hiss rising to meet her. It raises the hair on the back of her neck, but she doesn’t need light to know what’s in the swamp with her.

Her daddy would take her out on their flat-bottom boat and teach her how to pull up crawfish traps, how to bait a hook and cast a line. She learned patience out on the water, baking under the summer sun—her daddy with a beer in his hand, her with a bottle of water. He taught her how to swim by securing her up in her life jacket, handing her a line, and tossing her out into the water.

She remembers thinking she should have been scared, should’ve choked with anxiety over the ice-cold press of water swallowing her up to her neck, but that feeling never came.

It was nothing but soothing, the gentle rock of the brackish water holding her. She laid on her back and floated, her skin going beignet brown, just like her Mamere’s. She could hear the song on the current with her ears under the water—a steady hum of energy, flowing through her. There was the tight swishing of a cottonmouth cutting across the surface, the lazy paddle of a turtle passing though. Then there was something deeper—the thump of an alligator’s tail close by.

She opened her eyes, rolled onto her belly, and her heart froze in her throat.

“Daddy!” She whispered.

“Quoi ca dit?” He said, feet kicked up, head tossed back to the sky.

“The cocodrie.” Her little voice cracked, and she stared at the gator without blinking, too scared to lose it in the time it’d take for her eyes to open and close again.

“Can you still see ‘im?”

“Ouias,” she breathed. “He’s staring right at me.”

“Alright,” he nodded, taking another swig of his beer. “Just let me know when you can’t see him no more.”

Eliette and that gator sat there, staring, breathing together. Somehow, she knew how many other creatures were there, watching and waiting around her. She could feel their eyes on her, but she was never scared of them. It felt more like a homecoming, a chance to grow roots that stretched into the basin, become one with the land again.

She can still feel those same eyes on her now, and knows exactly how many there are as she gallops after the spirit lights. And just when she thinks she can reach out and touch the shimmering tail of one of them, they disappear under the surface of the water with a bubbling gurgle.

She pulls up short.

The tug in her gut has disappeared and she finds herself wondering what the hell she’s doing so far out into the swamp. She squints down at the bridge, and in the dim light she can see she’s standing on a broken slat of wood, jagged at its edge and dipping dangerously toward the water.

“Oh shit,” she squeaks, jumping forward onto a stable section of the path.

She knows better than this.

Mamere almost skinned Eliette alive when she found JP dragging her out of the tree line that day. She sent him home immediately, but not before reassuring him about how normal it was to get spooked when sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. And then, once he was gone, she ripped into Eliette in French and English in a way that left her too afraid to disobey her grandmother ever again.

“How’d you find him that far out?” She read Eliette’s mind, somehow knowing exactly where she found him without having to ask.

“I just followed the lights.”

“The lights?” Mamere’s eyes narrowed.

“The green lights! The ones that dance over the water.” She shrugged, eyes wide. “I just followed them and then I found him up a tree. I don’t know!”

“Listen to me,” Mamere hissed. “Don’t you ever follow those lights again, you hear me? They won’t lead you to nothing but trouble.”

“Mamere—”

“How do you know that’s JP?”

“What?”

“The real JP could be floating face down in the swamp. The Tocaille change faces the way you change step-ins, they’ll be whoever you need most, but you’ll never have that person back. It will always be ruined, and you will die trying to fix it.”

“Mamere, you’re scaring me.” Eliette’s voice shook as she tried to pull her hand free, but it was like being caught in a bear trap. She’d have to chew her own leg off to get away.

But now, the pull yanks her forward and she stumbles over her feet, desperately trying to pry her thoughts from following the spirits as they flicker and dance in the distance. Mamere told her not to do this, but there is something waiting for her on the other side of the trees, blinking and twinkling in and out of sight, beckoning her closer. She just knows it.

Her foot rips open on a rusty nail as she takes off after the lights again. She doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t feel anything. Only hears the rumbling in her ears.

She needs to get closer, just needs to see.

It’d all be okay if she could only see.

Laughter surrounds her again. It skitters along on the breeze, lifting the damp curls off her back as she runs. She crashes through a fan of saw palmettos and barely flinches against the sticky catch-slice of the blades against her skin. A raccoon shimmies up a tree as she blows past, spitting at her like a cat and Eliette hisses back, sharp teeth glinting in the light. She feels animal, wild, like a predator hunting something she scented on the wind as she jumps over cypress knees and exposed roots.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been running.

She can feel her heart in her throat, can taste the mud in her mouth. Eliette thinks she’s made purely of swamp—of spirit lights, and river silt, and brackish water, and turtle shells. She thinks she could stay out here, let her hair grow wild like the moss, drink dew off the resurrection ferns growing high in the boughs of the oak trees. She’ll make deals with the gators and trade carrion for safety.

JP wouldn’t find her because he couldn’t see the starlight anymore—he lost it the same year he got lost in the woods, right after he started working with his daddy. His daddy who ran the shrimping company that employed half the town, his daddy who didn’t believe Mamere’s stories, said her family had been here too long. JP told her what he said, about the mud being so built up in Mamere’s brain until all she knew was folklore and nonsense. She hates him, can feel the gravel of her rage churning up in her throat as she moves closer and closer to that shimmering green light—the fifolet.

Her fingers stretch and reach toward them, her hand swallowed by the glow. She can almost grab it, so close to being able to wrap her hand around it—when the world goes dark.

Sharp pain shoots up through her knee as she rolls, the dirt and tree branches snapping under her body. It knocks the wind out of her.

The world is topsy-turvy again, swimming like she tossed back a handle of tequila, and she stumbles to her feet. Her hands find something smooth and cool to the touch. She blinks her eyes open to find herself gripping an ornament from a bottle tree, the blue glass all too familiar.

Eliette stumbles back quickly. Her grandmother’s tree. The bottles seem to rattle like a snake’s tail. They’d never been this loud before.

She backs away slowly, careful not to jostle anything as she sidesteps the ant pile she’s been the victim of one too many times. She’d wonder how she ended up here, of all places, but the lights have always brought her where she needs to go.

Her mind spins as she turns toward the little, yellow house behind her, raised high on stilts with the water lapping up against the retaining wall in the back. She swallows hard, and her eyes catch on a little flicker of green candlelight.

She follows it as it spins across the yard and up the porch steps, but it doesn’t seem to go any farther, bobbing around just before the threshold. Her breath catches in her throat when she finally realizes what she’s seeing.

The light is on in Mamere’s house. And there’s a shadow in the window when neither of those things should be true.

Mamere is dead and buried. Has been for seven years.

Eliette breaks into a dead-sprint, flying over the yard and up the steps until she slams into the door with the force of a hurricane.

“Hey!” She tries to twist the handle, to force the door open, but it doesn’t move. Her hands burn from the way she smacks it against the wood. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be in there!”

She spins, searching for the little duck that Mamere had taken to keeping the spare key under—truly this town’s worst kept secret, but the only reason the doors lock at all is to keep the haints and the haunts from sneaking in.

She’s got her back to the entrance, the duck flipped over, and the key in hand when the hinges behind her creak.

“Étoilette.”

The duck falls. Eliette watches the pieces shatter in slow motion. The way the beak wedges between the slats of the porch and the weight of its body bends it back, a spiderweb of cracks sprouting as the stone shears from itself.

No one ever calls her that anymore.

She remembers being six, sitting at Mamere’s kitchen table with her little feet swinging, legs too short to be anywhere near the floor. Mamere yanked an old t-shirt over her head, and it smelled like her—jasmine, and cocoa butter, and something skin-soft, a musk that only clung to her clothes. There was a carton of eggs on the table between them, and there were four little cups of dye, just waiting for her to make a mess out of them.

She always loved Easter at Mamere’s—the stories, the crawfish boils, pocking eggs, and hunting for them too. Eliette always won the hunt, and Mama said it was because Mamere let her run the property like a wild dog, but Mamere knew the truth: the swamp spoke to Eliette and showed her things others couldn’t see.

How was a toddler supposed to argue when a snake led her right to the golden egg and made her twenty dollars richer?

Eliette got too excited one time, stuck on thoughts of pocking her eggs, and climbed on top of the table to grab the little, metal tool. The table tipped, everything falling sideways before settling back into its place, and Mamere fussed her something bad.

“Étoilette,” she said. “What’d I tell you about climbing all over my table?”

“Mamere,” Eliette responded with all the resolve a six-year-old could muster. “Why do you call me toilet?”

And Mamere laughed so long and so loud Eliette thought she’d die, the way she held her belly and bent in half. Her face went all red and she started to cry, big scary sounds that Eliette didn’t have the words for then (she knows now the word for it is hysterical.)

“Mamere,” Eliette huffed. “Qu’est-ce qui est si drôle?”

“What’s so funny? You!” Mamere wiped her eyes and reached over to pat Eliette’s cheek. “Mon belle fille.”

She turned and grabbed a glass of water and a praline off the counter and plopped down in front of Eliette. She cracked off a corner, and then another, and then passed the piece with the most pecans over to Eliette.

“Étoilette means you’re my little star. My starlight.” Mamere chuckled. Eliette’s teeth ached against the crunch of the pecans, the melt of the sugar in her mouth. Mamere let her help make them this time, let her put in as many big pecan pieces as that old magnalite could fit, and then high-fived her when she didn’t miss the pot. “Mon belle fille, mon ti étoile, mon étoilette. Tracasse-toi pas. That’s where you came from.”

“I thought I came from a stork?” Eliette countered, praline melting in her hot, little hands, the sugar sticking to her lips.

“No,” Mamere said simply. “You came from the stars. That’s why your eyes sparkle like that—you took some stardust with you when you left.” She reached over with a wet paper towel and gently wiped away the mess on Eliette’s face. “Starlight eyes. You can see things others can’t, just like me. It’s magic.”

Eliette lost focus then, distracted by the cat as it slunk into the house, its feather duster tail wrapping around her little ankle.

She can almost feel it now, but she knows Minou is long gone. She bends down and tries to grab the spare key with shaking hands, but it slips through her fingers and right through the space in the white-washed porch slats. She cusses in time with the sound of sucking teeth.

“Mais, ca c’est pas bon, huh?”

Eliette’s throat burns, but she can’t turn around. She’s still drunk. This isn’t real. It’s just the alcohol talking—a byproduct of hitting the bottle too hard.

“Eliette.” There’s a huff and the shuffling sound of slippered feet. “I’m old, me. I can’t stand here with this door open all night.” The hinges groan again, the sound of the door opening wider still. “Allons.”

Eliette swallows and steels herself, brings her spine rod straight and pulls her shoulders back, and turns.

The sight knocks the wind out of her.

Maree D’Entremont looks the same as she did the day the world last heard her laugh. All soft, close-cropped, gray hair, and pale, green eyes. Her thin lips are held in a stern line, pink and white housecoat buttoned up to the neck, and Eliette knows she’s ten seconds from slamming that door and leaving her to deal with the night as the witching hour closes in.

“Coming or going?”

Eliette smiles, eyes wet, and steps over the threshold.

The house looks exactly the same as the last time Eliette was inside it.

It was always cluttered, pictures and tchotchkes lining every available surface. She always thought Mamere’s house was like a museum—a collection of pieces that made up the story of the whole D’Entremont family. She could trip through time in here; get lost in the pages of photo albums and family bibles, play dress up in clothes from the fifties that smelled like mothballs and cedarwood. Drink coffee-milk out of cups her great-grandmother’s great-grandmother drank from.

Mamere was the thread to the past and the path to the future.

She knew everything about everyone; memorized every birthday and middle name, had every lost tooth and clippings from first haircuts, hospital bracelets from every birth. It always amazed Eliette how much history one woman could hold.

She follows behind Mamere now, eyes skating over the house. Something in her settles knowing nothing much has changed, even after all this time.

Mamere glares over her shoulder when Eliette hiccups and trips over her own feet, the tide of alcohol coming back up to meet her now that the shock has worn off.

“Damn shame,” she tuts. “Walking around like a drunkard.”

She doesn’t stop when they turn into the kitchen, just pulls out Eliette’s usual chair and heads straight to the coffee pot. She points one stern finger at the avocado-green vinyl and Eliette parks herself obediently, picking at the lifted edge of the formica as Mamere moves through the kitchen. The coffee pot splutters to life and the warm smell of chicory fills the room.

She hiccups again, and the tears burn behind her eyes, but she swallows them down when Mamere cuts her eyes her way again. Best to sit quietly and take her lashings before anything else. It would be easier that way.

She’s nearly gotten the table peeled back to its particle board by the time Mamere slaps a mug down in front of her—the red camping mug with the peeling Grand Isle logo on the side. Her favorite. She always liked it best because the color reminded her of a corn snake.

“Fais pas ca.” Mamere snaps, glaring down at Eliette’s hands. “Quit tearing up my table.”

“Sorry.”

“Hm.” She snorts, taking a sip of her own coffee and looking away from Eliette.

Silence stretches between them and Eliette sips at her drink, trying to make sense of it. The heavy tick of the grandfather clock in the living room feels like a threat, like some invisible finish line coming down the road and she’s only got so much time to ask her questions, to say her piece. Her throat locks up on her, and she looks up to Mamere’s serene face with tears in her eyes.

“You never said goodbye,” she whispers.

Mamere looks at her soft now, like she used to, every trace of anger washed away like it was never there. “Sometimes we don’t get the chance.”

“I know.” She sniffs. A well of hurt yawns open, an ache radiating out from the center of her chest and through her bone marrow like the echo of thunder.

“You’re mad at me.” Mamere says.

“No,” she says, shaking her head.

“I raised you better than to lie to me.”

Eliette clenches her jaw so hard she thinks her teeth might crack from the pressure of it, but she doesn’t speak. There’s no point. Answering would spill the fire out of her chest and onto the table between them, and there’s no time for that.

“You’re mad because I didn’t remember you.”

Eliette’s eyes snap up, and her lip trembles. She can’t move fast enough to catch the first tear as it rolls down her cheek. She sags, her spine giving up, and she aches.

Mamere was always able to read her mind, was always able to take apart the effigies she built to her grief, and her anger, and her happiness. She can feel the claws dragging through her brain, that deep, familiar pain pulsing through her mind. Memory leaks out of her like blood, hot and thick as she’s forced to relive her last moment with her grandmother.

It happened fast, an unexpected sickness that dulled Mamere’s sharp mind. In total, it took less than two weeks, but to Eliette, it felt like an eternity of watching Mamere grow small and frail. All Eliette could do was sit at her bedside, dab her lips with a wet sponge, and read to her. She’d fall asleep with her forehead pressed against their intertwined fingers and would only move when cousins, aunts, and uncles started to cycle through. The last day Eliette saw her grandmother alive, JP managed to get her out of the house—he made sure she showered, eaten lunch, and then brought her right back to sit sentinel. All in all, she was gone for half an hour, but to Mamere, it may as well have been a lifetime.

“Maman,” her mama whispered, “Eliette’s back.”

Mamere looked across the room at her, eyes dazed, and frowned.

“That’s not Ellie.” She said, clutching her daughter’s hand. “That’s not mon ti Étoilette.”

They were the only words she spoke in a week, and the last Eliette ever heard her say.

Bile burns at the back of Eliette’s throat. She swipes at her eyes, rubs the tears off on her legs. Black streaks trail behind her fingertips and she groans, scrubbing them away. She looks up again, facing her grandmother’s piercing gaze. “You left me.”

“Not by yourself,” Mamere says, eyes steady. “You have your Mama and Daddy. You have JP.”

“They never understood me. Not like you.” She scoffs. “And JP put me out.”

“Il est pas trop vaillant.” Mamere hums, disapproval coloring her tone.

“It’s not that he’s not nice, he just…I don’t know. He’s just a man.” She shrugs, curls her hands around her mug and sighs. “Vince doesn’t help.”

“Who?”

Oh, Eliette thinks. Right.

“I picked up a second job, right after…” She gestures vaguely across the table. “Wanted to stay busy, and Vince hired me pretty quick.”

“How’s that make things harder?”

Eliette flushes, burning red from her neck to the tops of her ears.

“I see,” Mamere sighs. “He caught your attention. JP doesn’t like that.”

“No, he does not.” Eliette says. “Makes him act funny sometimes.”

“And you? How does he make you feel?”

“I dunno,” she scrapes her nail against the side of the mug. “He’s okay but I don’t think the land likes him very much.”

“Il est maudit.” Mamere’s eyes flash, and Eliette shrugs.

“Maybe?” The house creaks and settles, the clock ticks, and Eliette finds herself relaxing into her seat. “All I know is he’s from Georgia.”

“Swamp still bloom for you?”

“Always.” Eliette nods. “And the fifolet, too. That’s how I found you.”

Mamere’s lips pull into a tight line.

“I know what you told me,” Elliette whispers into the stillness, “but I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“No,” Mamere says. She glances toward the fridge decorated with decades worth of family photos. “You’re not.”

“I’ve been with JP for almost fifteen years, Mamere. Feels kind of like being rootbound, like I’m stuck in a pot that’s too small and it’s choking me.”

“So get unstuck.” Mamere suggests, like it’s just that simple. “Pack up and go, baby.”

“I can’t.” Eliette chews on the side of her nail, anxiety twisting and rolling inside of her. “JP would never agree to it. I think that’s why I’m kind of—I don’t wanna say sweet on him, because that’s not exactly true. But Vince, he’s…something new.”

Mamere stands quickly, dumping her mug in the sink. It startles Eliette, who registers that Mamere is moving a little too fast, but settles easily knowing the swamp does weird things to those in between.

“I was stuck once.” Mamere says, bracing herself against the sink. “Your grandfather was like a tar pit. Sucked in everything that had the misfortune of stumbling into him.”

Eliette stares at the back of her grandmother’s head in horror. She never met her Pepere, but she knew about him. Her mother’s stories painted him as someone kind, big-hearted, and funny, who poured out love into anyone that passed a cup his way. According to her mother, the hole he left when he passed was wide and impossible to fill.

“Not your Pepere.” Mamere bites, reading her mind again. “I was married before him.”

The feeling that something is wrong settles over Eliette like a too-hot blanket as Mamere shuffles to the curio in the corner of the kitchen, and opens one of the drawers. She digs around before knocking it closed with her hip. She turns to Eliette, eyes hard, and tosses the photo into the center of the table.

Eliette leans forward and scoops it up, squinting at the image in the dim light.

“Who is this?”

“Your grandfather.”

“No, it isn’t.” Eliette frowns, struggling to process what Mamere is telling her.

“Look harder.”

Eliette stands and makes her way to the living room, pulling the chain on the floor lamp. The light is bright and warm and banishes the shadows from beneath her mud-covered fingers. She notices it then, the shape of her mother’s chin, the slope of her nose, and the weight of her brow in the man’s face. There’s a baby in his arms, small and pale against his sunbaked skin.

Eliette’s frown deepens, eyebrows bunching as she looks expectantly at her grandmother. She doesn’t know what’s happening here, or what this has to do with Vince, or JP, or any of it really.

“He died behind this house.” Her eyes bore into Eliette, and she squirms under the intensity of the gaze. “Fell right in the cove. Wasn’t anything left to recover.”

“That’s…Mamere, that’s awful.”

She only sucks her teeth and smiles to herself. “He was maudit. It was done. And you, that’s how you got those stars in your eyes.”

The pieces scatter in Eliette’s head like a half-formed puzzle. A picture forms, but it’s stilted and uneven, and she can’t smooth it down.

“What are you saying, Mamere?” she whispers.

Mamere crosses her arms tight over her chest. “For people like us, the land has ways of helping. Bring them to the cove. That’s how you’ll know.”

Eliette’s mind pulls JP’s face forward, but his eyes swirl into crystalline blue, and Vince is staring at her, smirking like the cat who got the cream. Confusion grabs her, spinning her until she feels sick. She squeezes her eyes shut, the photo crumpling in her fist as she grabs onto the back of the couch to keep from falling.

“You don’t have to decide now.” The smell of moss and mud fills Eliette’s nose as Mamere pushes her hair back. She smiles, and Eliette swears her teeth are longer than they should be—sharper, made to tear. “Sometimes it helps to have someone choose for you, yeah? All you have to do is bring them to see me.”

“You said to bring them to the cove.”

A laugh rattles in Mamere’s chest as she wraps a thin arm around Eliette’s shoulders. She shimmers and shifts in Eliette’s vision like river silt. “The cove, me, it’s all the same. My land is an extension of me, and I, it.”

Eliette stares hard, thinks maybe she understands. “You were supposed to live forever, you know? We had a deal: you, me, together. Forever.”

“I meant it,” Mamere says, guiding her back into the kitchen. “If you let Mamere pick, it’s like I’m still with you, yeah?”

The clock chimes in the living room—a deep, resonant gong—and Mamere sighs, reaching over to pat her hand.

“C’est tout, my girl.” She sounds sad, apologetic almost, and Eliette’s mouth runs dry.

“Are…” She pauses, trying to clear her mind. “Do I have to go?”

Mamere nods and reaches up to rest her age-soft hand against her cheek. Eliette’s breath stutters as she leans into it, throat burning. Mamere’s thumb is gentle under her eye, like she’s wiping at tears Eliette can’t feel.

Eliette swallows. It feels like a swarm of bees has erupted in her chest and the buzzing is going to shake her apart limb from limb, but she can’t move. If she moves, it’s over, and she just needs five more minutes.

All she ever wanted was five more minutes.

“Can I stay a little longer? Please?”

The clock chimes again. It’s a warning, a last call. “Time to go,” Mamere whispers, her eyes a sparkling, pistachio green. “Gotta get gone before that Tocaille grabs you.”

“Eliette!”

The sound is far off, but Eliette would know that voice anywhere. Her head snaps to the window, and she can just see the shape of him through the trees, shadows swallowing him up and spitting him out again as he moves.

“Mais, there you go.” Mamere huffs, standing from the table. “Huntin’ dogs always find you.” Her hand comes to rest on Eliette’s shoulder, too cold and small, weighty as a set of sparrow’s bones. “Allons, cher.”

Eliette stands. She’s at the front door, taking one last look at everything around her. She knows she won’t be returning.

“Lâche pas la patate.” Mamere smiles, wrapping her arms around Eliette and squeezing tight one last time. “You’ll be unstuck soon.”

Eliette nods. There’s a shimmering to Mamere’s edges, and Eliette tries not to choke on the flood of anguish rising in her throat.

The clock chimes a final time.

“J’t’aime,” she whispers. The words burn against the frog in her throat. “I miss you every day.”

Mamere greys further with every second that passes, the smell of mud filling the hallway. J’adore, she mouths.

The door slams behind Eliette before she realized she moved, and then the sun is in her eyes and morning dew is under her fingers.

“Eliette!” She blinks hard, trying to recenter herself. It’s too bright. It was still dark when she heard JP call for her the first time, how had she not noticed the sun coming up?

She looks over her shoulder and finds the same front porch she stumbled up mere minutes ago. Same mirrors on either side of the door, same haint blue ceiling and white-washed floor. She bends down and lifts the edge of the rug, finding the same thirteen quarters that lived there for so long they wore themselves into the wood.

“Jesus Christ, woman!”

The thundering sound of JP’s feet against the steps—the sound she hoped to hear last night that never came. Eliette looks up from the quarters, and her mouth twists to the side like a key turned.

The sun is beaming behind him, illuminating the soft whirls of his too-long curls like a halo.

“What are you doing out here?” JP scoops her up completely, tugging her into a bone-crushing hug. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Her mind spins as she winds her arms around his neck, too confused and sad to do anything but tuck her nose against the column of his throat. He smells like sweat, and Spanish moss, and home. She breathes in deep, letting the scent swirl into her lungs like smoke until she can hardly stand it, and her mud-slick ankles slide against the exposed skin of his lower back.

“Where’s your shirt?” is all she can think to ask.

His huff of a laugh rumbles in his chest, and he pulls back to stare at her. She forgot how brown his eyes are—so dark they look like fresh ground coffee, warm and deep under a thick brow. His big hand pushes the wild hair back from her face, his features butter-soft as he stares at her.

“I ran out so fast when I realized you weren’t around that I forgot it. I thought—” he swallows hard, shakes his head, “I found your shoes halfway down the road, and I thought something happened to you, and—God, Eliette.”

Her heart cracks and a fresh tide of sorrow rises. That damn frog, guilt-shaped and fat, caught up in her tight spaces again. The tears well in her eyes, and she coils tighter around him.

“How’d you find me?” She whispers as he pets over her hair, smoothing it down so he can cradle the shape of her skull against his shoulder.

“Nowhere else you’d rather be.” He mumbles against the skin of her forehead with a quick kiss. He’s already walking down the steps when he asks, “you ready to go?”

Eliette chews on her lip. She still feels damp from the rain, mud-caked and sick, and part of her is still so mad at him; for leaving her out in the swamp, for ruining their anniversary, for letting her wander through the woods in the middle of the night. The other part, however, is exhausted, and wants nothing more than to go home.

Forgiving him, she thinks, is easy.

It’s the forgetting that’s hard.

“I hate this stupid bullshit,” Eliette mumbles, scrubbing the washcloth under her arms as she leans over the sink. It’s been a while since she’s had to take what her mama dubbed a PTA—Pits, Tits, and Ass—bath, but she’s running late, and unless she wants to show up at work smelling like last night’s hangover and swamp mud, this is her only option.

The water is cold where it trickles down her side and she shivers. She’s got a towel spread under her feet to catch the runoff, but she still hates the feeling of only washing parts and not the rest—it feels grimy, like she’ll never truly be clean. She speeds through the rest, and sucks her teeth when she sees she missed a spot on her arm—a big black swath of mud that hadn’t dried. Tucking her wrist under the steady stream, she scrubs. And scrubs. And scrubs until her skin is raw, but it doesn’t do anything other than irritate her skin. She nudges her phone with her elbow and groans inwardly at the time flashing back at her.

Nine-thirty. She’s going to be so fucking late.

Eliette gives up on trying to scrape the mud off and runs damp fingers under her eyes, trying to remove the worst of the smudges. God, she looks like a wreck. She hasn’t slept yet, either. The first thing she did when she stepped through the door was grab her phone off the counter and sprint to the bathroom; she knew she was cutting it close, but she didn’t realize just how close it’d be.

“Ellie.” The door smacks into her as JP swings it open and she stumbles, catching herself against the sink. He ducks his head around the door, and she watches him skate his eyes down her body, lip tilting up into a smirk under his thick mustache. “Well, hello.”

“Pervert.” She snorts, smacking at his hand when he reaches out to tap her backside. “Laisse-moi tranquille, you’re gonna make me late.”

“You’re already late.” He shrugs. “Might as well make it worth it.”

“You’re working on my last nerve,” she huffs, grabbing her towel off the door and tucking it around herself. “Move.”

She squeezes by him and, as irritated as she is with him, his laugh makes her chest bloom with warmth. The bass of it rolls in his chest and shakes his ribs. Eliette tries—and fails—to hide her smile as she ducks into their bedroom.

She pours herself into whatever she can pull out of the dresser, and he wolf-whistles when she shoves a pair of earrings into her ears.

“Allons-y,” she demands, shoving past him.

“Hmm,” he hums, snagging her around the waist. “You got something on your face.”

“What?”

He ducks down and presses his mouth against hers, a warm crush of lips she wasn’t expecting. She can feel him smile into the kiss when she lets out a little noise of surprise before melting into him, her hands coming up to his hips to steady herself.

He pulls back, and studies her. “Think I got it.”

“Alright.” She rolls her eyes, pushing away from him. “Now let go. Vince is gonna kill me if I’m late.”

“I’d like to kill him,” JP mumbles, all but stomping his way to the front door.

“He’s not that bad.” Eliette scoops up her shoes, patting her pockets and purse down to make sure she has everything. JP wiggles her phone at her as he makes his way to the door.

“I disagree.”

“You disagree with everything,” she groans as they slide into their shared car. “He can be a little…you know…but he’s nice!”

“A little bit of a pervert, you mean?” JP snaps as he drops into the driver’s seat. The car shakes with the force of the door slamming.

Here it comes, Eliette thinks. The familiar anxiety of JP’s impending mood swing itches under her skin as she pulls her seatbelt across her chest. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s not some kind of monster.”

The tires squeal as JP backs out of the driveway. “You were just bitching about him last week! You literally said you wish that rich boy carpetbagger would fuck off back to Georgia.”

She sighs. “I’m tired, JP. Can you not do this today? Please?”

He laughs, the sound sharp and cruel in his mouth, and it twists Eliette’s gut. The town goes by in a blur and she sinks further into her seat, trying to make herself small enough to glide under his waves of irritation.

Vince Blackwell is standing under the red and yellow sign for BLACKWELL’S SWAMP ADVENTURES, smoking a cigarette, as JP pulls into the lot. His black hair swoops back from his forehead in thick waves. His jeans and t-shirt stretch tight across his muscular frame. As his hand reaches his lips, the sun glints off his chunky, gold ring—the one, he said, that came from beating Florida in the Rose Bowl a few years back.

Eliette’s eyes dart to the dashboard clock. 10:15AM.

Shit.

“Fuckin’ loser’s always waiting on you at the door,” JP grits out, knuckles tight around the steering wheel. “Doesn’t he have a job to do?”

“Would you get a grip?” Eliette snaps, gathering her stuff into her arms. “I don’t need you to start shit with him today. Get it together.”

Eliette slams the car door behind herself, hoping, just a little bit, she might shatter the glass.

She stomps past Vince and opens the ebony tinted glass door to Blackwell’s, the bells chiming over her head. Behind her, JP peels out of the lot, tires chirping and gravel flying.

“Need me to beat his ass?” Vince asks. There’s no smile to his voice as she side-steps the nose of the taxidermied gator Vince installed next to the door as a bench. She feels that familiar pool of bile in her gut when she cuts her eyes down to look at it. It’s grotesque, unnatural, but the tourists sure seem to like it.

“No,” she huffs, Vince hot on her heels. “But I’ll call you to bail me out when I kill him one day.”

He stares at her long and slow, heat radiating from him. “You’re too pretty for jail, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

She scurries around her desk, hummingbird heart in her throat as she wakes the computer system. Vince’s eyes linger where the neckline of her shirt has dipped on the right side of too low, and she resists the urge to cover herself before his eyes slide away from her. “Sorry I’m late.”

He waves her off. “I’ll adjust your time, don’t worry about it.”

She absolutely will be worrying about it. She pulls up their schedule in the system and scans it quickly, noting the hunt that’s supposed to be starting in less than ten minutes. “Everyone here for that 10:00 AM?”

“About that…”

Jesus Christ, not again. Eliette thinks.

“Changed their minds at the last second. Want a tour instead.” Vince shrugs, leaning against the countertop. “Something about not feeling well, sensitive stomachs. Plus, T-Joe’s is closed, so there’s no one to process whatever we kill anyway.”

“Sounds like the visitors had too much fun in the city, yeah?” Eliette smirks and Vince gives her a knowing look, ice-blue eyes just as heavy on her skin as the night before. His mouth quirks at the corner and she looks away, trying to hide her flush behind her curtain of hair.

“You wanna come along?” he asks.

“It’s the end of the month,” she says apologetically. “Got too much to do in here.”

“C’mon.” He urges. “It’s always more fun with you. It’s like everything in the bayou comes out to party when you’re on the boat.”

He widens his eyes at her, forcing that full lower lip of his out in a half pout. She’s being real strong about ignoring the butterflies in her stomach until he whispers please and then she’s hanging her head and looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“You promise not to get mad at me when the billing isn’t done?”

“Cross my heart.” Vince smiles.

“Fine.” Eliette relents. “Just let me change.”

Going on the tour might have been a bad idea, Eliette is coming to realize.

The sun is beating down on her relentlessly, sweat sliding down the back of her neck. Her head is pounding, and the family on the boat is louder than should be humanly possible.

“Sir, please stay seated,” Eliette says through gritted teeth. “We’re only responsible for you if you’re in the boat. If you go in, I keep going.”

The man, tomato red and dripping sweat, just looks at her from the corner of his eye, disinterested. She glares back, eyes hard. She thinks she’d be fine if he went ass-over-tea kettle over the side, but she forces herself to smile, hoping that patented southern charm will coax him to sit back down.

It doesn’t.

“You should watch your tone when you speak to me,” he says. “I paid for this tour. I’m a very rich man.”

He says it like it means something, and Eliette blinks at him, unimpressed. The man moves closer to the guardrail, the boat lurching as he leans over the side with his camera, trying to take a picture of whatever’s caught his eye.

“Sir.” Vince’s voice booms out over the boat. “I’d listen up if I were you. I went over the edge last week and this little lady sure did leave me behind. Just tore out of here like the Devil was after her.”

The man looks over his shoulder again and Eliette shrugs, navigating the nose of the boat around a clutch of cypress knees. She takes the turn just this side of too tight and the boat jolts with a crunch, and a dangerous rock to the left sends the man stumbling into the guardrail and the camera goes flying out of his hands, dropping into the water with a splash.

“Whoops,” Eliette deadpans.

He stomps over and shoves his finger in her face. Eliette chokes down acid, tries not to think about how it’d feel to have the bones in his finger crunch between her teeth. “That camera was worth more than this entire boat!”

“Tricky thing, navigating these waterways.” Eliette pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head. “So shallow in some places. Never know when you’ll run up on something.”

“You—” The words die in his throat as Vince’s heavy hand lands on his shoulder. He slides into the space between Eliette and the guest.

“I recommend you find your seat and mind your manners, sir.” The words are just short of a growl in his throat.

The man’s mud-brown eyes flit over to Eliette. She looks away, opting instead to gaze over the tallgrass.

She can feel them looking at her—all the various forms of life in the swamp. The gators, the spirits. Every pair of eyes this side of the bayou is watching, waiting for something.

“You should get your wife under control.” The man’s voice is shaky as he stumbles back to his seat, nearly crushing his preteen son as he drops hard onto the bench.

Eliette reels back like she was slapped. “I am not h—”

“My wife,” Vince snaps, venom dripping from his words, “can do whatever she wants on my boat.”

Birds screech overhead, the flap of wings echoing over the heavy splash of something diving under the water. Eliette can hear the distant chitter of a nervous raccoon somewhere in the gnarled roots of the trees, and a chorus of hissing from behind her, a threatening refrain that makes her shiver in the heat.

There’s a dark pit yawning in her stomach, a hunger she’s never quite encountered before.

“Quit hollerin’, Vince,” she says, voice a little unsteady to her own ears. “You’re settin’ ‘em off.”

He waves a hand at her as he moves down the aisle, stepping over the sandaled feet of the women on the bench. Something possessive blooms in her chest as they glare at him with nothing short of lust burning in their gazes. Eliette rolls her eyes, irritated, and steers away from the cypress knees, giving them a wide berth as she turns.

Later in the trip, after they’ve gone the usual route, seen the egret nest and flooded forest, Vince climbs onto the raised podium and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her tight to his chest and pressing a swift kiss into her temple. The contact makes Eliette go rigid, a sudden sense of badwrongbad forcing her spine straight.

He ducks his head down, hiding his mouth behind her jaw and whispers, “just roll with it.”

A sharp snap of jaws in the water has Eliette jumping, hands tightening around the wheel. She looks over her shoulder to find an alligator glaring up at her from behind the engine. Eliette recognizes him, the whorling pattern on the deep, black-green skin, the set of his eyes, the feeling of his heartbeat falling into rhythm with hers—he’s one of the biggest gators they’ve seen out here, probably close to twelve feet long, has been around maybe sixty years, if not longer. He opens his jaw wide again, revealing rows of big, age-yellowed teeth, and the pale expanse of his tongue.

Yellowfang, she remembers. Same big boy she encountered when she was a kid swimming off the side of her father’s pontoon.

They don’t see him often, and even if they did, his size alone would set him apart from the rest, but those teeth of his…Eliette shudders. It’s crazy to think she was right next to him and they just…floated. Until he dipped his head and swam away.

Movement behind Yellowfang draws her eye and she shivers as the water breaks around a second gator. Eliette’s not sure who this one is, has only started seeing her within the last year–she’s a slight thing, small and delicate, with mossy, amber skin and pale eyes. Her gaze feels like an arrow shooting straight through Eliette’s heart.

Vince pulls her tighter against his chest, and Yellowfang’s jaw snaps shut with a resounding echo bouncing off the trees. The smaller gator behind him opens her mouth to release a rumbling bellow from deep in her gut. The pit in Eliette’s stomach widens and she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, the swamp is hungry, but for what?

She finds herself looking into Yellowfang’s eyes, nodding an answer to an unspoken question that sits heavy in her, like a command.

“I’m good,” she whispers with her cheek against Vince’s chest.

“Think we could get him on a hunt?” Vince asks, nodding toward Yellowfang, who stares at Eliette alone, like they’re the only two creatures on Earth. “Allons-y.”

The French sits strangely in his mouth. To everyone else, it probably sounds fine, but to Eliette, it’s a sudden reminder of what he is: an outsider. She pushes against him with both hands, suddenly desperate for space between them. The sun ducks behind a cloud, and the plants all around them seem to dull, color leaking out of their leaves and stems as Vince frowns down at her, hands tightening into fists against her lower back.

“Cut it out. We gotta get going,” she says, shoving at him harder. A little grunt slips out of him as she nails him in the ribs. “They didn’t pay to watch you hang all over me.”

“You’ve got a point there.” He sighs, stepping down from the podium. His hand catches her fingers and he stares up at her for a second, before turning away.

Eliette takes a ragged breath, suffocating in the humidity. She tries to swallow back the hunger building inside of her—the insatiable urge to crawl all over Vince.

She imagines ripping his tight shirt from his chest, scraping her nails across his back, giving in to this need. Showing him, and everyone else on this boat, who she could be, what she is, deep down.

Her hands shake as she navigates the well-familiar course. Vince narrates nothing but background noise for the thoughts running through her head. She doesn’t understand her sudden yearning, but she knows without a doubt that this need, let loose, could reduce him to tears.

“I’ll finish up,” Eliette says, gathering the slack from the mooring line as the last guest files off the boat. “Go make sure they get where they’re going.”

“They’ll be fine.” He settles his hands on his hips and stares off after them, watching them kick up gravel as they go.

Eliette lets herself study him while he’s distracted. He’s handsome—almost too handsome. All that thick, black hair and those icy eyes, his strong, wide nose, high cheekbones, and square jaw. He is, objectively speaking, Hollywood handsome. Eliette thinks that’s where he should’ve landed, somewhere in Los Angeles, among the stars.

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not.” Eliette’s face burns, caught.

Vince turns to her, grin playing on the edge of his full rose-petal lips. She’s taken again by just how wide he is, a solid wall of packed muscle. Eliette tries not to watch the way his muscles move as he reaches out and takes the rope from her, electricity sparking where their fingers brush.

“You can look,” he says, winding the rope up around his elbow. “I don’t mind.” He glances at her again, long and hard, and she finds herself somewhere between melting and bursting into flame. “Lord knows I look at you.”

“Vince.” Eliette sighs.

“I’m just saying.” He yanks the slack toward himself, tearing his eyes away. “It’s hot seeing you out there. The bayou is where you come alive. I could stare at you all day.”

Confusion blooms in Eliette like spring.

On the one hand, she meant what she said to Mamere about Vince being strange. She’s seen the swamp fade when he’s around—camouflage itself the same way the forest goes quiet when a predator moves through. She’s noticed the way he pulls her culture, her language, her life up around his body and zips into it like a wetsuit. How he performs this backwoods, low-country act for the people that pay him and it makes her skin crawl. On the other hand, here she is all high-school giddy, because a cute boy complimented her. Because some part of him understands her connection to this place and everything in it. JP always cuts her off when she starts ranting about the town rotting like an old log, how less and less people speak French anymore. He always says it’s depressing, that it really doesn’t matter, but JP isn’t Cajun the way she’s Cajun. The roots of Eliette’s family tree go so deep into the mud, it’d be impossible to extract her from it without unspooling her DNA and turning her into someone else completely.

Her breath catches in her chest as Vince crowds her space. She knows, logically, he’s leaning in to put the slackline on its hook right behind her, but the way he moves around her, brackets her up against the railing—there’s something crackling between them, and Eliette thinks she can hear an animal hiss on the breeze. All she’d have to do is stretch up on her toes and tilt her head back, and then she could feel the press of his lips against her mouth. She knows better, knows she shouldn’t, but God he’s just so close, and he smells like sunbaked skin and tobacco, something sharp and bright, and his mouth is right there.

“Vince,” she tries.

“Hm?” he answers, head tilting and dipping ever closer.

“You used to that face getting you everything you want?”

“Pretty much.” Vince’s eyes flick from her eyes, to her lips, and back again. She can’t remember the last time she wanted something this bad.

Mamere’s face flashes through her mind, and everything explodes in a wash of spirit-light green, and Eliette wonders if there’s a way to cure her root rot without having to find a new pot.

“Come out on the boat with me Wednesday night after work?” She asks, taking a half step back. “JP works late. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Yeah?” He smiles down at her, eyes dark, and Eliette has to swallow the urge to devour him again.

“Say you’ll come.”

“Okay,” he says.

She smiles up at him, raising up on her toes as he leans down and—

“Ellie,” a voice calls.

Fuck.

Eliette turns away from Vince, hoping the heat of the sun hides the angry blush on her cheeks. Vince has the good sense to step back from her, but he doesn’t go far. Just lingers an arm’s length away.

“‘Sup Johnny boy,” he says with a half-hearted wave. “How’re the shrimp treating you?”

“Don’t call me that.” JP snaps, eyes trained on Eliette.

She fidgets with the mooring line, winding it tighter and tighter around its hook. She knows the look on JP’s face, the tone of his voice. She can see the pulsing vein on the side of his neck and she knows he’s seeing red.

“You got off early?” She asks, clearing her throat.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Storm rollin’ in, had some stuff to pick up.”

She notices it then, the package in his hand. It’s big, but thin, picture-frame sized. She hops off the boat and makes her way over to him on sure feet, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Whatcha got?”

“Open it.” He glances down at her and pushes the box into her hand, but his eyes cut over to Vince, who’s taken to leaning up against the guardrail, cleaning out from under his nails with the tip of a pocketknife.

Eliette walks the package to the picnic table on the deck and takes her time unwrapping it. Her breath catches when she sees familiar, pale-green eyes shining at her from behind the butcher paper, a beaming, thin-lipped smile not far below. A portrait of Mamere.

“Oh,” she whispers. Her heart tugs, eyes burning, as she runs her fingers reverently over that smile. She tries to swallow it down, but she can’t help the choked sound that finds its way out of her throat as she turns to look at JP. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” His eyes are hard. “When I saw you over there, I figured you were missing her. I miss her too, you know.”

“J’connais.” She swipes the tears away from her eyes, looking back to the picture and taking in the frame. It’s beautiful, all live-edged and whorled—she thinks it might be cypress. She can feel the energy thrumming in the wood beneath her fingers and she frowns. “Where’d this come from?”

He shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Took one of the guys to the cove behind Mamere’s. Pulled up some knees, worked it up. It’s nothing fancy.”

Eliette doesn’t know how to react, her mouth opening and closing as love and rage crackle through her like lightning.

“Well, ain’t that just sweet,” Vince coos from the boat. His boots land heavy against the deck, each footfall thundering against the wood as he moves toward them.

Eliette feels like she can’t breathe. The world is suddenly too hot, sweltering and suffocating. She wants to tuck tail and run but Vince slings a casual arm over her shoulders, humming appreciatively down at the frame.

“Looks nice,” he says. “You did good, Johnny boy.”

JP’s lips are practically peeling back from his teeth. His fingers are hot, his grip hard on Eliette’s wrist as he yanks her back, tucking her under one heavy arm. She manages to just catch the edge of the frame as he tugs on her, and she pulls it close to her chest, hugging it tight.

“We should, um—” She swallows, trying to ease the tension between them.

“Y’all head on home.” Vince shoos them off, winking at Eliette. “I’ll handle the end-of-month bullshit. Didn’t get all them fancy degrees for nothing, you know.”

“Vince—”

“Go home, Eliette. You had a long night.” He smiles, and a swarm of butterflies erupts in her stomach despite herself.

“I fucking knew it!”

Back at home Eliette scrambles out of the car after JP, worried he’ll lock her out again. “Hold on! JP! Will you just listen?”

“To what?” He turns on her, jamming a finger in her face as she pulls up short behind him on the porch steps. “You made a goddamned fool out of me, Eliette!”

“By doing what?” She hollers right back, edging around him. She’s eye-level with him now, looking down her nose at him from the top step. “Nothing fucking happened, JP.”

“You would’ve kissed him if I hadn’t said something,” JP hisses. “I know you. I know what it looks like when you want something.”

“Oh my God.” Eliette rolls her eyes, crossing her arms tight over her chest. “You are blowing this way out of proportion.”

“Oh yeah.” JP laughs, the sound sharp and cruel under a blast of thunder as dark clouds roll in. She can smell the rain in the air, see the veins on the underside of the leaves as they blow belly up. Storm’s coming in quick, roiling and angry like her gut, and it feels like she summoned it. She stumbles back as JP pushes past her, and she forces herself to swallow down a bolt of fear.

He won’t do anything. He’s smarter than that. She knows it. But she sizes him up, the breadth of him, the thick, corded muscles honed from years of pulling up trolling nets every day since he was sixteen. The sun-browned, mitt-sized hands. The way he looms over her.

“You do this every day? Whore yourself out for Vince like it’s nothing?” JP’s words burn like acid, and Eliette’s gasps at the feel of his hand wrapping around her bicep, tourniquet-tight. “You fuck him in his office? You make your money with your body instead of your brain, Eliette?”

The crack of her hand across his cheek surprises them both, and Eliette reaches behind her, twisting through the open door and slamming it in his face before he can register she’s even moved. She throws the deadbolt and presses her weight against the door, squeezing her eyes shut against the force of JP banging on the wood.

Thunder rolls again, and the rain slams against the tin roof like an explosion.

“God damn it,” JP mutters, the sound muffled. She hears him sigh, can almost feel the press of his forehead against the white paint. Her fingers are shaking, adrenaline thrumming through her like a live-wire.

She listens as JP makes his way across the porch, sagging when she hears the creak of the rocking chair as he settles into it. She thinks she can hear him muttering to himself over the thundering of her heart.

Eliette scrubs trembling hands over her face and reaches over to turn the lock as a crack of thunder rolls over them. She doesn’t know if he heard the bolt turn, but that’s fine with her. The longer he stays out here, the calmer he’ll be. She lost half of her good china the last time he blew up like this, and she doesn’t have it in her to sweep up shards of porcelain tonight.

Eliette’s in bed when JP finally wanders into the house smelling like thunder and sweat.

“Ellie?” his voice is soft over her shoulder. She feels his arms around her waist, the long, solid heat of his body melting into hers as he shifts closer, rousing her from sleep.

She knew he’d do this.

He always does this.

He won’t say the words “I’m sorry”, but he’ll try to fuck his apologies into her like his orgasm is an absolution.

It’s a sleepy affair, the way he presses his lips wherever he can reach—forehead, chest, shoulders, mouth, like he’s crossing her. Blessing her and making her into something that can wash him clean of his sins, of his pride and his envy, of his cruelties. Something in her rallies against it, throws its head back and howls at the prayer within it all, but she opens her legs for him still. She lets him pull her shirt over her hips and slot his heavy body against her like he’s fitting into a space carved out for him alone—a routine performance, a white flag waved in a war she’s tired of fighting.

She loves him, really, she does, but he has his moments where his warmth turns into a steady burn, her skin crisping under the magnifying glass of his gaze, where everything is wrong and nothing is right. She feels like a buoy, bouncing back and forth on a current of I deserve better and It’s always only been him.

“Love you,” he says, lips against her neck, arms under her back, one hand tangled at the base of her skull. She mutters something non-committal, hiding it under a sleepy moan when he grazes his teeth over her skin, hips snapping just a little too hard. “You still my girl?”

“Always.” She gasps, back arching off the bed.

“Tell me it’s only me—tell me I’m the only one that gets you like this.”

A flicker of irritation flits through her mind and she smothers it. There’s a heat boiling low in her belly, fire licking up the bottom of her feet, and she needs to hold on for a little longer. Just a little bit longer and it’ll be good and done.

“Tell me you don’t give it to Vince like this.” JP pulls back, eyes black in the silvery moonlight that cuts through the curtains. There’s an edge to his voice, to the way he moves, and something sour blooms in Eliette’s stomach. Something rotten.

A word echoes through her head—tocaille.

She imagines her nails lengthening and sharpening around the back of JP’s neck—visualizes her skin withering and darkening, conjures an ache in her jaw as her teeth lengthen into fangs. Something tells her that it would be so easy, so easy to just snap and be done. His blood would taste so good; ruby red and refreshing against her cotton-dry tongue.

And she considers.

Considers reaching under her pillow for the pocketknife she hid at one time or another, considers snaking her arm under his just to hold him close. A thrill races up her spine when she thinks about slamming the blade into his back, slicing through sinuous muscle and tendon until she meets the resistance of bone and chips the tip of the blade off a rib. The way he would gasp and writhe, hot blood spilling down his back, dying his skin red as it flowed down to meet her. She thinks about stabbing him again and again and again as stars burst behind her eyes, a kaleidoscope of colors fracturing and spinning.

Blood blooms in her mouth as she bites into the meat of JP’s shoulder, a high, keening whine trapped in her throat as she shatters. She barely hears JP’s own aborted gasp, barely registers the feeling of his hips stuttering against hers—all she knows is fire, green and alight, floating behind her eyes like fifolet.

“Holy shit.” JP grunts, the weight of his collapse shaking the bed under him.

Eliette can only nod, head heavy and hazy, eyes unfocused.

“You bit the fuck out of me.” JP laughs and she turns, a frown digging into her face. A fat drop of blood rolls down over his collarbone, leaking from the junction of his neck and shoulder, and Eliette runs her tongue over her teeth, tasting the iron, feeling for fangs and only finding blunt edges. He smiles over at her, light dancing in his eyes. “Best you ever had, huh?”

She rolls her eyes as she slides out of bed, padding over to the bathroom. He’s still running his mouth about it when she comes back, but whatever he’s saying breaks off when she pours peroxide over the wound.

“Va la merde!” He hisses, yanking away. “What’d you do that for?”

“Don’t want it to get infected.” She shrugs, eyes far away. She feels loose, trapped between two minds—the real Eliette, and the sheep covering that her beast wears. She runs her tongue over her teeth again, glancing down to find her nails are just as short as they’ve always been, and a shiver rocks through her.

Eliette wakes up feeling untethered, disquieted, and uncomfortable in her own skin.

The smell of chicory permeating the walls doesn’t help, and neither does the note she finds fluttering on the fridge door when she goes for her coffee creamer.

Ellie,

Should be home by six.

Love you,

JP

She rolls her eyes, puts the note scribble-side down on the counter, and heads out to the porch.

The mid-morning sun warms her, and she tucks her knees close to her chest, gently rocking as she sips her coffee. No noise other than the birds talking, no JP begging for attention, just the sound of her chair creaking against the porch.

There’s a deep ache in her bones telling her to move, to get dirt and mud under her feet. Eliette tries to shake it off, tries to blink away the fog from her mind and focus only on the coffee heating the space behind her sternum, but she can’t get herself to quiet.

She sighs and hauls herself up from the rocking chair and heads down the porch steps. The gravel bites into her feet and she pads over the driveway, onto the still-damp grass.

There’s a massive live oak on their property, with wide, sprawling limbs that crawl across the ground in big, arching patterns. They’ve got a swing drilled into one of the boughs, but she moves past it, trying not to picture Mamere sitting on the seat. A yearning tugs at her again and she walks straight into the water without thinking, sighing against the feeling of the silt pushing between her toes.

An egret stares at her from across the water, its white feathers a shock against the hazy, shadowed green of the land. She’s never been the biggest fan of walking birds—their beaks are too sharp, eyes too beady, movements slow and stilted, like marionettes being manipulated. They regard each other warily as Eliette sits on the bank, the water circling around her waist.

It’s been too long since she’s done this, let herself tune into the land in this way. Usually, she maintains a tertiary awareness of it, the feel of it humming underneath the day-to-day. But as the water moves around her, through her, it’s as if someone’s pulled a heavy blanket over her and she finally settles. The sound of the cicadas grows sharper, the smells are richer, the colors shine brighter, and Eliette draws her knees to her chest, feeling her heartbeat in time with the pulse of the creek.

Her eyes haven’t been closed for more than a minute before she feels the slick, slimy swish of something twisting around her calves, a smooth, lazy figure eight that loops between her knees until she pushes herself up on her elbows, cocking an eyebrow at the snake she finds. She didn’t feel him sneaking up on her, and he settles for coiling around her right leg before popping his head up to meet her eyes, his yellow belly pale and vulnerable beneath the dark green of his topside.

He blinks, forked tongue flicking out and tickling the inside of her knee, and she holds her hand out to him, smiling as he swims over. He loops her wrist, once, twice, and then twists up her arm, almost like an embrace, before settling down against her open palm, head resting gently under the bend of her elbow.

“Canaille.” Eliette chuckles, smiling as he blinks his big amber eyes at her. “Didn’t even notice you.”

She can’t necessarily read his thoughts, but she can feel his contentment rumbling through him, a sleepy little frisson rippling through his long body as he burrows into her warmth.

She blinks sleepily down at the snake comfortably wrapped around her arm now, tears burning at the back of her eyes. As stuck as she is, buried half-way into the mud with no way out, she knows her purpose: to keep the land safe, to protect those creatures that can’t protect themselves. If she left this place, there’d be no one to speak for them because there’d be no one left to understand.

Eliette scrubs her free hand over her sleepy eyes, and rolls to her side, giggling at the flash of serpentine annoyance she feels tapping against her mind.

“Hush,” she chides, bopping her finger against the snake’s nose gently. He sticks his tongue out at her with a purpose before settling back down against her skin, nuzzling close to her ribs. A yawn cracks her jaw and she tucks an arm beneath her head, burrowing down until the water kisses the side of her neck.

A pointed claw brushes against her thoughts, caressing her mind as she slips into a dream between one breath and the next…

Eliette’s frowning down at the bottle tree in Mamere’s front yard. The blue bottles glow at her, a rhythmic melody growing steadily around her, like the banging of fists. Her hands itch to feel the smooth glass against her skin, but the song crescendos, a sharp note slicing through her.

She startles and turns, taking in the acid glow of the fifolet. Her feet move her forward, following without thinking, as she’s lead into the trees. She trips over an unfamiliar path until she finds herself ankle deep in brackish water.

A sharp cackle cracks through the air, and every hair on Eliette’s neck stands on end. There’s a dark figure at the water’s edge, nothing but the suggestion of shape under the glow of the fifolet, and her chest feels tight. Like her lungs have locked up inside her, trapped behind the cage of her ribs.

The pulsing-green glow reveals gnarled hands, and too-thin arms that end in impossibly sharp nails, and then she hears it. The deep rumble of a boat’s engine, a melody of laughter floating over the top of the sound. The water hums around her ankles, lapping up to her calves, and she feels alive, like there’s lightning in her veins. The closer the boat moves, the quieter the laughter gets, and Eliette’s mouth only gets drier.

A shallow-bottom skiff putters into the little copse of trees, and Eliette realizes the figure in front of her is nothing but an age-gnarled tree, its twisting branches reaching out over the water, looking for something to grab.

Three new spirit lights dance over the water, and she watches as they go out onto the water’s surface, pulling the man in the boat forward like a puppet on a string. The skiff tilts and tips as he leans until his chest dances just above the water, and the lights disappear with a sizzling hiss.

Eliette can see it from here, the way the man’s eyes clear as he shakes his head. The world spins in slow motion as he pulls back to settle on his heels, and then the water is bending and breaking open as Yellowfang bursts forward, clamping his massive jaws around the man’s upper half.

Eliette can’t scream, can’t move, can hardly breathe as she watches those ancient teeth rend flesh from bone, blood spraying out over the cove like a thunderstorm. The sound of muscle, tendon, and spine separating meets her and acid burns at the base of her throat as she watches Yellowfang sink back under the water, half the stranger in tow.

She feels lightheaded. Her knees wobble, and she braces herself against the tree next to her with a gasp, everything screaming for her to move, to leave, to wake up, but there’s an ache in her teeth, a burning in her bones. Something that wants. Something shimmering green and all-knowing.

The air around her lightens, a soft glow settling around her in a woosh, and she can feel the tree breathe deep under her hand. The plants around her are suddenly full, standing straight, their colors vibrant.

Alive, she thinks.

The water around her ankles has turned red, and she falls to her knees. Eliette feels far away from herself as she bends to the surface of the water, a parishioner in her place of worship, prostrating herself at the feet of her God. When she opens her mouth and tastes the flavors of earth and life and blood coating her tongue, she swallows it down greedily, taking her blessing mouthful by mouthful. She feels it too, the way her joints ache less, the way her muscles feel stronger.

Alive, she hears Mamere whisper, her voice echoing through the trees.

Mamere’s portrait stares back at her from the mirror, and Eliette tries hard to separate the green of their eyes. It should be easy to do, to parse out the pale greens and greys of lace lichen from the emerald of summertime leaves. But she finds she can’t do it. She can’t pull her grandmother apart from herself the way she would peel back the skin from a fish—can’t extract herself from all the ways they’re braided together.

She tears her eyes away from the photo on the shelf behind her and yanks the brush through her curls again, biting back a curse at the way it tugs and yanks against an unexpected mass of knots. Falling asleep in the creek hadn’t been her best plan, and she woke up with JP standing over her, panting, the bloodied spade held aloft in his hand. Eliette’s little snake was floating beside her, cleaved in two.

She threw up so hard she thinks she may have dislocated one of her ribs.

JP worried over her, leaning down and gathering her mess of dark hair in one hand, and rubbed the other down her side as she heaved up everything she had. He caught her when she slumped over, exhausted, mouth slick with spit and burning from the bile, and hauled her into the house, soaking wet and sobbing.

She stared empty-eyed and grief-stricken at the wall as JP mumbled to himself and scrubbed the blood and debris from her skin, cleansed the brackish water from her hair, and then left her alone with visions of her dream flashing through her mind. Sharp teeth, roiling water, torn flesh. A flash of black-whorled scales.

Now, she swipes the brick-red lipstick over her bottom lip and slides the cap on with grim finality.

The door bounces off her shoulder as JP pushes it open and she falls into the sink with a frustrated yelp.

“Jesus Christ, Eliette,” JP says, like it’s her fault. “Your daddy made a damn good doorstop when he made you.”

“You forgot how to knock?” She bites, tucking the front of her hair behind her ears.

“Wouldn’t have to knock if you weren’t holed up in here like a mouse.”

Eliette forces herself to take a deep breath before cutting her eyes over to him in the mirror. “What do you want?”

“Breakfast,” he says simply. “We gotta leave and I haven’t eaten.”

“You don’t know how to crack an egg?” She can taste the venom in her voice and tries to swallow it back. “Toast some bread? Fry up bacon?”

He rolls his eyes and sags into the door. “C’mon, I’m hungry.”

His voice grates against Eliette’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. He sounds like a child, a petulant toddler that was never told no, throwing himself against the ground and kicking and screaming until his parents threw in the towel just to avoid the headache. She’d say she doesn’t know where he got it from, but JP is his parents’ only child. Spoiled doesn’t begin to cover it.

“I’ve gotta get dressed.”

“Can’t you fry my eggs first?”

She feels some string inside of her pull tight, and she tosses the lipstick down on the counter, grabbing the first pair of jeans she can find out of the hamper.

“Fine.” She yanks the denim up her legs. “Fine, let’s go make your precious fucking eggs.”

“Don’t be like tha—”

“No, come on.” She shoves past him, driving her shoulder into his ribs as she forces her way over the threshold. “I’ll just go to work like this. Allons.”

Eliette is first-date nervous. Not that she has anything to compare it to in recent years—her first date with JP was to a high school football game at fifteen, and he’s been her only since. She thought she’d long since outgrown the feeling bubbling up in her gut like shaken champagne, but it’s there, hot and fizzy and exciting.

She pushes open the tinted glass door to Blackwell’s and walks right into the solid wall of Vince’s chest.

“Oh shit.” Vince’s hands are around her waist before she can stumble and Eliette burns red-hot and bright.

“Sorry I didn’t realize you were there.” She swallows, fingers flexing anxiously against his chest. Those damn butterflies are back, fluttering around inside her stomach like a swarm, and she thinks she might vomit, albeit for different reasons than before.

Vince just smiles down at her, something warm blooming over his face. His hands flex against her back, like he’s fighting the urge to pull her close. “You look mighty pretty. Got a hot date or something?”

Eliette shoves at him, fighting the smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Or something.”

“Must be some kind of handsome if you’re all dolled up like this.”

“Oh yeah,” Eliette scoffs, tugging down the sleeve of her t-shirt. “A regular Brando.”

“So you do think I’m handsome.” Vince’s eyes are bright and Eliette wants to kiss him, really kiss him. She imagines dragging her teeth over that fat-bottom lip and taste his blood blooming over her tongue, metallic and sugar-sweet. Would it fill her mouth and run down her chin like peach juice, her skin stained and sticky? She’d bite into him and take his flesh into her stomach until he’s nothing but a stone pit. She can taste it on her tongue and—

“Eliette?”

“What?” She blinks back into herself. Vince is staring at her expectantly, like he asked her a question, and she was too busy staring at his mouth to listen. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“I asked if you were ready to go?”

“Oh!” She twists out of his grip and ducks under the front counter, snagging the boat keys from their hook. “C’mon, we’re losing light.”

The bell over the door drowns out Vince’s laugh as he pushes through it and guides her out with a warm hand on her lower back. The weight feels nice.

“Which one?” He asks as they step onto the dock. She looks down at the key in her hand and flips the little charm around to see 14 written in her own handwriting.

“That one.” She points to the pontoon at the end of the dock.

His hand catches hers and she lets him tangle their fingers together as he tugs her forward. Eliette can feel the tickle of eyes on the back of her neck, and electric fear bolts up her spine as she looks over her shoulder. Where she was expecting to see JP, there is only a trio of nutria, tumbling over each other at the water’s edge. Their little tails swish and tangle, their eyes darting over the empty parking lot.

“You coming?”

She turns to see Vince standing with one foot on the boat, and one on the deck, hand held out to her in invitation. fifolet dance behind him and she can feel her smile, her teeth dazzle him as she steps onto the boat, her hand held tight in his.

The breeze is a balm against Eliette’s skin as Vince steers the boat through the humidity, taking Eliette’s direction without complaint as she turns him this way and that, leading them deeper into the bayou.

It’s wilder out here than on their normal route, the colors richer, the foliage fuller. She breathes life into the vegetation as they pass, a counter to Vince’s energy. She glides her hand over a thick monstera leaf. The color seems to pulse and darken, the plant standing straighter; she tells herself she’s imagining it and turns her eyes back to the water.

The fifolet dart to the right, and Eliette points Vince in their direction, letting her head fall back against the bench. He smiles down at her from behind the windshield and she preens, stretching her body like a cat. Vince swallows hard and forces his eyes forward, pushing the throttle farther.

“I’ve never been this deep before,” he says looking around. “It’s pretty.”

“Yeah?” Eliette rolls to her side and props her head up on her elbow, the other draped over the curve of her hip.

“Yes ma’am. Thought it’d be like where we ride for work, brown and trying to die off.” Vince shrugs. “This is…unexpected.”

“Farther away from the river back here. Takes a lot longer for the salt water to move in and choke everything off. But the salt wedge is killing us, and the coast is eroding, and no one wants to talk about it. Do you know what that’s like?”

“What?”

“Watching the land you love die,” she says, eyes sharp. “Watching people take and take from her without ever giving back until she’s dried up with nothing else to give.”

“Can’t say I do.” Vince chews the inside of his lip. “Closest I can get is the peach tree in my Pawpaw’s yard when I was growing up. Used to get the fattest, juiciest, sweetest fruit you’ve ever had in your life off that damn thing, and then one day the city started marking up the yard to expand the road and a few weeks later, no more peaches.”

She watches the way the feelings flit over his face, the tightening around his eyes and the way the corners of his mouth turn down. He gets it, she thinks. Not exactly, but enough that she thinks he could learn to understand if she tried hard enough to teach him.

An angry, shimmering buzz fills her ears and she sighs, turning away from Vince, and staring up at the watercolor sky as it melts into dusky purple.

“Where’d you bring me, Eliette?”

“Mamere’s house.” She rolls up from the bench and tucks her chin into folded arms. “It’s the little, yellow one, right on the edge of the water.”

The roar of the engine quiets, and the bench shifts under her. Vince’s weight rocks the boat ever so slightly, and she turns her head to the side, a spark shooting up her spine when her hair dances over the water.

“It’s cute,” Vince says, smiling over at her. “My Pawpaw’s house was yellow too.”

“It’s a good color for a house.”

“It is,” he agrees. “Is that what color your house is?”

Eliette scoffs and rolls her eyes, looking back to the shore. “It’s white. All white from the foundation to the ceiling. I hate it.”

“Damn,” Vince says, frowning. “Even the porch?”

“Half the water bill is JP pressure washing the damn thing.” Irritation builds in her gut, and thunder rolls in the distance.

“How do y’all keep the haints away?”

Eliette’s neck almost snaps from how fast she looks at him, eyes wide, cheeks hot. “You believe in all that stuff?”

“I’m not stupid.” Vince laughs. “I may not be from Louisiana, but you think I haven’t seen my fair share of shit?”

“Oh,” she whispers, “I never knew that.”

Vince waves her off, settling against the backrest with his cheek on his fist. His ring glints in the waning light. “What about you?”

“Mamere taught me. Her house—it’s—everything’s got a purpose; there’s a massive bottle tree in the front yard and quarters trapped in the wood under the welcome mat because they’ve been there for so long.”

Vince’s laugh is warm and Eliette feels like her chest is full of champagne, something bubbly and sparkling trying to crawl its way up her throat. Heat erupts over her chest when Vince reaches out to push an errant strand of hair out of her face, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She leans into the touch without meaning to, the skin of his palm warm against her face, and oh.

Eliette realizes she wants Vince to turn this boat around and head back to the shop. To get off the pontoon and take her home with him and let her fix him. She can get the French to sit right in his mouth, teach him more about the swamp, teach him how to hunt and trap and feed himself the way her family always has. He believes in magic, and Mamere always said she had it, so why can’t she try?

Eliette points over the water, toward the cove from her dream. An acid-green light dances between the branches in the growing darkness and she shifts closer, thigh pressing flush against Vince’s own. “Can you see those lights?”

Vince looks over his shoulder, squinting, and a small smile dances over his mouth. “You mean the little green thing?”

Eliette’s breath catches in her throat and her hand catches his wrist. “Fifolet.”

“Huh,” Vince huffs. “Always thought it was swamp gas.”

Vince grunts in surprise when she pulls his mouth to hers with a strong grip on the back of his neck. He startles before surging forward, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her in, holding her fast against his chest like he’s trying to melt them together. Her mouth falls open with a gasp when his tongue swipes over her lower lip and she realizes, belatedly, that her ribs feel too small for her lungs.

She forces herself to pull back, to rest her forehead against his and breathe him in until he swirls around in her lungs like smoke. She realizes he’s laughing, stroking his thumb over her lower back as he shakes his head against the top of her head.

“We can do better than that,” he says.

Vince presses forward again, hand coming up to cradle her jaw as he pulls her mouth back to his, if only for a moment. Eliette feels like she’s spinning out, like the world is whirling too fast on its axis and she’s waiting for the ride to stop so she can throw up on the concrete, but there’s no acid in her throat, just sweet champagne and the taste of Vince.

It sours as a shadow stretches over them, and she realizes they’ve drifted into the cove, the sun disappearing rapidly. Unease settles over her, and she pulls away, pushing Vince back gently as she stands and eyes darting over the land around them. The boat is moving forward too fast to be carried on the current, and the water bobs, the boat jerking like it’s being yanked like a puppet on a string. Dread yawns in her stomach like hunger, her muscles frozen like ice.

“We have to go back.”

“What?” Vince asks, a bemused expression on his face.

“Please,” she says, panic clawing at her insides. “We have to go back.”

Vince frowns but moves past her to the driver’s seat all the same. “I don’t understa—”

“Well, that’s a shame.” An all-too familiar voice slices the stillness. Eliette jumps, whipping around to find JP on the shore, fishing pole in hand. “You just got here, after all.”

“I thought you said he was working late.” Vince’s voice is cold, and she glances over to see him glaring at the shoreline.

“He was.” Eliette hisses. She clears her throat and forces her voice to carry over the water. “What are you doing out here, JP?”

“Fishing.” He shrugs. “Same as I do every night. What are you doing out here, Étoilette?”

Eliette’s jaw aches from the pressure of her teeth grinding together, the nickname tripping over her skin like a razorblade. It doesn’t fit right coming out of his mouth, it hasn’t for a long time. She hates herself for only realizing it now. Thunder rolls again and the hair on Eliette’s neck stands on end, electricity zinging through the air around her. An acid glow blooms behind JP and the gnarled hands of a cypress tree reach toward him in the breeze, fingers flexing.

His eyes dart between Vince and Eliette and she can see the rage in their depths. “If you’re looking to cheat, Eliette, you should try being less obvious about it. I always am.”

Eliette’s breath sticks in her throat. I always am. Always.

“You what?” She whispers, voice small.

He skips a rock, watching it bounce over the surface before sinking. “I’d say we’re about even now.”

The boat shifts minutely as Vince moves closer to her, his hand coming to rest light against her lower back. She hears JP scoff and Vince’s fingers scrape against her skin as they curl into a fist.

“Ellie.” She looks up to find him staring down at her, eyes hard, jaw set. “Do you want me to kill him?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked her this question, but it is the first time she thinks he might be serious. She takes a mental step back and really looks at him, the ways he’s stronger than JP, bigger, wider. He could do it, she thinks.

There’s a splash and Eliette looks away from Vince, watching as JP wades out into the water without fear.

“I thought I told you to stay away from him.” He points a finger at Vince as the water swallows him up, sliding up to his knees, then his thighs, his hips, his waist.

“You don’t fucking control me.” She bites, seething.

“You watch your mouth when you talk to me, Eliette,” he bites back, the water dancing around his chest as he stalks forward.

“Boy, you better watch the way you fucking talk to her,” Vince snaps, arm sliding around Eliette’s waist to pull her back from the edge of the boat.

“Vince, stay out of it,” Eliette warns.

At the same time JP barks, “C’est pas de tes affaires, Blackwell. When I get my hands on him, I’m going to kill him. You know that, right?” He keeps his eyes on Eliette as he swims forward. He’s at the end of the boat before she knows it and the bow dips as he hauls himself onto the carpeted deck.

There’s a split second where Eliette stupidly thinks she might be safe, that the swinging gate separating the deck from the rest of the boat might give JP pause. The world slows and pulls like taffy, the moment stretching long and thick in front of her. She sees JP’s hand slide out of his pocket, the gleam of his pocketknife flashing under the moonlight, and she moves without thinking.

Bright white pain explodes along her ribs as she shoves herself between JP and Vince. She feels the tip of the knife glance off bone as JP shoves it deep, an animal shout tearing from her throat as she shoves at him. Her hand flies to her side, and she looks down to see her palm stained red.

The knife clatters to the floor and JP stares at her in wide-eyed horror.

“Eliette, I—”

“You fucking stabbed me.” She breathes, eyes wild as she stares at her hand.

“It was an accident! I didn’t mean—”

“You fucking stabbed me,” she repeats as thunder crashes overhead, lighting cracking as the sky falls open. It’s the bone-soaking type of rain, the kind that feels like water being poured straight from a bucket and leaves you feeling like you might never be dry again.

Eliette feels like she’s looking through a thick pane of blue glass as she stumbles forward, advancing on JP faster than she ever thought possible. He scrambles back through the gate as she shoves at him.

“Eliette,” he warns, grabbing for her wrists.

“Fuck you,” she spits. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

She slams her hands into his chest again, and again, time moving around her like molasses. Eliette watches from outside her body as JP windmills, trying to regain balance as he tips backwards. She drinks the fear in his eyes like water as he disappears over the edge with a sickening crack.

“Oh fuck,” Vince breathes as Eliette moves forward.

JP is sprawled across a clutch of cypress knees, his eyes rolling in his skull, searching, looking for something he can’t seem to find. His jaw works, opening and closing soundlessly, and she knows. She knows his neck is broken, that his spine is split in two. She knows when she reaches down to grab his ankle, he won’t feel a thing.

“Il y a pas rien qu’on peut fair pour lui.” He’s severed like the snake he killed. It’s a fitting end, she thinks, for a man who forgot about finding harmony with the land around him and tried to force his will upon the natural course. In one last act of mercy, she rolls him off the cypress knees until he’s face down in the water—it’s a baptism, a final cleansing, breathing in the water that raised him until his spirit leaves.

New leaves unfurl on the plants in front of her, saw palmetto standing straighter, and Eliette takes her first deep breath in ten years.

Pain flares in her side as her ribs expand and she grunts, blinking in surprise as the sound rushes back to her. Vince is on her in an instant, big hands warm on her waist as he paws at her, trying to get her to do…something. She can’t understand what he’s saying, his words all flowing together in rapid, bumbling English.

“Arrete,” she mumbles, pushing his hands away. Blood trickles down her side, wound throbbing.

“Eliette,” Vince says, worried eyes darting up to her face, “you got stabbed.”

“Oh.”

It’s grown darker, and she flinches when Vince turns the lantern on, bathing the boat in a wash of light. Moths flutter around them, the beat of their dusted wings matching the frantic thrum of her heart. Dull pain rocks through her as Vince pulls the wound apart, a fresh pulse of blood sliding down her skin, and a whimper leaves her as a steady, green glow moves toward them.

It’s brighter where JP’s body floats, a fresher, more acidic spirit joining the steady orbs above. More than anything, she wants her grandmother.

A violent splash erupts from the side of the boat. Eliette startles and finds herself eye to eye with Yellowfang.

He’s so much bigger up close. Even bigger now than he was the first time she saw him as a child.

Her stomach churns as he tosses one of JP’s arms between his teeth. Blood pools under each puncture, new chunks of flesh ripping free with each flip of his head. The sound of solid bone crunching under the force of Yellowfang’s jaw fills her ears, and she can’t take her eyes off the little E tattooed on the inside of JP’s wrist.

He had it for so long, she forgot all about it. It became part of him, ceased to have meaning. But seeing it now breaks something in her. She loved him fiercely for over half her life and now…she wouldn’t crawl into bed with him ever again, wouldn’t smell his cologne lingering in the house after he long since left for work, wouldn’t hear him complain about his stomach hurting because all he had all day was three energy drinks and half of a stale granola bar. All of the mundane things she never once considered slam into her at once and she barely has the strength to move to the other end of the boat as she goes green at the gills. It takes everything she has to keep herself from gagging.

She couldn’t save JP from the rot that grew between them, but she could give him one last dignity by not throwing up on his corpse.

“Oh my God,” she moans.

“Ellie, it’s okay.” Vince is at her back, rubbing her shoulders like sandpaper. She wants him off of her, as far away as possible. Another crunch of bone and JP’s hat floats by, and Eliette heaves again, tears hot on her cheeks as she curls in on herself. “We’ll be okay. I’ll take care of it, but I need you to trust me, okay?” Vince spins her away from the water, holding her face between his hands, blue eyes boring into her. “If anyone asks, we came out hunting and he went over the edge pulling up big game, okay? It’s just one big accident. You tried to get him out of the water, but the gator got to him before you could, yeah? It’s okay, Eliette.”

She can feel the tremors starting, the violence that always tries to shake her apart when she gets too upset. She always had someone else to hold her pieces together—Mamere, JP—and she chokes on the realization she’ll have to learn to do it on her own.

She forces her eyes open and realizes that Vince isn’t looking at her anymore. He’s looking over the side of the boat, gaze locked on Yellowfang. It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Vince,” she warns.

“That’s big game.” His voice is far-away, like someone caught in a trance. He doesn’t see the creature that broke the surface just to the left, small and delicate, pale eyes almost human in the moonlight. “No one would be shocked JP died trying to get that monster in the boat. But maybe someone should.”

“Leave him alone.” She can’t handle one more death in this swamp, the certainty of that boils in her veins.

Vince ignores her, turning to dig under the bench behind him. He pulls out a hunting rifle, and the sound of a bullet settling into the chamber makes her flinch. “I’ve been looking for something like him my whole life.”

Eliette forces herself to her knees as he racks the rifle and pulls back the hammer. It’s a reckless thing, to throw herself into his body, but it’s worth it when she hears the shot blow wide, the boom echoing in the darkness.

Vince’s elbow cracks against her jaw and she stumbles backward.

It happens in slow motion.

She sees the horror in Vince’s eyes as he reaches for her, an unseen force pulling her away. His hand just misses her and the surface of the water cracks against the back of her skull, biting into her skin. She expects pain, but invisible arms wrap around her, and she sinks like a rock to the bottom.

The silt is smooth under foot, and something caresses her ankle as she floats. It feels like an anchor, a long weed wrapped around her leg keeping her down. Blood thrums in her ears and beneath that, the gentle music of water in the dark. It’s peaceful.

She wonders if she should stay.

Wake up, Étoilette.

She doesn’t recognize the voice, something ancient and creaking and French in a way she doesn’t quite understand, but familiarity echoes through her. She may not know the voice, but it knows her. Something brushes against her cheek—the tail of a fish? A turtle’s foot? She can’t say for sure.

We’ve taken care of you this long, the voice says, why would we stop now?

Eliette opens her eyes to darkness, nothing in front of her and nothing behind. The bottom of the swamp feels like silk under her feet as she pushes up and kicks toward the surface, the chill in her bones chased away by the warmth of the water. She surfaces with a gasp, pushing the hair out of her face with desperate hands.

“Shit!” Vince is pale in the boat, eyes wide as he looks at her. “Don’t move, don’t move, fuck. Please don’t move.”

Eliette’s heart beats in sync with the gator’s as she turns to look, surprised to see the smaller one watching her with a burning gaze. Understanding passes between them, and she smiles at the creature sadly. It blinks back, tail swishing, before it disappears beneath the surface. Eliette feels the ridges of its back brush against her toes, an electric shock dancing up her spine.

She trusts the ancient voice of the water, trusts the beast beneath her feet. They’ve kept her safe this long, why would they stop now?

“Come on,” Vince urges, leaning over the side of the boat. “Allons, baby, we gotta move quick.”

Baby. A week ago it would’ve made her swoon, but now it makes her spine itch worse than his borrowed French.

The water is red where her arms pass through, what’s left of JP floating too close for comfort. She can’t make herself look his way, so she focuses instead on Vince. She feels so stupid—she should’ve known. He’s just like every other outsider, only wanting to take and take without ever giving back. He didn’t want her; he wanted what he could take from her: her language, her culture, her knowledge, her body.

She turns her back on him as a small, amber-green form surges out of the water, pale eyes flashing as its teeth find bone.

Bats erupt from the trees with a cacophony of wings and screeches, swallowing the sound of Vince’s scream. She creates distance between herself and the boat as flesh tears and the water bubbles and splashes. The gator’s tail brushes against the back of her calf as she launches into a death roll, and Eliette ducks her head under the water, listening to the sound of Vince’s end.

It’s a thrashing torrent. A muffled scream that dies with a gulp, the woosh of oxygen replacing water, the softened crack of tendon leaving bone.

Everything is red when she surfaces, blood dripping over her eyes and filling her mouth.

The plants around her swallow up their offering in the stillness. Their leaves are full, strong, and vibrant, and the swamp sighs with relief; Eliette knows she lanced the wound. Drained the infection, given her roots a new place to stretch and grow in the space she’s created for herself. The water swirls around her, moving her gently toward the shore, and she thinks it feels like gratitude.

Every inch of her body is strangely silent, uncomfortable, and sluggish in a way that makes it hard to move, or breathe, or even think. Tears burn at the back of her eyes, and she tries to blink them away, to speak, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself, Eliette. The old voice rasps. We did what needed doing.

There’s a gator nosing at her skull and Eliette is realizing this is how she dies.

A panicked whimper leaves her, tears falling freely as she tries to shake her head, tries to tell the thing no, I didn’t ask for this, but it just tsks at her and gives her a firm shake.

Don’t be rude to your grandmother, the voice says.

Eliette blinks and cuts her eyes to the right. The smaller gator floats beside her, pale-green irises warm and familiar as they’ve always been. Mamere? Eliette thinks, and the little thing gives a small snap of her jaws, as if she could hear her thoughts.

It’s okay, you’re okay. She recognizes the voice now clearly as Mamere’s. The swamp has taken care of us, cher. Both of us. Because we have always been a part of it.

An aching starts deep in Eliette’s bones pulling shining threads of gold out of her as it grows. Her eyes go wide as she watches the threads spin faster and faster into a ball of light above her. Her bones crack inside her body as she feels her spine lengthen, her arms bend and legs twist unnaturally as her teeth grow fat in her mouth. There’s another blinding flash, and a sharp burst of pain, and then Eliette’s looking at the world from a new point of view.

Eliette feels her tail swish angrily through the water behind her. She feels young and small, her teeth not yet hardened from age, and she snaps her jaws hard against the water again, trying to come off as more of a threat than she knows she really is.

And now, I’ve kept my promise to you. You and I can be together here… forever.

Eliette’s throat releases a primitive growl. Her jaws snap hard against the water, her heart stuttering in her chest.

About the author

Alexis Richoux is an author from Southeast Louisiana. As a daughter of the Gulf Coast, she takes her inspiration from the natural world around her and finds joy in braiding horror and magic into the mundane. When she isn’t writing, she can be found yelling about hockey, daydreaming about angsty love stories, or arguing with her cats about exactly why they can’t go outside.

Her short story, Nor Moth With Dusted Wing, was featured in Queerthology: Creepy Crawly Edition, and her debut novella, The Haunting of Priscilla Laviolette, was self-published in 2023.

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Tanesha Walker, author of Midnight Sleep!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Tanesha Walker

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Tanesha: One of my biggest fears is waking up and everyone in my life has forgotten about me. It’s irrational, but it’s been in the back of my mind since I was little. Another one is being watched, but I don’t know by who or why.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

T: It was horror movies. My mom and Grammy would let me watch horror movies with them when I was little, but romance was too far so I would get kicked out of the room. I remember watching so many, and I was having so much fun being scared. I remember a scene in one movie where a man in a green room is strapped into a chair. His head was bolted to a metal cage, and his brain was exposed. What got me was that he was fully aware and struggling against the restraints, and the doctor was mocking him. I had nightmares about this scene, and I just wrote it out. I had so much fun recreating that image with words. Then another influence was Corpse Bride, and I took from it was that there is a haunting beauty in the grotesque and macabre. Then, that took me to Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King’s short stories, and some other YA horrors. I remember how scared I would get, and I just wanted more and more. And soon I started writing it. I wanted to write something to scare people. I tried writing other things, and it just didn’t hold my attention as well as when I wrote something horror-related. I get excited when I’m writing it, in a way that I don’t get from my attempts at mystery, science fiction, romance, etc. I had one of my professors in college tell me, “Every time I see your name in the packet, I get excited. Then I remember what you write.”

CL: What was your favorite part of writing Midnight Sleep?

T: My favorite part, other than Bernard Tran, was developing the hospital that Lettie volunteered at. I took a lot of influence from what I had seen from hospitals, retirement homes, and the like, and dialed it up to an extreme. But I still wanted it to feel real. I wanted St. Benedict Hospital to be one of the worst hospitals you could be a patient at. I wanted to have elements of “hey, I’ve seen that before” because who hasn’t been at a hospital with a bed that had a mysterious sheet over it? Or apathetic bordering on neglectful nurses? Or egotistical doctors who don’t see patients as people? How many people know of hospitals that, if you are admitted there, you are as good as dead? So, that’s what I wanted St. Benedict Hospital to be, an amalgamation the worse features of healthcare. Where something like a Bernard Tran could happen.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

T: I wish more people knew about the director Val Lewton. I discovered his work in college, and he was a movie producer for B-rated horror for RKO Pictures. His movie, ‘I Walked with a Zombie’, inspired the route my thesis would take. He was pretty influential in early horror, and is somewhat credited with the jumpscare from his movie Cat-People.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

T: I try to basically live in that moment and engage all my senses. If I were trapped in a pit, what would I see, hear, feel, what would the air taste like, and harness that feeling of doom to project onto the character to make them feel more real. My writing philosophy is that if I’m not scared, then the reader won’t be.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

T: If I do this correctly, my summoning circle would be my TWICE playlist, my pen collection, my cat Berry, a rainy night, and one of my notebooks.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

T: It would be surreal horror, the kind where you, as the reader, know that something is wrong, but the characters are going through these horrific situations as if they’re going on a grocery run. If I could write my best nightmares as they happened exactly, that would be even better.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

T: I hope to see more diverse voices in horror. I want to genre to grow into a larger art form. At the moment it feels like gimmicky. Horror is so important because it appeals to one of our most basic instincts of fear. I think it’s very important for people to experience fear in a controlled setting. I think there is a power in confronting and enjoying fear that can create opportunities for conversations.

CL: What’s next for you?

T: I’m going to keep writing and developing my voice. After getting published, my confidence in my writing has grown, and I have noticed that I am more prolific than I was before. I’m less hesitant. I look forward to exploring what I am capable of and pushing past it. I have journals of ideas that I can’t wait to explore and share with the world.

Thank you for joining us, Tanesha! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘Midnight Sleep’ here!

Welcome to Liberty Station

by Sofia Ciccone

The ragged breathing broke through the silence of the long hallway. A limping woman bounced against the walls before stumbling to the floor. She looked down at her wrist as her arm shook in both exhaustion and horror. She had to get to her room. If she just had some privacy, everything would be okay.

She stood up slowly, her pants hanging low and her skin raw with carpet burn. With one hand holding on to the wall for support, she continued to stumble down the hallway. She gasped on sobbing breaths. Where was her room?

She saw the familiar number 12A on a small plaque next to her door. Her hands fumbled in her pockets, her fingers tensing in pain. Her tears were like lava—a sharp burning that corroded her eyes and left a trail of fire down her cheeks. The woman pulled out the key card and slapped it against the lock. The five-second delay before the door opened nearly did her in.

When she heard the click of the door unlocking, she rushed inside and slammed the door loudly behind her. The pain in her skin had only gotten worse. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. She broke.

The woman began to thrash around her room, screaming and crying out. Her hands swung heavily, knocking her belongings to the ground. Smashing anything fragile, turning over anything heavy, making everything just as broken as she was.

Her eyes darted to the mirror, and she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She pulled in ragged breaths, staring in horror at her condition. Long strands of her hair hung down, slicked with sweat; her teeth bared like an animal.

She ran toward the glass and began grabbing the loose hair and tearing it from her head. Her scalp burned in pain. Then she dug her nails into the flesh of her cheeks, scratching and pulling, shredding away her skin as blood ran down her neck and the front of her shirt. She grunted and cried, and couldn’t even register the hurried knocking on the door behind her.

“Aya, what’s going on? Are you okay?” someone shouted through the door.

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to her arms. She dug her nails in again, wailing at the pain as she began to pull out chunks of skin, the blue veins turning red once they made contact with the air—blood squirting and pooling beneath her.

“I CAN’T GET IT OUT!” she screamed in frustration, the frantic degloving only getting worse. “THERE’S SOMETHING UNDER MY SKIN!”

It was absolutely disgusting. The pristine white walls curved into a lofty dome over her head, supported by alabaster ribs stretching high into the air. The bright blinding light of the large spotlights that burned Camila’s retinas. The space, big enough to accommodate the landing pod right into the pad, cushioned for her arrival, instead of a concrete pad outside connected to the structure by a berthing tube. The money used to build this landing bay alone could sustain the entire agricultural sector for years and years. And it was just a landing bay. It was supposed to be for utility. It was meant to suppress the combustion of the rocket exhaust and cycle through Martian atmosphere and human air, catch the blowing sand and grit of the planet and filter it before it hit the living areas of the structure. Not . . . whatever this was.

“Welcome to Liberty Station,” a voice called out, snapping Camila out of her daze. Standing in front of her was a man wearing a bright blue maintenance suit. His helmet cast a shadow that covered his eyes as he raised his head to meet theirs. Another man—clean-cut and well-dressed—stood impeccably still next to him with a smile plastered across his face.

“My name is William,” said the suit, “and this here is Jones.” He motioned to the maintenance worker, who offered a nod of acknowledgment. William held out a hand, holding it there as an offer. Camila gave a weak smile while she loosely grabbed on, letting him guide her down the steps of their travel pod. Camila heard a rustle behind her. A small blond woman peeked her head out of the opened doors of the pod.

“Hi, guys!” she called to the others with a wave. William politely smiled, and Jones pulled a trolley cart closer to the entrance of the pod. Camila quickly slid her hand out of William’s once she was fully down the steps.

“Welcome back, Holly,” William said. “I hope you had a good time on your vacation.”

Holly handed off each of her bags to Jones. The cart sank lower to the ground with each suitcase stacked on top. Once the last bag was handed off, she made her way down the steps, clearly practiced in the art of traveling in space pods. Camila looked over the dome, noting every gray screw that stood out against the immaculate white paneling. She swallowed on a dry throat as her nerves started to jump.

“I can take your bags,” Jones said.

Camila jumped, startled at the man’s voice. She looked to her right to find him holding out his arm, the smile still plastered on his face. Camila instinctively tightened her grip on her two bags, mainly the one slung across her shoulder.

“Thank you,” Camila mumbled, handing him her suitcase. He reached for the other bag, but she drew back. “I’m going to hold on to this one, if that’s all right with you,” she said, giving a weak smile. The man nodded and placed Camila’s bag on the trolley parked behind him. Camila felt a soft hand plant itself on her shoulder as a body pressed against her back.

Holly smiled, squeezing Camila’s shoulder in reassurance. “How are you feeling?” Holly asked, her voice low.

Camila lifted her hand to Holly’s, slowly sliding her fingers over her warm skin. “I’m okay. Just a little motion sick,” Camila said. Truthfully, the trip only played a small part in her current state of nausea. Something about this clean white structure made her feel confined, lofty though it was. Maybe it was knowing what was on the other side of it.

“I’m sorry. Space sickness is no joke,” Holly said, her smile dropping into a concerned frown. “We can rest up before dinner; it should be gone by then.”

Camila nodded, gently patting Holly’s hand. “Well, sickness aside, this place is insane,” Camila said. “I can’t believe you work here.” Her voice was almost incredulous; she couldn’t correlate the raw and slightly immature image she had of Holly in this very clean, very perfect place.

“I know, right? It’s so cool.” Holly’s voice ticked up in excitement. Holly followed Camila’s gaze around the room as if in complete awe.

“Isn’t this supposed to be some luxury hotel? It looks more like a hospital,” Camila said.

“Oh, don’t worry. Just wait and you’ll see,” Holly said, her white teeth peeking through her smile. “It’s so beautiful that even Aamir would be speechless.”

Camilla chuckled softly, wanting to bask in the excitement with her, but she couldn’t force it.

Why are we here instead of concentrating on revitalizing the Earth? she thought. She shook her head, trying to keep herself focused. She was on assignment, after all.

The sound of the wheeling cart echoed through the landing dock, and Camila and Holly turned to see Jones pushing the trolley with their bags. William walked ahead of him and held out his opened arms to the women.

“Mr. Hadeon let us know that you are their personal guests. They’re thrilled that you could join us,” William said, keeping his gaze pointed at Camila. She gave a smile, holding his gaze. Holly let go of Camila’s shoulder and hooked their arms together.

“When you become a super-famous journalist from this story, please don’t forget that I was the one that vouched for you,” Holly said, her tone light and humorous.

“I think, technically, it was Aamir that vouched for me,” Camila said.

“All right, maybe,” Holly said. “But I was the one who told them about the talented, up-and-coming journalist that Aamir Washington himself trained,” Holly said.

Camila squeezed Holly’s arm. “Okay, okay. You win that one,” Camila said, before noticing William’s unamused expression. Camila cleared her throat. “So, where are we headed to next?” Camila asked.

William sharpened his smile, as if refocusing himself back on his work. “We will guide you to the hotel wing and show you to your rooms,” William said.

Jones pulled the cart of bags toward the wide bay doors. Camila noticed several doors spread across the landing pad, each with their own name plate. Jones took out his identification card, the plastic glistening while he pressed it against the center door’s lock. Camila shot a glance at the metal plaque with fancy red lettering, reading the words Hotel Wing. After a short pause, the doors opened. Jones then placed his ID back into his uniform breast pocket.

Jones led the way, pushing the heavy cart ahead of the group. Camila’s eyes widened once the hotel lobby came into full view. Despite the futuristic look of the landing bay, the hotel seemed to have a more old-fashioned style. Brown leathered couches that rested atop of handwoven red rugs, wooden footrests and corner tables with delicate glass lamps.

Paintings of various wealthy men and a few women hung all around the room, the largest one of Mr. Hadeon himself, hung above the brick fireplace, a fake orange light resting within. The walls were covered in paintings, medallions, and different framed newspaper clippings. Despite the manufactured but cozy atmosphere, there wasn’t a single person inside except for them. The hallway stretched on for a dozen yards. The pure emptiness left an uncomfortable feeling in the air. Camila shivered with it.

Camila’s eye caught a small framed photo of Mr. Hadeon smiling. The portrait was wrapped in a very gaudy and expensive frame, clearly commissioned and carefully designed. Mr. Hadeon had a large grin and was sneaking an arm around his wife, Sara, who was noticeably much younger than him.

Camila had to admire the woman in the photo. Her olive skin looked soft and creamy, complemented by her chestnut-colored hair, which cascaded down her neck and over her shoulders. Her outfit was extravagant, a beautiful shade of blue that had become hard to manufacture since the extinction of the spirulina algae. Her dress was cut to a low V with a high slit up the thigh that Camila couldn’t help but follow with her eyes. However, what really caught her attention was the woman’s expression. Despite being dressed in clothes that likely cost more than the salary of the entire mining sector, she seemed unfulfilled. At first glance, her smile was meek, but her sage-colored eyes burned with ambition. Adam and Sara Hadeon. The ones in charge of this whole project, a luxury hotel on Mars.

Holly walked up to Camila and peeked over her shoulder.

“They look different when they’re not running from reporters,” Camila commented, taking another look at the photo.

“Har, har.” Holly’s eyes focused on Sara, seemingly trailing the same path as Camila’s. “Sure, Sara’s a real looker,” she added stiffly, “and she’s a sweet talker. But trust me, she doesn’t mean a word of it.”

“You have to deal with her a lot?” Camila asked.

“Not really,” Holly said, pulling back suddenly. “She doesn’t talk to people from a lower sector.” She flashed a smile and started down the hallway. “Trust me,” she over her shoulder. “She’s not your type.”

Camila laughed while she looked around to the rest of the lobby. Her gaze stopped as she noticed the large panes of glass, which gave a clear and unobstructed view into the Martian landscape and, above it, swaths of stars in the night sky, so much more than she’d ever seen on Earth—like she was still in space itself. Camila immediately felt a lump in her throat, her neck prickling with goose bumps, her breathing quickened.

The night sky practically glowed. Each star glistened in the sky, no clouds or pollution to cover the purple-and-blue ribbons of the galaxy. A beautiful empty wasteland. One she was trapped on with strangers she didn’t know.

Out there, she couldn’t even scream.

There was a sudden tightness in her chest, heat rushing over her cheeks. Her next breath felt like a struggle to suck in even a modicum of air. Camila clutched at her shirt and doubled over at the onset of a panic attack.

Holly rushed over to her and put her hand on her shoulders. “Just breathe,” she whispered.

William watched on in concern. “Are you feeling the effects of space sickness?” he asked, his voice hesitant and nervous.

Holly rubbed her hand up and down Camila’s shoulder for comfort. “Yeah, I think so,” she said, giving him an apologetic smile. “We should probably hurry to our room.”

“Absolutely, right this way.” William signaled for Jones to keep up and hurried forward.

Slowly, Camila straightened, calming slightly. She held on to Holly’s arm, and they moved past the large desk and through the lobby toward the rooms.

“It’ll go away after a few hours. Your body just needs to adjust to the new environment.” William paused to pull out two plastic room keys. “And these are your rooms,” he said, holding the keys out.

Camila shot Holly an anxious look, and she immediately turned to William. “I thought I told you we’d be sharing a room,” Holly said, furrowing her brow.

“Yes.” William nodded. “However, this was a request from Mr. Hadeon. He specified Camila in 12A and Holly in 13A. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Holly’s face scrunched. “Room 12A?” she said, her tone sharp. William’s calm mask faltered, and a concerned frown formed on his face. “Put her in another room.”

“Most of the rooms are still under construction. These are the only two that have been cleaned and prepared for guests,” William said. He lowered his voice, tucking his head down slightly. “I’m sorry you have different rooms. But you’re still on probation, there’s only so much I can do,” he whispered.

Holly let out a small sigh as she nervously glanced over at Camila.

After a tense second of silence, William cleared his throat. “I’m not paid enough to go check on you guys. So as long as you don’t say anything, he’ll never know,” he said.

“Okay. Thanks, William,” Holly said.

William nodded. He handed a key to each woman, seeming impatient to leave. “I will be down at the information desk if you need anything,” he added. “And at six p.m. sharp the Hadeons will meet everyone in the lobby for dinner and a grand tour. Please let me know if there’s anything else that Jones and I can do for you.”

With a practiced smile, William turned and walked down the hall back toward the lobby. Jones unloaded the bags from the trolley and gently placed them on the floor. Once the cart was fully empty, he gave a curt nod and left. Holly and Camila exchanged a quick look.

“I should probably go to my room. I know William said he wouldn’t check, but he’d do anything to get in Adam’s good graces,” Holly said, grabbing her bags. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.” Holly gave a weak smile before she turned and walked into her room.

Camila’s shoulder ached from the weight of the duffel bag. Why did Adam care which room she slept in? And why was Holly on probation? The thoughts bounced around her head, but the still-present nausea kept her brain unfocused. With nothing left to do, she picked up her bag and entered her room, making sure to slam the door shut behind her.

The first thing Camila did when she entered her room was throw her bags on the floor and rush to the bathroom to throw up. She heaved and retched until she was nearly out of breath. It was a while later when she finally stumbled out and made her way over to her bed. Camila flopped down face-first, feeling the soft comforter caress her skin as she fully relaxed her body for the first time since she was shot away from the Earth six days ago.

After a moment, she opened one of her eyes and peeked around the room. She scanned every useful dresser drawer and desk, noting the good areas to set up her journals and cameras. The room was like the hotel lobby. Nearly everything was wooden and finely furnished. Fake flowers in a vase rested atop a beautifully carved wooden dresser, demurely pressed next to a truly antique grandfather clock. Camila huffed while she took in the rustic and rich-looking room. Just how many trees died to make all this furniture? How in the world did they ship all of this here? Her eyes locked onto a mirror, decadent with a frame of wood stained in a carmine red.

Camila lifted herself off the bed and slowly shuffled over to the mirror, her tired feet leaving a trail through the red rug beneath the bed. She shivered once her feet contacted the cold wooden floors. She looked at herself in the mirror: her curly hair nearly double its usual size as frizz freely sprouted from the spirals; her dark brown eyes in tandem with her deep undereye bags made it seem like there were no whites in her eyes at all. She tried to force a smile, just to look more refreshed, and instead she noticed the golden fake tooth in the back—it had had to be replaced after the water shortage in the agricultural sector prevented her from brushing her teeth. Her skin, normally rich and healthy, over the last six days had gone from a tanned brown with a golden undertone to a nearly grayed look that vampires would envy.

When she stepped back, she was reminded how her shoes still weighed heavily on her feet. She reached down to untie her boots. While she threaded her shoelaces around her fingers, she noticed a small stain on the carpet. Camila paused, squinting her eyes. She noted the darker color of this specific spot. She reached over, placing the tip of her fingers against the carpet and felt the crunch of something that had been thoroughly bleached and cleaned.

Camila slowly dragged her eyes over the scene, following what seemed to be a trail. Her eyes slid across the floor, up the wall, and stopped underneath the mirror. That’s when she noticed the small red dots right underneath. It would be completely hidden when standing—really only noticeable when crouching on the floor. Camila scooted over, careful not to touch it while she analyzed them.

Two little red dots, clearly a liquid, clearly not the paint. Blood? Camila wasn’t sure. However, the giant patch of deep-cleaned carpet below made it pretty damn suspicious. Either way, someone tried to hide it, and as a journalist, of course she’d want to uncover this mystery.

Camila stood up and went to unzip her duffel bag. She pulled out the small camera bag that had been thoroughly bubble wrapped for the departure. Once she got it open, she pulled out her camera and lens. She snapped the pieces in place as she walked back over to the mirror, then she kneeled down and pointed her camera. She took several photos of the carpet and the red dots, both with and without the flash. If only she had packed her black light, then she’d really know for sure if this was blood.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on her door. Startled, Camilla got up and set her camera on her desk. She swallowed hard, as if she’d been caught.

“Hello?” Camila asked cautiously.

“Room service!” Holly’s voice rang out.

Camila laughed to herself, surprised by how nervous she’d been.

“Seems you all forgot to give me a Do Not Disturb sign,” Camila said, opening the door and crossing her arms.

“That’s awful,” Holly replied, feigning displeasure and shock with an exaggerated frown. “Terrible, even. What can I do to make up for our oversight?” She grinned while walking into Camila’s room, grabbing her around the waist. “Do . . . you have any ideas for compensation?” Holly asked, her voice now low and playful.

“Oh, I have some ideas,” Camila murmured.

Holly got on her toes and kissed her. Camila pushed the door behind them closed, being nearly dragged to the bed. Holly carelessly slung the bag she was holding on to the floor. She gently caressed and played with Camila’s hair while another hand slid up her shirt. Camila chuckled against Holly’s mouth and let her fingers tickle the skin along Holly’s side, sliding up toward her bra strap. But just as she touched the fabric, Holly abruptly pulled away.

“Wait, what time is it?” she asked hurriedly. Holly quickly climbed off, but Camila lay there shocked from the sudden loss of warmth.

“Uh . . .” Camila started to say, trying to figure out what just happened. She was about to ask when Holly pointed at the tall grandfather clock that had its hands pointed to five o’clock.

Holly sighed with relief. “Okay, we’re good,” she said. “We still have an hour before dinner.”

Camila lifted herself halfway off the bed with her elbows. “To do what?” she asked.

“To get ready,” Holly said, like it was obvious. “We can’t meet Adam and Sara looking like we just got back from a week of space travel.”

“I mean, we did, though.”

Holly walked over to her bag on the floor, suddenly demure despite the passionate attack she’d unleashed just a few minutes ago. She noticed Camila staring at her. “What?” she asked. “You don’t plan on meeting them like that, do you?” Holly motioned to Camila’s wrinkled clothes.

“Oh, come on. You don’t think I’m hot right now?” Camila said, placing a hand dramatically on her hip and striking a pose.

“I always think you’re hot,” Holly said pointedly. “But Adam likes his women plastic and dolled up, so if you want to get in his good graces, you’d better start contouring.” Holly unzipped her makeup pouch and grabbed her concealer to dab under her eyes.

Camila rolled over on her stomach and groaned. “Hey, I’m the journalist,” she said playfully. “I don’t need to look hot. He needs to worry about getting in my good graces,”

Holly chuckled as she pulled out several makeup brushes. “There’s that famous Aamir Washington attitude,” she said, patting primer on her cheeks.

“So, you didn’t mention that you’re on probation. What’s the deal there?” Camila asked.

Holly instantly froze, the makeup brush in her hand pausing in midair before it could make contact with her face. It was weird; Holly had never once hesitated to answer a question from Camila, and she had no idea what it was about this question in particular that had hit a nerve. Holly recovered, though, letting out a nervous laugh before resuming with her makeup.

“So, you know how I came here to try to research the soil? The whole point was to see if we could grow food here.” Holly set down the makeup brush before picking up her eyeshadow palette. “Since Adam likes to keep his cards close to his chest, he has a really small number of researchers. We ended up losing one, so he made me pause my research to finish the rest of her work,” she said, a scowl forming on her face.

“What do you mean by ‘lost’?”

Holly scoffed. “As in were short a member, so Adam moved me to a different research room without even talking to me about it.” Holly turned around, looking at Camila with frustration. “Obviously, I got mad. Since we’re down a researcher, we had to put off the launch for another year. Adam and Sara are being extra sensitive about it. And God forbid anybody questions Adam, or else they get put on probation.” Holly threw her hands up high, the anger moving her. “Now I have to suck up to him extra hard if I want to keep my job.” Holly turned around and continued doing her makeup in silence.

The answer didn’t feel controversial. So why did Camila think there was more to it? The atmosphere in the room now was tense, too. Camila decided to drop the topic altogether and let Holly turn her ministrations to her own face.

Over the course of the hour, Camila was scolded several times for moving too much and huffed at for blinking while eyeliner was being applied. But by 5:55 both girls were fully dolled up in their makeup and dresses.

Camila walked over to the mirror and looked at her new self. She could admit that Holly was truly magic. She’d been able to transform Camila from practically a zombie into someone who could transfer to the modeling division within the culture sector.

Her skin radiated again, and her curls were now well-defined thanks to all the oils that she’d smoothed over her hair. Her floor-length dress was a silky material that had been dyed a rich royal purple. It was definitely bold for Camila’s taste. A low, square neckline that showed her collarbone and a slit that went up her thigh. She wasn’t even sure when she bought it, but with coaxing from Holly it felt like a waste to not bring it. And good thing—she looked amazing.

Camila turned to drink Holly in next. She was wearing a champagne-pink dress that cascaded down her body and to the floor, the cut elegant and classy, just like Holly. Since she knew she was being admired, Holly turned to wink at her. Holly held a beautiful necklace in her hands, large and chunky glass to simulate jewels glistening in the light.

“You should wear this,” Holly said, holding it out to Camila.

Camila paused. “I don’t really like wearing jewelry,” she said, a soft smile forming on her lips to try politely turn Holly down.

After a few silent seconds, Holly sighed. “I know, but Adam and Sara might treat you differently if they see that your stamp is from the agriculture sector,” she said, motioning to the tattooed lettering on the base of Camila’s neck. Camila instinctively shot her hand up to cover it. “They obviously know where you’re from, but if they’re constantly reminded of it.” Holly paused, taking a breath. “They might not take you seriously,” she finished.

Camila stared down at the necklace and sighed in defeat. “You’re probably right, people from the upper sectors are always like that,” she said, the disappointment edged into her words.

With final touches finished, the two girls began to exit the room. But just before Camila closed the door, she hesitated for a moment. She turned around and grabbed her camera and its bag. Then she rushed out the door to meet Holly in the hallway. She was not amused.

“Really?” she asked flatly. “You’re going to bring that?”

“They wanted publicity, right?” Camila said, starting down the hallway. “I’m just doing my job. Now, let’s go. Can’t be late.”

Holly rolled her eyes and caught up to her in the grand lobby. Refreshed, Camila noticed new details that her tired eyes had glossed over previously. Camila once again looked to the golden-framed paintings that hung from the wood paneled walls. She realized that each painting was a portrait of an investor; every one marked with a small plaque containing their name and sector, but it was really a who’s who of multi-trillionaire CEOs.

The sound of clicking heels pulled their attention to the couple entering the lobby. An older man dressed in an impeccable tuxedo walked in, his arm around a beautiful younger woman. She was stunning.

Camila thought that the pictures didn’t do her justice at all. The woman’s hair was long and glossy, rippling around her like water. Her forest-green dress was adorned with countless gems and crystals, and she wore an elaborate necklace that covered nearly her whole neck as it glistened in the light.

Suddenly very aware of herself, Camila pulled back her shoulders to mimic the flawless posture of the couple. She glanced over at Holly and saw her beaming bright at them. Camila put on her most professional smile and refocused her gaze on Adam and Sara Hadeon: the most powerful couple on earth. Or, she supposed, Mars.

As the older man approached, he lifted his hand at William, sitting at the concierge desk near where Camila and Holly stood waiting. “Mr. Hadeon,” William said in return. His voice was heightened with excitement. “It’s been too long, sir.”

“That it has, William,” Adam replied. “And how have things been over here?”

“Very peaceful.” He turned his head to Sara, who stood with a practiced smile engraved on her face. “It’s a pleasure, Sara,” William said, nodding his head as if bowing to her.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Her voice was soft and silky, her gaze focused on William.

Adam’s gaze moved over to Camila. “Ah,” he said, extending his hand. “And you must be our newest guest.”

Camila’s posture tightened as she reached her hand forward. “It’s an honor, Mr. Hadeon,” she said, her bag hanging off her shoulder.

“Please, call me Adam.” He shook her hand firmly. His eyes darted to her camera bag.

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing my camera,” Camila said. “I figured tonight would be a perfect opportunity to get some amazing candids for the article.”

He dropped her hand. “What an inspired idea. I love a woman with a strong work ethic,” he said. “I knew we’d get along, of course, based on how fervently Holly vouched for you.”

Holly stepped forward with her hands outstretched, and Adam grasped them to pull her in closer and place a greeting kiss on each of her cheeks.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Holly,” Adam said, his hand lingering on her shoulder.

Holly gave a polite chuckle as she stepped back. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Adam nodded and then turned to put his arm around Sara’s waist again, gently tugging her forward. “And this beautiful creature,” he said, “is my wife and partner, Sara.”

Sara smiled at him in response, but it was reserved and withdrawn, almost polite. Then she turned to the other women.

“It’s nice to meet you, Camila,” she said, outstretching her gloved hand. Camila took it awkwardly, suddenly aware of the sweat built up on her palms.

Sara turned, her smile frozen. “And nice to see you again, Holly,” she allowed.

“Yes, always a pleasure,” Holly returned, her tone slightly flatter than the one she used for Adam.

Adam gestured toward the door. “William will lead us on a grand tour of our facilities,” he said. “And then we’ll enjoy a special preview dinner at our exclusive restaurant. If you have any questions, or wish to stop to take any pictures, please let us know.”

Camila gave Holly a nervous glance, but Holly only smiled at her reassuringly. It helped calm her nerves.

The familiar picture that Camila first noticed glistened in the lighting of the hotel lobby, calling for Camila’s attention once again.

“May I ask about this?” she said, drawing everyone’s looks. “This picture?”

Adam turned to see where Camila was pointing and lit up, smiling brightly. He approached the picture to admire it himself.

“Ah,” he said. “This is from the celebration party my family threw after I earned my degree in astrophysics.” His face glowed with pride.

“Oh . . .” Camila said, dragging out the word to feign interest. “Yes, I remember reading that you graduated from a very rigorous course.” She slowly unzipped her camera bag, pulling out a small notebook and pencil she kept tucked inside. She didn’t say what she was thinking of course, which was a course you barely passed.

She jotted down a few notes before smiling at Adam. “Can I take a photo of you two next to the picture?”

Adam let out a chuckle, both of them came to stand next to the photo. Camila bent forward slightly to angle the camera just right, and when she put her eye to the viewfinder, she noticed how Adam’s eyes traced down her cleavage as she took the shot.

“Perfect,” she said with both a smile and an internal cringe. She clicked on the image to look over the photo. She nodded that it was good. Camila pulled up the neckline of her dress before having to squint her eyes as they entered the bright and blinding room of the landing dock.

The tour lasted longer than Camila would’ve liked. William overexplained every detail while pointedly praising Adam for his brilliant ideas and Sara’s keen decorative eye. Camila had to suppress every eye roll and scoff that threatened to jump out of her.

And Adam would not shut up about all his accomplishments. How he was the first person to invest in Mars, how he was a super-genius who saw potential in what others couldn’t, how he was basically an astronaut (Despite failing his physical test due to his poor vision, Camila internally chided).

She kept sneaking glances at the silent Sara, glued to his arm. Her eyes were glossed over, and she barely reacted to anything Adam said. Like a Stepford Wife, she thought, or maybe it’s just the boredom of being married to that man. She leaned toward the latter and let pity well in her chest for the woman. Despite the proper and elegant display he put on when they first met, Camila quickly realized just how much Adam loved to talk about himself and his money.

They were arriving back in the lobby, Adam now blabbering about his favorite architectural detail in his favorite mansion, when Jones came hurrying up. He gave a humble nod to Adam and began speaking with his eyes trained on the ground.

“Mr. Hadeon. Sorry to interrupt, we’ve received a message from one of the investors. They say it’s an urgent matter.” Adam sighed and clenched his fist. In just a few seconds, he collected himself and turned back to Camila and Holly.

“My apologies, something has come up. With this level of investment, everything seems like an emergency. If you would be so kind to wait for me, I will return in a few minutes.” His apologies seemed reasonable, and his voice and face were calm, but the sweat beading on his forehead betrayed something else.

“Don’t worry about it, Adam. We’ll be okay here,” Holly said. Adam gave a small nod, and as he began to walk away, Sara hesitated, glancing over at Camila and Holly before hurrying off to walk beside him.

With Adam gone, William excused himself back to the concierge desk.

Camila and Holly grinned at each other and plopped into some lush leather armchairs in front of a faux fireplace.

“So, where are the labs you do your research in?” Camila asked, taking Holly’s hand.

Holly glowed with pride. “They’re over in the laboratory wing. I doubt they’ll take the tour there, though. Most of that stuff is classified.”

“Does that mean when you talk about your work, you’re telling me super-classified information?”

Holly gave a sly smile. “I don’t tell you everything that goes on in there,” she replied. “Plus, science is science—the study of genes exists with or without this program. So as long as I don’t get too specific, then all is well.” Holly’s voice was confident and assured.

“You guys are doing genetics now?” Camila tilted her head. “I thought you were studying the soil bacteria?”

Holly’s lips twitched before she held up her hand playfully. “Slow down there, Miss Reporter,” she said. “First, it’s genomics. Second, I can’t go into details. It’s all classified, remember?” She glanced over to where Adam and Sara had exited the lobby, checking to see if they’d overheard her.

“If the study of bacteria and genomes exists with or without the project,” Camila pressed, “then what’s wrong with asking some questions about it?”

“Yeah, yeah, smart guy, go ahead.”

“So have you been able to find anything living on this planet?”

“We’ve only been able to identify an amoeba,” Holly said. “But there are a few other life-forms that have caught our attention. We know they belong to the kingdom Protista, but what exactly they fall under is unclear at the moment.”

“Okay, now for the real question,” Camila said.

“Shoot,” Holly said. Her tone was playful as she gave Camila a small smile.

“What is the end goal of all of this?” Camila asked.

Holly paused. A silence washed over them while they stood there.

“It’s a resort for the wealthy,” Holly replied. Her tone was short; she was clearly taken aback and withdrawn from the conversation.

“Come on. A resort with a ton of research labs?” Camila said. Holly paused for a few seconds, pondering how much she could reveal.

Holly gave a look around the room, making sure they were alone. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “The end goal is to eventually move humanity to Mars,” she said.

Camila felt her stomach harden. Her lips parted as multiple questions raced to her tongue. “They’re abandoning Earth?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“Not completely. Like I said, it’s for the elite only. They only have room for a hundred guests at a time,” Holly said.

Camila stood there in astonishment. Then a loud chuckle burst through her throat. “So, they rob us of our resources, work us to the point of starvation, then abandon us when they’ve had their fill?” she said. The anger burned behind each word.

“Well, between you and me, there’s no way they’ll be able to live here in their lifetime. Everything here is too fucked for proper life-forms,” Holly said.

As if distancing herself from the conversation, Holly walked over to study her reflection in the window, readjusting the straps on her dress and standing so close that her breath fogged up the glass. Camila took in several breaths, trying to get her anger under control. Before long, she was able to slip back into her professional mask.

While Holly smoothed down her dress, Camila noticed when Holly flinched—her gaze locked onto something outside.

“Everything okay?” Camila asked, moving toward her.

Holly jumped back, and when she spun around, her face was pale, her mouth pulled tight as her eyes welled up with oncoming tears. Camila’s stomach lurched with fear as she glanced outside. The only thing she could make out was a couple meters of orange land before it faded into complete blackness. Camila stood for a few seconds, waiting for Holly to respond, but the silence became unbearable.

“What did you see?”

Holly shook her head to clear it. Then she pressed her lips together. “I-it was nothing. It’s just dark,” she replied, a nervous stutter accompanying her words.

Camila nodded. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Seeing how dark and empty it is out there really freaks me out. Not to mention . . . something here doesn’t feel right.”

Holly stiffened. “What makes you say that?” she asked, her voice hard and serious. A tone Holly rarely used. Camila’s eyebrows knit in surprise at the sudden sharp tone.

“I mean, it’s just . . . empty. It reminds me of the sandstorms during the Great Water Shortage.” Camila folded her arms across her chest. The trauma of it never really left her. Those nights when she and her sisters had to huddle together and cover each other’s eyes and ears, while her parents tried to hammer blankets into the windows to keep the sand out. The worst part was always the morning after. Everyone had to return to work, and all they could do was ignore the rotting corpses that lay half buried in the brown drifts.

“Oh, right,” Holly said without emotion. Camila looked at Holly, surprised—it wasn’t like her to be so dismissive of the horrors of Camila’s childhood—but Holly wasn’t looking at her, she was focused on the landscape outside again, her body still tense.

“Are you about to tell me that you saw something out there? If so, please don’t,” Camila said, nervously laughing, “this place is already creepy enough.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Holly said with a forced chuckle and a firm smile on her face.

Camila continued to scan the outside for any movement. “You don’t think there’s anything dangerous out there, do you?” she murmured. Camila crossed her arms, rubbing them for comfort against the black outside. “You said there are only single-celled organisms here.”

“Hard to say for sure,” Holly replied, her eyes narrowed as she carefully picked her next words. “The water sources are mostly underground with occasional flows on land, but nothing substantial. Since there’s vapor in the air, maybe in a couple millennia complex life can form. But as far as I’m aware, we’re the only things that can hurt each other here.”

Just when Camila opened her mouth to ask further questions, the sound of two doors opening caught her ear. They both looked over at Jones, who guided Adam and Sara back to them. Holly patted Camila’s shoulder and walked over to greet Adam.

Camila glanced outside again and took off the cover of her camera lens. She frowned at her reflection in the glass as she adjusted the brightness settings on her camera. Her enemy was always the reflection in the windows.

Camila lifted the camera to her eye, steadying the lens to focus on the few visible meters outside rather than her reflection. She froze in her spot as something large darted through the shadows. It was so fast that it startled Camila into nearly fumbling the camera. She took several steps back and tightened her grip on. She released a shaky breath and repositioned her eye to the camera, now seeing the world through it. She wanted to test something. No longer caring about her reflection, she turned on her flash, and she took several more steps back. Once again, she hit the shutter on the camera, and with a loud click the bright light of the flash illuminated the window.

If something was alive out there, it’d most likely react to the camera flash. Camila stared intently, watching, waiting. But seconds passed with no new movement, no strange sounds. Camila let out a steady sigh before turning back toward the rest of the group, looking down at the photos captured on her camera as she did. She paused on the photo captured with the flash. At first the only thing that caught her attention was her reflection, the terrified expression and her awkward stance.

But when her eyes wandered over to the few visible pixels of the outside, she froze. There was something carved into the ground. She zoomed in with her camera to try to understand what exactly she was seeing. Her mouth parted in a gasp as she saw some kind of footprint. It was huge, but the silhouette followed the anatomical structure of a human foot.

Something was outside.

“What the fuck?” Camila muttered under her breath. Whatever was out there was definitely bigger than an amoeba. There was no way Holly didn’t know about it.

“Camila,” a soft voice called from a distance. Camila looked up from her camera and saw Holly, Adam, and Sara standing by the door to the next room.

What if they all know?

Camila smiled awkwardly in return and quickly turned off her camera. She put the lens protector back on as she rushed over. Now’s not the time, Camila thought to herself while she rejoined the party. Not without more information.

Holly smiled at her, but Camila didn’t look her in the eye. Instead, she kept her face straight ahead at William, who was opening the door leading to the grand dining hall.

As they walked in, Camila took a good look at the place. It was completely over-the-top, with a large rectangular table that could easily seat twenty people set in the middle of the room. There were several smaller tables placed strategically around, but none of them were as decorated. It was like Holly said: enough room for about a hundred guests. The large table was adorned with handwoven red cloth decorated with gold embroidery, and delicate porcelain plates. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling had countless glass pieces, sparkling in the imitation candlelight. Camila stood with her mouth agape, staring at the glistening light reflected off it.

Adam walked up to her and lifted his head toward the fixture. “Absolutely stunning, isn’t it?” he said, his voice dripping in pride.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Camila replied, her voice hushed in awe. “Where’d you get it?”

“The mining sector,” Adam said.

Camila eyes widened as a realization struck her: It wasn’t glass—it was crystal. She slowly slid out her little notebook and pencil. “That’s quite an accomplishment,” she said with the friendliest smile she could muster. “It’s nearly impossible to get valuables from there. How’d you do it?”

Adam opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, a voice cut through their conversation.

“Adam, honey?”

Both he and Camila turned around to find Sara standing at the table, waiting for him with her hands resting atop her chair. Adam’s mouth formed an O shape, and he rushed over to Sara. Camila watched as Sara pulled out Adam’s chair for him, standing silently while he sat down. As he adjusted his tie, Sara walked over to pull out her own chair and take a seat next to him.

Chivalry is dead, Camila thought. She walked over to join Holly on the other side of the table. She sat directly across from Sara, but the woman had her eyes downturned, staring blankly at the table. The table was insanely large. Despite sitting across from each other, Camila couldn’t help but feel like the table separated Adam and Sara from her and Holly. A clean divide between the group.

William rushed over with a bottle of wine. He uncorked it and poured Adam a small portion. Camila watched as Adam swirled it in before taking a small sip. His lips curved in a satisfied smile before he nodded at William to pour for the rest of the table.

Camila looked down at her wineglass, her hands tense with anxiety. She had a plan for her story, and she couldn’t afford to be inebriated. She picked up the wine and tilted it toward her lips, feigning a sip. Next to her, Holly took a long pull, savoring the wine.

“Absolutely divine,” she said, her smile pointed directly at Adam. If Camila didn’t know better, she’d swear Holly was flirting. But—Holly said herself that Adam preferred a certain kind of woman. Maybe obsequious was part of it.

“I’m glad you think so,” he replied, his satisfaction deepening. “I’ve been saving this wine for a special occasion.”

Camila’s eyes moved to Sara. She sat perfectly still, her wine untouched and expression stiff. Camila placed her notebook and pencil on the table as William came in with their first course.

He set down a large plate of thinly sliced faux meats, a very expensive brand from what Camila could see, and a small side of cheese and honey. “Family style,” Adam preened. “Since we’re all friends here, no need for formalities, am I right?”

“Of course, Adam,” Holly said with a pointed look at Camila. “Friends.”

Adam served himself multiple portions of meat, and Sara gently stabbed a single piece of cheese. Holly joined in, gathering her fair share while Camila sat and watched them.

“From my understanding,” Adam said as he chewed loudly, “you were born in the agricultural sector, weren’t you?” He motioned his fork toward Camila. Camila smiled politely.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Which division?” Adam asked, stuffing another piece of meat into his mouth.

“Mixed farming,” Camila said, using her fork to scoop up two slices of meat. She looked back at Adam as he stared at her, waiting for her to clarify, “We cultivated crops and raised the livestock,” she finished.

Adam stiffened slightly. “Oh yes, I remember now,” he mumbled, his eyes darting away to avoid Camila’s.

Too late, she thought. She knew the body language of a guilty man.

“Well, then you might recognize this meat,” Adam said, lightly coughing as he picked up his wine. “This is a thinly sliced goose.”

Camila froze, stopping mid-chew. She looked down at the meat she’d just sliced into.

But next to her, Holly gasped in delight. “Absolutely brilliant,” she said. “How were you able to get this?” Her voice bounced in excitement, eagerly cutting into her next piece.

Geese were critically endangered, teetering on extinction after many of the plants that provided their food withered away. The government put a full stop on all production and selling of meat products, including geese, and kept them very tightly monitored within the agricultural sector. Any selling or purchasing of their meat could result in immediate exile. Even if every farmer pooled together every cent of their money, they still wouldn’t be able to afford this contraband.

Camila looked up, first at Adam, who smiled stupidly at Holly’s praise, then at Sara. She was startled to find Sara staring straight back at her with a low smile on her face and knowing eyes. It felt like the first true expression she’d seen on the woman’s face.

Camila took a deep breath. For Adam, parading the rarest and most sought-after delicacies was meant to bribe her cooperation, impress her with something Camila would never have even seen during her days in the agricultural sector—something given so freely to her by them. It was a way of showing Camila what he could offer her, but only if she wrote a good article. But just like he nearly flunked his astrophysics course, he forgot to do all his homework—if he had, he would have known that this would horrify her, not impress her. But Sara? That look said that Sara didn’t forget, and she knew exactly how disturbing Camila would find eating one of the last endangered geese. Sara knew that if Adam’s efforts at bribery didn’t work, then the goose would also serve as a warning: If your piece isn’t complimentary, we have so much money and power we can eat something to extinction, and we can erase you just as easily. Camila took a deep breath. She didn’t care. Her mind was spinning already with how she would expose them, drafting the sentences for biggest impact. Her fingers gently tapped on the table as she forced her eyes back toward Adam. Now is not the time. Refocus on gathering, she told herself. Work on the execution later.

Camila watched everyone gorge themselves on the prized and nearly extinct goose, occasionally taking careful glances up at the chandelier. She silently cursed herself for not studying the exports of the mining sector more. If she could pinpoint the exact crystals, she’d have more ammunition. She would have to take some photographs later when her hosts weren’t present and see if she could determine provenance when she was back Earthside. As William came around and grabbed the platter from the center of the table, Camila saw there was still plenty of untouched meat left on the top. Wasted.

“Thank you, William,” Adam called, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

As William left the room, Adam looked around at the group and smiled. “I hope you’ll enjoy what I have planned next,” he turned to Camila, and all she could do was give a half-hearted smile, mentally steeling herself for the next dish.

An awkward silence stretched over the table. Holly gave a few nervous glances in Camila’s direction, clearly confused by her lack of response. They luckily didn’t have to wait long before William returned, holding a giant platter of what Camila recognized as a roasted suckling pig.

William set the platter down and handed the large knife to Adam, who took it eagerly. Adam stood and began sawing. While this wasn’t as grotesque as the goose, Camila struggled to contain her discomfort. In the agricultural sector, Camila’s family could only scavenge the worst parts of the pig. The parts that no one wanted to eat.

This time, she had to look at the whole. She saw herself reflected in its dead and vacant eyes as she forced herself to smile.

“This looks amazing,” Holly said, grabbing her own cutlery in anticipation.

“Why, thank you,” Adam replied, giving her the first slice. “This is one of my favorite—”

“I remember reading you’re one of the leading contributors to multiple different charities, Adam,” Camila interrupted, unable to stand the pointless flattery any longer. Her fingers intertwined as she rested her chin on her hands.

“Yes, I like to give back to my community,” Adam said. The smile on his face flickered, and he straightened up his posture.

“Can you tell me about them?” Camila asked, flipping open her notebook and readying her pen. “I think it’ll look great for the article.”

Moving on from Camila’s rude interruption, he went on. “Of course. I’m one of the main contributors to the Miners for Profit and the Green Harvest Foundation,” Adam said, lightly folding a new and clean napkin to place in his lap before carving off more of the pig’s flesh. “Our focus is to rebuild and rehabilitate the infrastructure and workplace systems in the mining and agriculture sectors. We hope to make each sector safer and more livable.”

Camila smiled and nodded while she took notes. “From my understanding, you are listed as the main contributor to the charity. Would you say that’s accurate?”

Adam beamed, the smile showing grim bits of goose stuck in his teeth.

Camila’s eyes darted to Sara. Her smile seemed more genuine now, her body relaxed against the chair. Both Adam and Sara now seemed to think Camila was on their side.

“Yes. I donate purely out of the need to do what’s right,” Adam said. His tone was smug and proud. “It’s a thankless job, but someone has to do it.”

Camila felt her eye twitch slightly, but she quickly composed herself, keeping a professional smile firmly in place.

Sara wrapped her hand around Adams. “You do amazing work, honey,” she said.

Camila jotted this down and underlined Sara’s name. The only times she’d spoken was to praise to her husband or make small talk.

“Are you acquainted with Harvey Wilde?” Camila asked.

The smile on Adam’s face twitched, but he soon straightened and adjusted his tie. “Yes, he is an amazing businessman. He’s the founder of Miners for Profit and the Green Harvest Foundation as well as several other charities,” he said. His words were detached and impersonal, but Camila knew that Harvey was a long-time business associate and close friend of Adam’s.

“Yes, you all do very important work,” she said.

Camila continued questioning his charities. She danced the line between soft, easy questions and investigative probing ones. Her scrutinizing inquiries were interjected between flattering statement. Her softballs interspersed with questions sharp enough to prick but not strong enough to bleed.

She asked about his access, his procedures. His shipping process, how he got his materials, how he kept it secure. Each time complimenting him for his intelligence, his bravery, benign unimportant things to keep him interested and relaxed. Once he fell for her flattery, she’d pivot once more.

Adam answered it all, obliviously satisfied with his own wealth of knowledge and confidence. Once Camila reached the end of the page, she closed her notebook, now signaling the questions were over. The air in the room was much lighter as both Adam and Holly relaxed into the atmosphere. Adam beckoned William over.

“William, would you get us another bottle of wine?” Adam asked cheerfully. “Get the one on the top shelf.”

William nodded before rushing off.

Camila didn’t enjoy the festivities. She only observed. Observed how Adam barely chewed with his mouth closed, how Holly was trying so hard to stay on Adam’s good side, but, most notably, how Sara also observed.

Her careful and watchful eyes stayed locked on Camila and Holly. Something about it unnerved Camila. Like a predator waiting to strike. At first, she had written Sara off as a silent trophy wife, but the silence wasn’t because she had nothing to say. Just like Camila, she was waiting. Watching. Assessing. Sara was much more than Camila had previously thought; that much was clear.

Camila watched Adam and Holly continue to tear into what was left of the baby pig. Camila felt the disgust bubble in her stomach as Adam loudly chewed the skin between his teeth. Sara only grabbed a small bite, using her fork and knife to saw off tiny bits of meat and slowly introduced it into her mouth.

Camila lifted her fork and cut out a small portion, giving a quiet thanks to the pig as she carried it over to her plate. The rest of the night was, to an outsider, perfect. Expensive wine was sipped, delicious food was eaten, and business relationships were formed. To almost everyone there, this was a perfect success. However, to Camila, this was nothing more than a play. A hollow sport the elite participated in. It wasn’t until she and Holly were returning to their rooms that she felt the fire burn again. The familiar fire of rage.

The walk back to the hotel room was filled with endless prattle from Holly and William about how delightful the dinner was. How proud she was of Camila and herself for being good enough to get here, how delicious the food was, how expensive it must’ve been. Things Camila couldn’t bring herself to respond to. She gripped her notebook and camera tightly to her chest as their heels clicked down the halls, feeling like her role as a journalist was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

The lighting of the lobby had been adjusted to simulate nighttime; a dim and sleepy orange illuminated the hall. Camila’s eyes drifted up to the large golden portraits of the investors, stopping on Harvey Wilde’s portrait.

“Thank you, William. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Holly said, laughing while she and Camila continued toward their rooms.

Holly sneakily glanced back to the lobby, making sure William was gone before she turned and smiled at Camila. “Wanna have a sleepover?” she asked, her voice bubbly.

“You know it.” Camila placed her key card against her lock. “There’s actually something I want to talk to you about.”

Holly straightened slightly, her smile slipping. She followed Camila into her room. Holly softly closed the door while Camila quickly took off her shoes and bra, sighing in relief as she threw them to the floor.

“Are you okay? You were quiet toward the end of the dinner,” Holly said, her tone now concerned and low.

“He donates money, because it’s the right thing to do. His charity work is such a thankless job,” Camila quoted, mocking Adam’s words. “That piece of shit doesn’t donate anything. It’s an offshore account so he can store money without it being taxed. Does he think I’m stupid or something?”

Holly sighed, set down her purse, and slid off her shoes.

“Harvey Wilde has been his business associate for nearly twenty years, Holly,” Camila said, her tone serious. “They’re money laundering! They pool the money, then split it when they need funding for one of their stupid projects.”

“Sure.”

Frustrated, Camila threw her notebook onto her dresser. “Do you not see it?”

“Camila,” Holly hissed, her voice low and biting as she gave wary glances around the room. “That’s a big accusation; you cannot say that here.” Holly took a small step toward Camila, like she was trying to implore her to hear sense.

“Or what? Don’t tell me they have this room bugged or something,” Camila said sarcastically.

“No, but it’s not exactly a professional attitude,” Holly replied, stumbling over her words as if she were trying to think of the best way to phrase it. “Do you have any proof?”

“Holly, I live in the proof,” Camila said. “He’s supposedly investing that money to make the agriculture sector livable.” Camila walked back over to her dresser and picked her notebook up, flipping aggressively through the pages. “That charity has been running for six years and not only have workplace injuries from aging infrastructure increased, but also the amount of people dying from starvation or dehydration has doubled. He’s not investing shit!” Camila voice was now much louder. Holly scoffed.

“You don’t live there,” Holly said, her voice low. Camila paused, her face scrunching at the statement. “That’s not even your sector,” Holly continued. “You moved, remember? It’s not your business anymore.” She walked over to Camila’s bed as she pulled off her jewelry.

“Holly, my family still lives there,” Camila said, her voice edging on disbelief. “It is absolutely my business if my sisters die because there’s not enough food!”

“Jesus, Camila,” Holly said, rolling her eyes. “You know that’s not how the world works. They’re fine, you send them money every month. You are one of the few people who got the opportunity to move up.” Holly stood from the bed, facing Camila. “Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? I mean, like would actually murder someone?” Holly crossed her arms; her face now pulled in a scowl. “I’m sorry your family couldn’t move up with you, but don’t you think you should be more thankful?”

Camila stood in silence. Her brain couldn’t even compute what Holly was saying. The only clear thought she could register was that Holly was acting completely out of character.

“That man is responsible for so many deaths,” Camila said, imploring Holly to remember, breathing heavily between the words as she lifted her finger to point toward the direction of the hotel lobby. “Did you know that he was the one who caused the Great Water Shortage?”

“What are you even talking about?” Holly shook her head and rubbed her hands on her face, groaning into her palms. “You spout conspiracy theories now?” Camila walked to her duffel bag that she had thrown onto the floor that morning. She zipped it open and pulled out a folder containing newspaper clippings and documents.

“During the Annual Trade, the research sector gives their water reserves to the agriculture sector. Most of it that year? That was his companies’ water,” Camila said, emphasizing her words. “He gave us eight hundred thousand gallons of contaminated water because he couldn’t be damned to throw away his toxic waste.” Camila threw some of the papers on the bed, watching as Holly leaned over and looked at them. Holly half-heartedly picked up the papers and glanced them over. “He was investigated by the Bureau of Trading Management and was found responsible.”

“No, it was found inconclusive,” Holly corrected. Camila laughed, sifting through her papers until she pulled out another.

“No, the first committee found him responsible. Then the head of the bureau left abruptly, and wouldn’t you know it? She was replaced by one of Adam’s longtime associates, and that committee was the one who then declared the investigation inconclusive.” Her tone was firm and exhausted. “Funny how that worked out, isn’t it?”

Camila stared Holly down. Holly only shook her head.

“Five hundred,” Camila stated. “That’s how many people died. Eighty-eight deaths by poisoning, one hundred and seventeen poisoning-related conditions. Not to mention—” Holly stood up, making her way to the door. Camila stood in her way—“we had to ration the clean water between the crops and the livestock. There was nothing left for the people,” she said, her voice wavering with emotion as Holly tried to step past her. “Three hundred and nineteen people died from dehydration. Not to mention the resultant dust storms that killed ninety-three.”

Holly threw her hands up, giving up walking past Camila. The silence stretched into the room. Camila once again sifted through the papers, lifting a small clipping. She clenched her jaw as she reread the words highlighted on the page.

“Adam Hadeon said, and I quote, ‘If they can’t manage their water, then they don’t deserve it,’” Camila said, angry tears gathering in her eyes. “Holly, I had to lick rainwater out of a pig’s trough. Dirty fucking pig water.” The hatred and sadness shook around her head, making her drunk on the world’s shittiest cocktail.

“And did you see the chandelier?” Camila asked. Holly looked at her, her own tears lining her eyes as she clenched her mouth closed. “Thirty crystals. I counted. Only government personnel can purchase materials produced by the mining sector because we’re so low on fossil fuels that we can barely run our country, not to mention the labor rights violations in crystal mining, the toxic runoff, the ecological destruction.” Camila could feel the tears running down her cheeks, but she held Holly’s eyes. “Do you remember when he was recorded saying he hopes they all die in a cave-in? Because they’re ‘the bottom feeders of society’? The same people who mined those stupid crystals.”

“If you hated him so much, why did you take the job?” Holly whispered.

“To look him in the eye,” Camila said. “To see for myself what kind of monster I’m dealing with.”

Holly’s face contorted. “Camila, I worked really hard to get here. Do you know how much schooling and studying I needed to do to even make the list of candidates? All you had to do was upload some photos and now you have an internship with the Aamir Washington. I cannot have you fucking this up for me.”

Camila couldn’t even laugh. It wasn’t just some photos; it was an exposé on the horrible living conditions of the sector. “You were born into the research sector,” she said. “Your dad is an old friend of Adam’s. You don’t know what hard work means.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with anger.

“Fuck you,” Holly finally said. This time, she firmly pushed past Camila and left her room.

The door slammed loudly, but Camila kept her gaze forward. The tears dripped down her face.

Camila angrily wiped her cheeks. “Fuck you, too.”

Camila tried to sleep, but her mind refused to settle down. Her body and brain fought against each other. The silence of her room practically suffocated her. Just when she finally began to relax her eyes, the sound of shouting reverberated through the lobby. She immediately shot up from her bed, trying to discern who it was, and what they were saying.

“William, where the hell are you!?” the voice yelled again. It was Adam, and his tone was drenched in anger.

Camila looked over to the clock, seeing the arms rested on 1:19 in the morning.

What now?

Camila sighed and rose from her bed. She pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a white button-up to look more pulled together, despite Holly always telling her the outfit made her look too frumpy.

Camila grabbed her camera and notebook and placed them inside her camera bag. She slung it over her shoulder before stepping out into the hallway. As she closed the door behind her, she paused.

There were small marks against her door. If it wasn’t for the harsh lighting in the hallway, she might not have even noticed. Camila crouched down and examined them, lightly running her finger along the indents. They appeared to be . . . scratch marks.

Camila gulped and straightened away from the door. She spun around to look down the long hallway, thinking about the shadow and footprint she’d seen earlier. Could it . . . ?

“WILLIAM!!!” Camila looked down the hall to see the silhouette of Sara and Holly in the lobby as Adam kept shouting William’s name. Sara and Adam were dressed in silky pajamas. Long shawls and robes were hooked around their bodies, the light catching each fold of the fabric. Holly was still in her dress from dinner, but her makeup had been smudged, like she had been crying. Camila knew the atmosphere with Holly would be tense, but something was deeply wrong for Adam to sound so frantic so early in the morning.

She walked toward the group, keeping her held high when she made eye contact with Holly. A frown spread across Holly’s face, and her eyes shifted away. Following her gaze, Camila saw Adam holding a walkie-talkie in his hand.

“What’s going on?” Camila asked. Adam hesitated for a second—fear or embarrassment, Camila wasn’t sure.

“Something was on banging our door,” Sara said, her voice relaxed. “We thought it might be William, but we can’t find him.”

“I mean, who disappears on Mars?” Adam said.

“What about Jones?” Camila asked.

Holly opened her mouth to answer but was cut off by a smooth voice.

“Most likely in the maintenance cabin,” Sara replied, unbothered. Her eyes stared forward at her husband with a bland, polite smile plastered on her lips.

“Have you guys checked if William is there?” Camila asked, moving so that Sara had to meet her eyes.

Sara looked down at Camila, her eyebrow slightly raising. “The maintenance cabin is specifically for technical matters. That’s outside William’s purview,” she said, maintaining her vacuous smile, but Camila could feel the slight judgment in her words.

“Well, if there are only two hotel workers in the entire station, they’re probably together pretty often,” Camila pointed out. “Maybe his walkie died, or Jones needed help with something. William seems pretty multitalented.”

The room grew silent. Both Holly and Sara stared at her, and Camila lifted her hands in a defensive position.

“I mean, it’s possible, right?”

Sara thought to herself for a moment, letting her eyes fall to the ground as she rolled the possibilities in her head. Then she let out a soft “Hm . . .” before walking over to Adam and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Shall we check the maintenance wing?” Sara asked him.

Adam looked between Sara and the walkie-talkie. Eventually, his work smile returned. “Great idea, honey,” he said, heightening his pitch to hide the annoyance in his voice.

As everyone filed behind him, Camila felt the need to pay more attention to the people around her. And that included her girlfriend.

Camila was very aware of how angry Holly was with her—it practically vibrated off her. Camila wanted to smooth things over—if nothing else, then so as not to completely ruin the trip—but she didn’t want to hash it out in front of Adam and Sara.

A long silence stretched over the walk to the next wing. Once they reached the door, Adam placed his identity card against the lock, then waved them into the maintenance wing.

The door clicked locked behind her, and inside was the most utilitarian architecture she’d seen yet in the station—concrete floors instead of wood and wool, steel doors, ducts and pipes overhead. It still felt pristine and elevated, like a renovated warehouse.

As the group approached the end of the hallway, Camila was struck by an overwhelmingly awful stench. Adam pinched his nose closed as his face scrunched in disgust.

This wasn’t the smell of anything chemical or fire related, this was something organic. Like when crops rotted, left in the field for too long. Sara looked the most affected by it—she stood stiff, with her hands clutched together, and her face tense with disgust.

Adam suddenly stopped, and Sara bumped into his back. He held his hand out to his side as if he was trying to prevent the women from taking a step closer. Of course that did nothing to stop Camila.

She gasped when she saw the scene in front of her, but it wasn’t enough to tamp down the journalist at her core. Slowly, she pulled the camera out of her bag.

The walls and floors had been scratched to hell, long, deep scars embedded into the firm concrete, which even drills would have trouble penetrating. Dark, clotted blood stained the floor. But what really unnerved Camila were the long trails through the puddles—four on each side, like the marks of someone being forcibly dragged down the hallway. Camila lifted her camera up and took a photo of the scene.

“Jesus Christ,” Adam said. His voice was low and terrified. He looked over at Holly, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth hanging open. “What the fuck?” he mumbled to her. Her lips grew tight as she returned his wide-eyed stare—but also, Camila noticed, she gave the smallest shake of her head.

What did she know? What was she hiding?

Adam looked back down the hallway. “William?” he called out, his voice hesitating.

They all stood in silence, nobody daring to move. Camila felt her heart thumping in her chest, and she was filled with fear but also anticipation. She took a step forward, sidestepping Holly to get a better view of the hallway. This time, she didn’t care if the others saw. She snapped another photo, one much more clear and encompassing. Camila took in a breath of courage and began to lead the group down the hallway. She took slow careful steps, camera clutched in her hand, practicing the breathing exercises Aamir had taught her. Sara and Holly trailed right behind, Adam hung in the very back.

Camila walked slow and steady, taking pictures of each scratch, each bloodstain, capturing the echoes of a desperate struggle for life. She paused at one and looked deeper. She caught the shine of what seemed to be a fingernail embedded into the floor, the skin from the finger still attached to the ends. Camila felt the nausea in her throat. Her hands began to shake. She crouched down and took a close-up shot.

Camila closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves, waiting a few seconds before standing and continuing her march. At the end of the hall was the door to the maintenance office, more steel but now with a small window to its right. The curtains were drawn. With no opportunity to look inside the room before entering, all they could do was open the door and take their chances.

The handle was smeared in blood, countless scratch marks trailed up and down the door. Camila reached out her hand, hesitating to touch it. She steadied her mind and slowly wrapped her fingers around the dried blood. She tried to open the door, but there was something blocking it—it opened merely a centimeter. Stopped by something large and heavy pressed against it. Camila nearly choked for air, realizing she’d been holding her breath in anticipation. She looked back at Adam. He stood with his palm pressed against his mouth and his eyes glossed with tears.

“It’s too heavy,” Camila told him. “Can you push it open?”

Adam flinched at the idea. He glanced between the door and Camila before he groaned. Adam slugged over, grabbing a handkerchief out of his pocket. Camila stepped to the side, watching him wrap the handkerchief around the door handle. He pushed the door aggressively, with his whole weight, but it wouldn’t budge. Adam repositioned himself, this time pressing his arm and shoulder against the door, trying to force it open.

The door squeaked with pressure but still remained firm. Adam grunted in frustration. He began to swing his body back and forth, using his full weight to try to slam the door open. The walls began to shake slightly; the door wobbled on its hinges.

Camila raised her camera just as Adam gave one last push, using every bit of strength he could muster and slammed against the door with everything he had. The door rattled aggressively and then flew several feet open, the heavy furniture keeping it shut lurched forward. The camera shuttered as something fell against the window, pulling the curtains to the side.

William’s bloodied face hit the glass, squashing his nose to the side, blood trailed from his mouth. Before Camila had the chance to process this, Holly began to scream. Both Camila and Sara startled, and Adam stumbled back, falling to the floor shrieking.

Camila stared at William. His face had been torn apart, long lacerations across his cheeks and forehead, his left eye clawed out of the socket. Bloodied teeth punctured through the skin of his lips—at least what remained of his lips. His remaining eye stared forward blankly, his iris white and clouded. Blood that had dried in his hair spiked it in unnatural ways.

Camila heard the sound of a wretch as Sara bent over, one hand clutching her hair while she gagged uncontrollably. The smell of death poured into the room from the now-open door, leaving no confusion as to what was causing the earlier smell.

This can’t be real . . . Camila thought, staring in horror.

But then the journalist in her awoke, and she walked up to the body, her hands trembling as she took a clear photo of what remained of William. Her eyes widened when she noticed something else in the room.

“Guys,” Camila said, practically a mumble. “There’s a second body in there.”

The sounds of crying and gagging was drowned out by the ringing in Camila’s ears as she reexamined the doors. Underneath the giant claw marks, she could make out small little scratches. Little scratches just like the ones on the door to room 12A.

Camila staggered backward until she bumped into the wall. Her chest heaved up and down while she frantically tried to catch her breath. The same scratches—had she been a target? Camila watched Holly slowly walk toward the door. She paused at the window, her eyes watering with tears, her shaking hand firmly pressed to her mouth.

“Oh my god, William,” she mumbled, her brain clearly working overtime to understand the situation.

Holly was the first one to get it together. She quietly pushed inside the room, squeezing past the small opening that Adam had made and reaching to the overhead light switch. Camila followed behind, not wanting Holly to go in alone. For several seconds, the fluorescents flickered before the room lit up. The light it cast was red—blood painted the walls and ceiling and dyed the blubs, but it was still enough to illuminate the slash marks and splatters across the walls. The furniture had been turned over; a struggle was grotesquely evident. Holly’s eye locked onto the door at the very back of the room.

It led into the research wing she had been told on their tour--a passageway specifically designed for workers to make their way through the station without having to walk through the main hallways filled with guests. The door was soaked in blood as it hung halfway from the hinges. Whatever did this seemed to have escaped from there.

Camila watched as Holly’s eyes skimmed slowly over William’s corpse, before moving on to cross to Jones’s broken and scattered body on the floor, looking down at the horror lying at her feet. She began to cry.

Camila got ahold of her breathing, forcing her mind and emotions to calm. She would need to think clearly now. Not wanting to be in that room a second longer, Camila quietly made her way out.

Camila saw Adam rise to his feet, his fancy pajamas stained with blood. He moved closer to Sara. He clasped on to her shoulders, holding on as if hiding behind her from the monsters.

“Who did this?” he asked. His voice was panicked and shaken, his gentlemanly persona shattered. Holly squeezed back out the door and into the hallway, her face pale and drained of all color. “Who did this?” Adam repeated, looking over at Holly and Camila.

“Wait. Are you accusing us?”

Camila felt her eye twitch with frustration.

“Shut up,” Sara said, slipping out of Adam’s grasp and calmly over to the window, peering into the room. She looked back at the group, her demeanor now calm and authoritative. “I doubt they did it to themselves or to each other. This would require a lot of brutal force and strength,” she said, her voice matter of fact.

“It had to have been one of them,” Adam said, pointing his finger toward Holly and Camila. Holly gasped incredulously. Camila felt the shock jump in her stomach. All that goodwill and ass kissing they’d done at dinner was gone in an instant. It truly showed just how much of a scampering rat he was.

“I know you’re not being serious,” Camila shot back, the nerves heightening her anger. “First you invite me to your stupid fucking space hotel, flaunt all your money and power in my face, and try to bribe my silence. And when that doesn’t work, you accuse me of murder?” Camila’s words shook with resentment.

Holly, on the other hand, looked hurt. “Adam,” she said, sounding desperate. “You’ve known me for twelve years. We met when I was in school. You’re friends with my dad!” Holly flattened her hand on her chest, as if trying to calm her heart. “Do you actually think I could do this?”

Adam stuttered, looking back and forth between Camila and Holly.

“Christ,” Sara said, her voice loud with exhaustion and frustration. “Holly’s the size of a pencil, and Camila wouldn’t have the guts or man power to kill two grown men.” Sara turned halfway and motioned to William’s and Jones’s bodies. “Not like this,” she added.

“Then what else could have happened?” Adam demanded, his body visibly shaking. He made eye contact with Holly, who was giving him a quiet and wide-eyed look. Adam faltered, his hands falling to his sides, obediently shutting his mouth.

“I think there’s a stowaway,” Sara said. “I think there’s somebody else here, hiding in the station. I just don’t know why they would target William and Jones.” Her voice faltered as she considered the rationale behind this.

Adam massaged his fingers into his temples. Camila stood there, taking in all the information. She craned her head to peer back into the window of the room, looking over William’s body. She observed every detail, trying to notice anything that could be amiss. That’s when her eyes flickered to the yellow lanyard around his neck. Camila inhaled; then a realization hit her.

“William managed the station, right?” Camila asked, quickly looking over at Sara.

“He managed . . . the hotel,” Sara corrected, pausing between her words. She gave a confused look to Camila.

“His ID card. It could give access to all sorts of private and important rooms here, right?” Camila asked. Sara stood in silence for a moment, looking over at Adam before giving her answer.

“That’s pretty standard,” she answered, clearly bewildered about the line of questioning.

“What about Jones? As a maintenance worker, that ID card could get him into basically anywhere,” Camila said, her voice picking up speed.

Adam nodded weakly.

“Meaning, if someone has both their ID cards, they could get into any room,” Camila said.

Holly clasped her hands together tightly, her mouth parted in another gasp.

“You think that’s the motive?” Sara asked. “Unfettered access?” Her tone was low, and she rested a focused gaze onto Camila.

“I think if there is a motive, that’s the most likely one,” Camila said, nodding along with her words, returning Sara’s pointed gaze.

“Oh, who cares?” Adam snarled. “Who cares why they brutally murdered a third of Mars’s population last night. We need to know who. Because to me it looks like you brought someone else here. You snuck them into your pod after the tour to give them the rundown of this place and let them know about the ID cards. Why? To do what exactly?”

Adam began to take slow steps toward Camila, his breath ragged and eyes unfocused. He looked back and forth between Holly and Camila.

“Were you both in on it?” he demanded. He looked at Holly and then shook his head to refocus on Camila. “No,” he said. “It was you. And for what? To hold us hostage? Extort money?”

Sara shook her head as if realizing how far off base he was with this, but Camila stared at Adam in disbelief. She could barely wrap her brain around the accusations.

“Is this a joke?” Camila said, looking back and forth between Adam’s rage-filled face and Holly’s now-suspicious gaze. “Is this all one stupid prank or something?” she asked. When no one cleared it up, she stared Adam down.

“Hiring assassins to kill enemies while they sleep is something out of your playbook, not mine,” she snapped. “I came here to write an article about your hotel so I could get a leg up in the industry and hopefully collect more evidence of your shitty ethics. I don’t kill people, there’s nothing I could gain from that.” The rage built in her throat, her eyes burning with tears. “And I don’t need your money, okay? I make my own.”

Adam took another step forward, a vein protruding from his forehead. “It’s always the low-class scum of society that complain about my business. Sara and I were together all night, so we’re in the clear. And I know Holly; she would never do this. You, however, I don’t know you,” he said, his finger pointed aggressively at Camila. “I don’t know what you’re capable of, but I do know where you’re from. You’re the only one who’d have it out for us here!”

Camila laughed, crossing her arms. “Doesn’t this place have cameras?”

Adam faltered as his finger slowly lowered.

“You’re right. There are cameras,” Sara said. “The feed would be in the communications room. If we get in there, we can see what happened and call for help.”

Sara began to stride toward the end of the hallway.

Adam looked anxiously after her. “Sara, wait—” he began to shout, only to be cut off by a loud beeping noise.

Suddenly, everything went dark. Holly screamed. Then there was silence. Nobody dared to breathe. Pitch-black consumed Camila’s vision, disorienting her, and her space sickness came instantly rushing back on a tide of pure panic. She was only seconds away from a full-blown anxiety attack. She clutched her chest.

Please, please, please . . . Camila thought, afraid the darkness would never end.

Then the unmistakable whirring of generators starting up sounded through the hallway. Above them, lights flickered to life again with another loud beep.

Camila exhaled in relief but soon noticed the other’s reactions. Sara slowly turned around, having paled considerably in the dark.

“Backup generators on,” she mumbled. “For now.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Camila asked, her voice shaking.

“These are only a fail-safe we installed in case of a solar flare or if all the power is irreparably severed,” Sara said. “But it’s not fully integrated into the station.” She paused to glare in Adam’s direction. “Yet. We’ve only been able to hook it into operating essentials like cabin pressure to keep the building from combusting, and the exit doors. Everything else is offline. Including the communications and surveillance rooms.”

“So, we won’t be able to call anybody?” Holly asked, her hands clasped tightly near her chest.

Sara sighed, her shoulders slumping downward. “Oh, it’s worse than that,” she said. “Because this also means our oxygen system is now completely down. No new air.” Her voice was surprisingly detached from the terrible revelation.

As solemn silence grew, Sara turned and walked toward the maintenance room. She squeezed past the opening, and Adam yelled her name in alarm. After a few seconds, Sara returned holding several flashlights. She dispersed them to each member of the group before she began to stride down the hallway toward the exit.

“Wait,” Holly called, starting after her. “Where are you going?”

“If we want to survive, we’re going to need supplies.” Sara looked back over her shoulder at the group. “We need to do this together. I am not going to die here.”

Adam began to meekly follow her, cowed by her sudden assertiveness. Camila was glad that someone was finally taking charge of the situation—she wasn’t exactly in her element out here in space. She turned to follow in Sara’s wake.

But Holly stood in the hallway—looking lost. When Camila checked back on her, Holly shook her head as if trying to clear it before jogging to catch up with the others. When she passed the room, she cast one last glance on the broken bodies of her fallen coworkers.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and then rushed to Camila’s side in the bloodied hallway.

Sorry for what? Camilla thought to herself.

Sara looked back at the others as they stared at her expectantly.

“Adam and I are going to head to the communications wing. The main circuit room is there. We’ll see if we can restart the generators,” Sara said. “Holly and Camila, you need to look for supplies. The top priority is air tanks and any possible space suits. Water and food come second to those.”

Holly scoffed at Sara’s barked orders. “Why are you the one telling us what to do . . . ?” she asked. Despite the clear resentment in Holly’s words, her voice still trailed off, scared for Sara to bite back.

“Do you have a better idea?” Sara said, coldly staring Holly down. Holly looked away and didn’t respond. Sara sneered at her. “Didn’t think so.”

Beside her, Camila could see Holly grit her teeth and clench her fists. The hate-filled glare Holly gave Sara made Camila nervous.

“Do you still have your ID card?” Adam asked Holly. She nodded yes but refused to speak another word.

As the group reached the end of the maintenance wing, Sara opened the door to the familiar large docking station. Sara and Adam marched off in a different direction, presumably toward the circuit room.

“Also, find a weapon if you can,” Sara called, turning to level a pointed look at Camila. “We still don’t know who did this.” Camila could only nod in agreement as she and Holly stood in the dimly lit dock.

With the two of them gone, Camila turned to Holly. “Right. Where do you guys store the air tanks and space suits?”

“The laboratory wing. We keep a lot of spares for when we go out to collect samples. They’re the lightweight ones, not very durable, but they are good for short-term use.” She started toward the entrance to the wing, digging through her pockets for her ID card.

Camila followed close behind. She knew she wasn’t the murderer, and if there was a stowaway, there was no harm in being cautious. With the press of Holly’s card, they made their way inside. The hall was pitch black. Their flashlights only lit a few feet in front of them, leaving the rest in shadows.

“What room are the supplies in?” Camila asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She kept her light trained forward. The hallway seemed to go on for miles. She swallowed the built-up saliva in her throat.

“Research room E,” Holly whispered. Her flashlight was constantly moving, shining into every nook and cranny. “It should have some air tanks and a few space suits.” Camila felt her hands start to shake, the silence beyond them grew louder and louder.

“Someone had to plan this,” Camila said as she tightened her grip on the flashlight. “There’s no way this is just random.”

Holly didn’t respond. When Camila looked back it her, she looked stricken, like if she spoke right now, she’d start crying.

Camila looked over to a large research room, and saw Research Room C on the door. She leveled her eyes inside, shining her flashlight over it for barely a second. Camila stopped in her tracks when she caught the shape of something propped up on the table. It was a large cast of a footprint, exactly like the one Camila had taken a photo of during her tour last night.

“Holly,” Camila said, her voice drawing the vowel out. She felt her breathing constrict. “I thought you said advanced life couldn’t form here.”

Holly shuddered when she looked at it. “It can’t,” she replied, staring at the cast. “There’s nothing but humans here.”

“You’re seriously telling me you didn’t know about this?” Camila said. Her anger rose at Holly, who continued to play dumb.

“I haven’t been to the station in two weeks,” Holly said. “I was on vacation, remember? Come on, we’re close.” Moving past Camila, she refocused her gaze down the hall.

Camila pulled out her camera and lowered her flashlight. She held the camera up to her eye. It flashed as she took a picture of the strange mold. The entire room and most of the hallway lit up.

That was when she heard it, movement in the darkness. The unmistakable sound of something scrambling. Before she could even think about it, Camila grabbed Holly’s hand, yanking her into one of the labs and pawing at both their flashlights to turn them off.

Camila eased open a cabinet door, and they both climbed inside. Camila and Holly squished together and covered their mouths. Their breathing was ragged and terrified, the sound of something shuffling into their room froze them in place. Camila clutched her flashlight, ready to smash its head, whatever it was.

Camila listened to the footsteps as they moved, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel a panic attack pressing in at the edges of her mind, and the walls of the cabinet closed in, despite how she tried to steady her mind. These footsteps, they didn’t sound like any human walk she’d heard. They were heavier, slower. As if something massive was being dragged across the floor.

That was when she heard the noises it was making. Quiet, gurgling noises. As if gargling water. Choking on it. The shuffling got closer and closer, so close Camila could feel the vibrations of the creature rasping against its own throat.

Camila and Holly waited. Waited for it to find them, to open the cabinet door and kill them the same way it killed William. To gouge their eyes out and bash their teeth in. To rip open their skin and pull their limbs out of the sockets.

Camila felt her eyes water, and she fought every cell in her body telling her to run. To escape. To get the fuck away from whatever the hell was calling to her just right outside the door. It wasn’t until she heard the shambling pass the cabinet that she breathed again.

Holly slowly opened the cabinet door, so quietly that not even Camila noticed at first. Holly craned her neck and peered through the opening. Once Camila saw what Holly was doing, she placed a hand over her mouth, the disbelief and anger settling in. Camila could only watch Holly’s eyes land directly on the creature standing just ahead. It was so close to her, but the dark lighting of the lab could only reveal its blackened silhouette.

The shape was almost human. Bipedal with a neck and head similar to a regular human. the rest of the body, however, was anything but. The back was large, with a protruding spine slinking from its neck down to what seemed to be a tailbone. Its shoulders bulged out almost twice the size of the full torso. Holly’s eyes trailed down to see the glimmer of large spiked hands. Bones jutted out of every part of its body, leaving a silhouette similar to a pincushion. It was like every bone had been forcibly pushed out, settling outside the skin to stab anybody crazy enough to attack it. Its legs were seemingly fused together at the thighs, only separating into two separate legs above what could be its knee.

Camila watched Holly’s face morph into one of pure awe. Camila couldn’t help but be disturbed. Confused. What the hell was she so enthralled by?

Holly watched as the creature craned its head around, looking for its prey. Camila and Holly sat in silence. After long, desperate seconds passed, Holly watched the thing lean forward on the claws that were its hands, similar to a dog, before it scuffled away.

Camila and Holly stayed inside the cabinet, listening as the creature darted down the hallway at a speed much faster than the slow lumber they heard before. Camila stayed in the cabinet until she could no longer hear its sounds.

Slowly, Camila and Holly climbed out, but they hesitated before turning their flashlights on. Once they did, Camila was relieved to find the lab empty. She couldn’t stop herself from crying this time, her body trembled with fear. Holly wrapped an arm around Camila, unable to stop the tremors in her hands. Camila looked over at Holly, who watched her with a worried face.

“Fuck the supplies,” Camila said. “We need to warn Sara and Adam. We should have never separated in the first place.”

Holly’s face pinched for a moment before relenting, “Yeah . . . let’s get the hell out of here.”

Holly was shaking while she once more scouted her surroundings. The two women quietly began down the hallway, holding their flashlights with trembling hands. They shined their flashlight in every possible spot, making sure there were no surprises this time around.

In the docking bay, Camila felt a bubble of dread that nestle in her throat. She looked over at the comms wing, which held the circuit room. The door was still open, a black hallway just beyond the threshold.

An open entrance for anyone, or anything, to explore.

Holly and Camila began their descent into the communications wing. Camila’s cautious steps were too slow for Holly’s stride. Neither of them whispered or talked this time, choosing to search in complete silence.

Camila listened to every little noise. Every bump in the pipes, every step of a shoe, every fizzle of electricity. Despite how terribly it scared her, she kept recalling the strangled sounds of that creature. The slow dragging of its feet. The gurgle stuck in its throat.

A chill zapped up Camila’s spine, and she shuddered. In contrast, Holly seemed, all things considered, much calmer. Camila recalled the expression on Holly’s face when she saw the creature. Yes, there was fear, but there was more than that. Maybe it stemmed from her being a scientist, but there was almost a childlike awe that sparkled in her eyes. As if this creature was something to be marveled at.

Camila tightened her grip on the flashlight. Something about this whole situation was wrong to her. There were too many missing puzzle pieces. There was a story here, she just didn’t have enough to click it all together yet. As they continued down the hall, they heard hushed talking.

Once Camila recognized the sounds of human life again, she began to pick up the pace, rushing ahead of Holly, and turned the corner at the end of the hallway. Camila shined her flashlight and saw both Adam and Sara there, clinging to each other in fear, holding small bags filled with supplies.

“Who’s there?” Adam shouted, his voice quaking, blinking against the light.

“It’s me!” Camila responded. She held up one of her hands, showing a sign of surrender to calm their nerves.

Both Adam and Sara heaved a sigh of relief as they recognized Camila. Sara furrowed her brow, though, when she noticed that both Camila and Holly were empty-handed. Her lips scowled downward, and her eyes narrowed in a glare.

“You didn’t find anything?” Sara asked coldly.

Camila shot a nervous glance to Holly, trying to think about what she could say to make Sara believe her.

“We found something all right. There’s something in the station,” Holly said, her voice panicked and loud. Adam and Sara froze. “I saw it—it was huge. Its hands were claws.” Holly’s voice shook as her gaze fell on Adam. “I think that’s what killed William and Jones.”

Adam stared back at her, his expression fearful, but there was also a gleam in his eyes. Just like Holly had when she saw the creature in the lab. Camila looked between Holly and Adam—there was definitely a strange understanding happening between the two of them.

“How did it get in?” Adam asked her breathlessly. Almost oblivious to the others now. Holly shrugged in response.

“I don’t know, Adam,” she murmured. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

Adam cursed, his hands visibly trembling. Sara stared at Adam, her expression suspicious and confused.

As if realizing Camila was watching her, Sara turned to lock eyes with her. Her face was serious, and Camila couldn’t be sure, but she had a feeling that Sara saw the same thing in Adam and Holly that she did.

“You don’t think it’s from the outside, do you?” Sara asked. “We made sure there were no large life-forms here.”

Adam looked over to Sara, his eyes tired.

“I thought you said it was a stowaway?” Camila looked back and forth between them. There was some kind of secret she was being left out of.

“That was my assumption,” Sara said. Her confident voice wavered, revealing the uncertainty behind her mask. Camila watched Adam’s mouth twitch. His face showing just how scared he was.

Thirty minutes ago, he was convinced Camila had somehow murdered and maimed two grown men without alerting anyone within the station, and all it took was a panicked sentence from Holly to get him thinking it was instead a monster that burst into the station?

Nothing was adding up, nobody was telling the truth, and every second it dragged on only made Camila increasingly pissed off.

“What about the circuit breakers?” Camila asked, her voice shaking.

“They were destroyed. It was smashed to bits,” Sara said. Her voice was tired, hopeless.

“If it got in from the outside . . . there could be air escaping,” Adam mumbled. “And if we don’t seal it, it means we’ll run out of air before we can call for help.”

Camila felt her heart drop. Although it was only in her head, the air already felt thinner–her chest aching. Not to mention, the creature had been huge. “If the thing we saw broke through a barrier wall, the hole would have to be gaping,” she said.

“Wouldn’t the alarms be going off?” Holly asked, nervously looking between Sara and Adam. A silence punctuated the space; neither Adam nor Sara spoke.

After a tense couple seconds of silence, Sara finally let out a breath. “Some of the alarms have been deactivated due to technical difficulties,” she said.

Camila’s jaw dropped. “Why the hell would you deactivate something that important?!” she yelled.

“Do you know how much those alarms cost?” Adam said. “It’s custom-made special technology that took a team of researchers to develop.” He crossed his arms, huffing at the end of every sentence.

“You have enough money to afford thousands of those!” Camila said.

“How was I supposed to know this would happen?” Adam yelled, throwing his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. “I can’t be responsible for some monster breaking into the station!”

Camila stood there for a moment, her mind blank. This man had more money than every one of the lower sectors combined, but he was being cheap about the security systems in his multimillion-dollar operation. “Regardless, someone needs to suit up and go outside.” A silence stretched across the room.

“Don’t suppose any of you have been trained in spacewalking?” Adam asked. He looked around at the women. None of them gave much of a reaction to his statement, and he chuckled to himself. After a few loud breaths, he straightened the tie on the robe still wrapped around his body.

“There’s a space suit in my hotel room,” he said. “I’ll grab that and then use the staff exit in the lobby. I’ll check for any holes visible on the exterior of the building.” His voice was calmer and more resolute.

Camila gaped at him as she stumbled over her words. “Are you kidding?” she asked, taking a step forward. “When was the last time you were even in a simulation? If you go out there, you could die, get lost, or who knows what. We don’t even know if this thing came from out there!” Despite her hatred for Adam, she truly didn’t want him to die. Not before he was brought in front of a judge and jury, at least. Not until he was exposed to the world.

“What do you think, Sara? Too dangerous for me to go out there?”

Sara took a few seconds as she assessed the situation. She looked Adam over before calmly saying to Adam, “It’s the most logical course of action. Especially since you’ve trained for this. It’s better than sitting here waiting to run out of air.”

Camila couldn’t hold back. “You’re just going to let your husband go outside and get offed by space, or—or that thing?”

Adam looked surprised and a little offended.

Sensing his neediness, Sara smiled warmly at him. “You’ve always wanted to be an astronaut, haven’t you?” she asked, touching his arm. “And if you can fix this hole, we can get to the escape pod. That means you’ll be the hero who saved us all. Even Camila would have to write that.”

She glanced over at Camila, who didn’t respond. She was too busy staring at Sara, shocked at how adeptly she was manipulating her husband to risk his life for theirs.

It worked. Adam smiled weakly, gazing at Sara as he placed his hand over hers.

“I am an astronaut,” he murmured. When Sara nodded, he returned it, hooking her arm around his, and they both started toward the lobby.

Camila and Holly fell in step behind them, Camila nursing the urge to force Adam to stay inside. Not just for his own good, but for theirs too. He was in charge of this place. If something happened to him, would they ever be able to get out?

When they reached Adam’s hotel room, Camila tried to follow him inside to talk some sense into him.

Sara grabbed her elbow to pull her back before she could. “Stay out of this,” she told her firmly. Camila stared back at her, shocked. Sickened. But Sara’s eyes were fierce, so Camila stepped away to stand with Holly, who was watching in terrified anticipation.

After several moments of congested silence, Adam marched out of his room. He gulped, his earlier bravery fading. He clicked down the shield of his helmet, locking in his air.

Sara remained stone-faced while he walked to the staff exit right next to the lobby. He pulled out his key card, holding it against the door pad. He looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with Holly. They shared a knowing glance before he walked through the doors and into the decompression chamber that opened to the outside. Once Camila heard the sound of the doors closing, she walked over to the large hotel lobby windows. She looked around at the darkness, the nothingness, and tried to keep her breathing measured.

Holly and Sara came to stand beside her, an imposing silence hanging over their heads. Adam appeared, and they watched as he bounced along the surface with a rope keeping him attached to the hotel. The low gravity allowed him to jump, and he craned his neck to inspect the structure, trying to find if there were any holes.

“How big was the creature?” Sara asked, her eyes following Adam.

Holly shifted around, crossing her legs as she bit at the skin on her lip. “I’d say about seven feet tall and around two hundred seventy pounds.”

Camilla scrunched her eyebrows. “Well, that’s very specific.”

“If I were to estimate,” Holly added nervously as she turned away. “Just a guess.”

“Where are you going?” Camila asked.

Holly crossed her arms and shivered. “I want to go to my room to change.” She inhaled. “This bra is really uncomfortable.” Not waiting for a response, she marched down past the group and into the hallway leading to the rooms. Sara watched after her, her eyebrow rising at Holly’s odd timing.

Then she glanced at Camila, looking her up and down as if debating whether she could trust her. Finally, she sighed.

“There’s an escape pod,” she said, like it was against her better judgment to mention. “It hasn’t been tested since it was first installed, but if it’s operational, and we can bring it online, we can all get out of here.”

Camila felt her stomach jump in anticipation, a breath of relief building in her lungs. Then they sat peaceably watching Adam until Holly returned, this time in comfortable clothes. She sat beside Camila, and they watched Adam bumble across the ground. For each step forward, he would bounce and drift uncontrollably, spinning around until he could grab the rope to steady himself again.

“Adam would have made a terrible astronaut,” Sara said flatly.

Camila looked over at Sara as a smile crept over her face. Despite the horror, the moment of levity was a fresh breath of air. And for a moment, she felt hopeful.

But it was only for a moment. Because Holly let out a loud scream, pointing up to the window. Camila and Sara turned in time to see a creature hurling itself out of the darkness, slamming its body into Adam’s.

The creature’s long talons speared through Adam’s chest, protruding out of his back, driving him toward the building. Adam slammed against the window; the creature’s nails screeched along the glass in a high-pitched whine.

Adam flailed as the creature began to thrash him. Camila imagined she could hear his screams, the horrific sound tearing from his mouth while blood sputtered from between his lips.

The creature bit into Adam, tearing him apart. The women watched in horror. It yanked off his helmet, and Adam was wide-eyed, trying to take in gasps of air—his skin quickly going pale. The creature grabbed the back of his head and bludgeoned his face into the window, smashing him against the glass. Holly screamed, shaking her head in horror. A stunned silence gripped Sara, her mouth hanging open as she watched in utter stillness. Camila looked at the creature, seeing it clearly for the first time. Everything about it was wrong. It was as though it was a normal human was flipped inside out. Its skin glistened a grayish color; its head swung with its body, like its spine couldn’t support the weight.

When the creature pulled back to slam Adam into the window again, there was a cracking noise, and Camila saw with horror a tiny fracture in the glass. It was going to break the window.

Camila grabbed Holly’s hand and began to run, pulling Holly behind her. Sara called for them to wait and picked up the supply bag before chasing after them. Camila darted toward the closest door. It was a small break room that stood right behind the hotel lobby desk.

“Here!” Sara called, waving her ID card. She got ahead of the others and slammed her ID against the lock. Once the door opened, all three girls crammed inside, pushing past each other with a desperate will to survive.

Camila turned back toward the window just in time to see the creature sever Adam’s torso from his hips. She watched his intestines pour out of him. Camila gagged; that was when the creature crashed what was left of Adam through the glass with an inward explosion of shards.

Alarms began to sound along with the whirring noise of air escaping from the broken window.

Sara yanked shut the door to the break room. It sealed with a hiss, and Camila and Holly hid behind her. The red flashing light of the alarm spun, illuminating the room. They stared at the door—the only barrier between them and what was in the hotel lobby.

The airlocked doors cut off the sound of the world around them. Camila stood there, holding on to Holly’s arm for support. The tremor in her legs started reaching her teeth, and they began to chatter uncontrollably.

But when she looked at Holly, she saw that she was standing wide-eyed with a misplaced grin twitching her face.

“I can’t believe—” Holly panted out even as her smile grew wider. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Her voice rattled before a nervous laugh bubbled from her throat.

Camila felt a dread creeping up from the pit of her stomach. Her hand fell away from Holly’s arm. “Why are you laughing?” Camila asked, her voice so weak.

Holly quieted at the sound of Camila’s voice, looking over at her with a terrified expression. She blinked rapidly and then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she replied, stumbling over her words. Her eyes flicked to Sara. “I just don’t know what to do right now.”

Camila looked over at Sara, who was setting down the bag of supplies, pulling out a bottle of water. Her demeanor was cold. Camila couldn’t see a single drop of sweat across her forehead as she calmly assessed their situation.

“This room is secure for now,” Sara said without looking back at them. “It’s air locked, so as long as we don’t open that door, we are safe for now.” She pulled out all the supplies from the bag, separating the items into different groups.

Camila and Holly stood there, watching her. She showed no emotion over her gruesomely murdered husband. No crying, no shaking, not even a bead of sweat.

Sara clicked her tongue as she finished her count. “The food situation isn’t good,” she allowed. “Without access to the kitchen, we have maybe two days’ worth of water if we ration.”

“What about the oxygen?” Camila asked. She couldn’t stop her lips from trembling. Sara let out a small sigh. She saw the terrified expression on Camila’s face. She turned away, unable to look Camila in the eyes. She felt her nerves start to pinch.

“Each wing has at least two weeks of air, and given the circumference of the room—” Sara craned her head while looking around the room, licking her dry lips, calculating the math in her head—“less than seventy-two hours, give or take,” she said, her voice now sunken and dejected.

Camila felt her legs give out, toppling her to the ground. Holly crouched down, placing a sympathetic hand on Camila’s back.

“It’s okay. I’ll come up with something,” Sara said. “Don’t freak out—you’ll waste the air.” She lowered herself to the ground, sitting with her legs crossed.

Camila tried to keep it in, tried to keep the nerves from exploding, tried to listen to Sara’s word-vomited plan. Camila looked around the small room, the room they were trapped in until they would inevitably suffocate. And that was the best-case scenario with the communications room rendered completely useless. The worst case . . . well, that would be that thing getting inside and eviscerating them, desecrating their bodies, ripping them apart, splatting their blood on the walls.

Camila continued to panic, and she placed her hand over her throat, trying desperately to regain her composure. But she couldn’t help but see the walls as they closed in, inch by inch. Trapping her, dooming her to death. Holding her there so she couldn’t escape, keeping her from her freedom, waiting for her to die slowly and horrifically.

Camila started to heave. Her heart pounded out of control, breathing in and out harshly while Holly tried to calm her down.

Sara watched on, her expression growing less and less sympathetic as it went on. “Jesus Christ, Camila! Get your shit together! You’re wasting all our oxygen!” Sara yelled, looking down at Camila as if she was a peasant.

Camila looked up, seeing a woman draped in riches, clothing and jewelry she could only dream of having. Someone who had everything, and still wanted more, and she was judging her? Camila felt the adrenaline pump in her body, and then she lunged forward, unable to stop herself. She pounced on Sara, pushing her to the floor. She delivered a sloppy, anger-filled punch. Sara held up her hands defensively while Camila whaled on her.

“You fucking psychopath!” Camila yelled, delivering another punch. “Do you have any emotions at all? Do you even care that your husband died?”

Holly rushed over, grabbing Camila by her waist, trying to pull her off Sara. Camila delivered several more slaps and punches. She cursed Sara out, ripping her clothes, pulling her hair, tearing off her jewelry—doing everything possible to punish the uncaring woman below her.

Holly had to use all of her strength to drag Camila a few feet back, creating some distance between the two women. Camila flailed in Holly’s arms. Sara quietly got back up, holding her fingers to her nose to check for blood. Her eyes rose to watch Camila, who was still screaming at her from across the room, a savagery burning behind her eyes. Hatred poured out of every pore on Sara’s face, her lips scowling down, the blood from her nose dripping onto the floor.

After a few tense seconds, Camila finally calmed down, sinking to the floor. She panted heavily and put her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.

“We need to sleep,” Holly said. “We’re all exhausted, scared, and clearly freaking out. Please, let’s just sleep for now. I can’t take anything else.”

Camila nodded. She stopped rocking, while Sara shuffled across the room, keeping her eyes glued to Camila.

“When we get out of here,” Sara told her, “I’ll make you pay for this.”

Despite the tense atmosphere in the room, it wasn’t long before exhaustion and trauma carried them all off to sleep. As time passed, the silence in the room stretched on.

Suddenly, Camila’s eyes fluttered, and a quiet shuffling roused her slightly awake. Camila looked over, seeing Holly standing in front of her, staring at the door. Camila could hear a quiet guttural sound, bouncing back and forth between the walls. It took for a few seconds until Camila eventually recognized it as a laugh.

Holly’s fists were clenched at her sides. She stared at the door, quietly laughing. Small mutters escaped Holly’s lips, words that didn’t sound like anything Holly would ever say. Things like “Serves you right, asshole,” “You deserve it, and “I hope it hurt” poured out of Holly’s mouth.

For a moment, Camila thought she must be dreaming. Holly would never say such cruel things—it wasn’t in her nature. She was oblivious, maybe even ignorant, but not downright cruel. That was when she heard a name get repeated over and over.

“I hope you’re okay, Aya.” The plea was so quiet and desperate that Camila, even in her half-asleep state, could feel the concern filling her chest.

Camila’s eyes drifted toward the door, half expecting someone to answer. It wasn’t until Holly went silent that Camila slowly looked back at her. When she did, she sucked in a startled breath to see Holly fully turned around and staring down at her with a pale-white face. Holly’s eyes were wide and almost animalistic. She looked hungry; she looked angry. She was looking at Camila as if she was her enemy. As if she was prey.

Camila squeezed her eyes shut, begging silently to wake up from this nightmare. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when she looked again, Holly was sitting with her back against the wall, eyes closed and face turned away.

So, it was a dream. Camila felt herself relax with relief. She waited as long as she could, just to confirm, and then, soon, she drifted slowly off again.

Camila was the last to wake up, her eyes swollen and red from the crying of the previous night. She didn’t know how long she slept for, but judging by the pounding in her head, it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. She glanced nervously at Sara, who sat there as stone-faced as ever. Sara silently opened the supply bag and took out small portions of food she and Adam had found throughout the station. The women silently shared a breakfast, taking bites as they passed around the rations.

“We can’t open this door or go into the hotel wing without suits,” Sara said, her lip swollen. “With the window broken, all oxygen in this wing has been sucked out, and the atmosphere is foreign and contaminated.”

Camila had a flash of panic. “There’s no more oxygen in the wing at all?” she asked. Sara gave a solemn nod. “Then what do we do?” she asked.

“We have to think about the box,” Sara answered. “We have to get out of this box.”

Getting to her feet, Camila looked around at the shelves of the maintenance room. Sara’s eye twitched, following Camila’s gaze.

“I have an idea,” Sara said, the words so quiet that they barely escaped her mouth. She stood and crossed to shelves to slide boxes around. “Some maintenance areas have passageways to other wings,” she said, her words moving fast as she desperately began feeling along the walls. “It was for emergencies, in case William and Jones needed to take care something without alerting any of the guests.”

Camila scoffed. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

“I would have,” Sara explained, “but I was too busy trying not to get my face smashed in by some nobody from the agriculture sector.”

Camila didn’t bother to respond to her insult, and she quickly began to search the walls alongside her, hoping to find a hidden door or button that could fix their situation.

Just then, Sara’s fingers brushed against something that slightly protruded from the wall. She paused, and slowly pushed down on the wall tile. It gave way with a click. There was a loud popping sound, causing each of the women to jump.

Camila watched one of the shelves slowly swing open, revealing a dark hallway that stretched into a black sea ahead of them.

“It’s facing west, so it must be the laboratory wing, which as of a few hours ago, still had air,” Sara said. She turned and let her eyes strain against the darkness.

Camila perked up and spun to face Holly. “Wait,” she said. “Didn’t you say there would be spare suits there?”

Holly nodded, her expression not nearly as hopeful as the others. “If we can get the suits, we can use the escape pod,” Sara said.

The women immediately turned on their flashlights and began to walk down the dark hallway, their footsteps quiet and measured. Camila felt bad about the bruises on Sara’s face as she examined her profile. She was struck with guilt, trailing the damage from temple to cheekbone to chin, when she noticed the mark on Sara’s neck. She stopped in her tracks.

A small gasp escaped Camila’s mouth when she saw the identification tattoo carved into Sara’s skin. A symbol that was always carefully hidden, covered by gaudy necklaces. The symbol that identified her was not one from the research sector nor from any of the higher sectors. The large M scar on her skin was an identification used purely for miners. Workers that lived in the mining sector.

Sara looked back and caught Camila staring. Instinctively, her hand went up to cover the back of her neck. But she glanced around and let it slide away, lifting her chin instead.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Camila said, but then tilted her head. “It’s just . . . you’re from the mining sector.”

“What of it?” Sara said, her voice tired and regretful. She darted her eyes away, refusing to meet Camila’s gaze.

“I thought that you were like him, someone cut from the same cloth.”

Sara laughed, but it sounded sorrowful.

“I am like him,” she said simply. “That’s why we got married. I was just born down there. I escaped that sector, ran to another, then another. Eventually I met Adam.” Sara turned to Camila, a weak smile spreading across her lips. “And he liked me. He needed me. He wanted someone to think for him, someone to hang off his arm, and I needed to be safe. He gave me that security under the condition that nobody ever found out where I was born.”

Sara’s eyes welled with emotion, something far more human and genuine than anything she’d shown before.

“Not like that was hard,” she allowed. “I never wanted anyone to know anyway. People look at you differently when they know where you come from. That’s why I never understood why you did it,” Sara said, looking Camila in the eyes. Camila felt her heart thump in her chest.

“You’re so proud of it, that you came from the agriculture sector, like it’s something to be appreciated,” Sara said. “I’ve never felt pride coming from the mining sector. The only thing I’ve ever been proud of is myself—for surviving this long.”

A silence stretched over the room. Camila fiddled with the flashlight in her hands.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Camila offered. “I guess your reaction to Adam dying makes a little more sense now.”

“You weren’t wrong. I am cold and unfeeling. I hated Adam, but he was easy. Easy to get, easy to use. I wanted power, and he wanted a trophy wife he could show off. He and I played a game, trying to see who could get control over who. We were just two opportunistic bastards, clawing at each other to see who could get more.”

Sara’s expression hardened again, distant. She nodded at Camila. “What’s done is done,” she said. “So don’t get soft on me just because we come from similar backgrounds. I’m still the psychopathic bitch who eats geese and steals money from charities.” The corner of Sara’s mouth tilted with a smile.

Camila scoffed slightly but had to admit she enjoyed this side of Sara. “I’m a journalist,” Camila said. “I’ve heard thousands of sob stories. Once we’re out of here, I’ll have completely forgotten this conversation even happened. Like you said, you’re still the psychopathic bitch that I’m going to write a really scathing article about.”

Sara nodded. “Perfect.”

A calm washed over them as an understanding grew. The three women continued down the hall. Camila could never forgive all the horrible things Sara let happen in the past, all the things she participated in. But right now, in this moment, where nothing else mattered but survival, Camila let herself dream a little. Dream of a world where people like Sara and people like Camila could coexist. Where they could work together instead of against each other. Camila closed her eyes for a moment, indulging herself in that fantasy. But now she had to wake up.

Camila opened her eyes and focused on the door a few feet in front of them. As they reached it, Camila carefully placed a hand against the metal, slowly pushing it open. The door opened to a dark and empty research room. Camila slowly shined her flashlight around the room. Only after confirming it was empty did she step inside. She looked back at Holly and Sara.

“Research room E?” Camila whispered. Holly nodded her head, pointing with her chin across to the door. Sara shined her flashlight through the door’s window before gesturing with the light beam and tapping Camila’s shoulder.

“Over there,” Sara whispered.

Camila followed the light to the plaque that read Research Room E. It was just across the hallway. Sara quietly opened the door, grimacing at every squeak it made. Then she rushed across the hallway to room E, turning the handle and opening the door. Sara hurried inside and motioned for Camila and Holly. They ran across the hallway and darted into the room, easing the door closed behind them.

“Where’s the spare oxygen?” Sara asked, turning to Holly.

Holly stood for a second, nervously gripping her arm before stammering out “I don’t know” in a nervous voice. Sara’s face scrunched.

“What the fuck do you mean? Isn’t this your lab?” Sara whispered, her voice harsh and eager.

Holly darted her gaze around the room. “I mean, not really,” she finally said.

Sara shook her head in confusion. “Why are you bullshitting me? You were assigned to room E. I remember because you threw a huge-ass tantrum about it.”

As the conversation between them became more tense, Camila started to look around, opening cupboards and lockers. Eventually, she found two suits and a supply of oxygen tanks. But there was a problem.

There were only two suits.

When Camila looked back, she drew both Sara’s and Holly’s attention. As their gazes fell on the contents of the closet, she saw their expressions tighten.

“Oh shit,” Sara murmured. They would have to leave someone behind. Sara quickly turned to Holly and demanded to know if there was a third suit stored somewhere else.

Holly stumbled through the questions, and Sara became more and more irate. Camila started tearing apart the room, searching for anything else she could find. She crouched down, looking underneath the tables and cupboards for any possible lead.

That was when the gleam of a white binder caught her eye. Camila quietly pulled it out and flipped it open. She was greeted with the ID picture of a researcher. One by the name of Aya Quinn. An unassuming woman with a slicked-back ponytail and thin glasses hanging off her nose. Camila noticed her eyes, a vibrant blue that bordered on white.

Camila pulled out her camera as she looked over these files. She took a quick photo, using the flashlight to mask the flash of her camera. The documents next to the photo were handwritten and hastily scribbled. Camila read through them.

The documents contained a long description of a woman’s research of Martian bacteria. A new, undocumented discovery. But soon after, the bacteria spread. It had to be contained and destroyed. However, egged on by this new discovery, Adam refused to destroy it. Ordering Aya to continue to study it with more concise safety measures in place, prolonging her exposure to this foreign element. Before long the researcher had begun to experience symptoms.

The report claims, shortly after, Aya slipped into bouts of paranoia, nights waking up screaming, refusing to eat for days on end, hair falling out in clumps, and skin turning a grayish color. The documents gave a chilling account of her decline and ended with the mention of a large-scale cleanup in her room after she experienced a psychotic break.

Room 12A.

Camila felt her breath catch in her throat, her eyes slowly trailing to the signature at the end of the notes. Written in a familiar handwriting, Camila read Holly Winters. Her girlfriend’s signature. The person she’d been staying with the entire time knew something happened in her room. Knew something happened with a researcher, with the bacteria.

So why the fuck did she bring me here? Camila thought.

Alarmed, Camila closed the binder and tucked it back into the nook where she found it. Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked over at Holly and Sara, their argument getting louder and louder. Camila stood up and rushed over to quiet them. But Holly wasn’t having it.

“Camila, let’s leave this bitch behind,” Holly said. Her tone was sharp and cutting. “You know she would do the same to us.”

Both Camila and Sara stood in a silence for a moment. Stunned at the vitriol. The fierceness. The cruelty.

“What?” Holly asked. “I’m not wrong. Besides, a captain is supposed to go down with his ship, so she should be the one to stay here and die. Congrats on climbing your way to the top of the food chain, Sara.”

A loud groan screamed through the halls, one that pinged around in Camila’s ears. It was followed by a familiar sound, the slow and steady steps of the creature. The same steps she’d heard while hiding in the cabinet.

Sara quickly grabbed the two suits while Camila rushed for the oxygen tanks. Holly stared at the door, listening to the sounds of the creature. Sara’s hands were full while she moved to door, barely able to get it open. Camila ran to Holly, placing a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Give me your ID card,” Camila demanded.

“Huh?” Holly squeaked out.

“I need to open the doors, give me your ID card. I don’t have one,” Camila whispered.

Holly blinked a few times before rummaging through her pockets. Camila caught the gleam of something else in Holly’s pocket. Her heart stuck in her throat.

Without saying anything, Camila forced her hand inside, grabbing hold of three plastic cards. Camila watched Holly’s face grow wild with panic as she sorted through the three different ID cards.

One for Holly, one for William, and one for Jones.

When she lifted her gaze to meet Holly’s, there was a flash of . . . satisfaction. Almost . . . pride. But then, just as quickly, Holly’s face softened.

“Camila, listen,” she said, reaching for her. Camila stepped back. “I can explain everything.”

From the hall, there was another moan from the creature, closer now. Camila knew they had to run for it.

“Later,” Camila said abruptly. “We need to get the fuck out of here first.”

Camila dashed toward Sara, waving her forward. Sara pushed the door open and began to sprint out, followed by Camila and Holly. As they ran, Camila rushed in front of Sara to use one of the key cards to open the door into the outer wing.

Sara ran through, but just when Holly began to catch up, Camila threw one of the oxygen tanks at her. Holly wasn’t prepared to catch it as it hurdled toward her. It smacked her in her chest, knocking her to her knees.

Camila rushed outside the wing and pushed a nearby button to close the door. Holly looked up just as it began to shut. Her eyes flashed, her teeth bared. Holly leapt to her feet and raced toward them, smacking her body against the door mere seconds after it closed.

She looked through the small glass window and, seeing Camila’s hardened face, stared her down.

“What the fuck, Camila?” Holly shouted, banging her fist against the door.

Camila swallowed hard. “I can’t let you in,” she said, shaking her head.

Sara looked between the two of them, a bewildered expression on her face.

“Are you seriously picking Sara over me?” Holly said, her voice trembling.

“Who is Aya?” Camila asked.

Holly paused, her entire body going rigid. She stopped breathing.

“What the hell is going on?” Sara asked.

“Holly knows. She’s the one who took William’s and Jones’s ID cards. She’s the one who let the creature in.”

Holly went silent, her eyes dropping to look at the floor.

Sara’s breathing went haggard with fury. “You’re not serious?” she said incredulously. “Is this true?”

Holly sighed before lifting her head back up. Her expression was stoic. Resolute.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” Holly said, her tone firm and unwavering. “I wanted to help her, but they didn’t like the way I planned to do it. So they sent me home. I needed you, Camila. I needed you to get me back to the station—a journalist who could write a puff piece. Get me back in Adam’s good graces. He loved the idea. I was going to wait to tell you once you got home. But then you tried to ruin it.” She paused, eyes narrowed. “I had to fix what they broke.”

“What are you talking about?” Sara murmured. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I had no choice,” Holly said, holding Camila’s gaze. “They abandoned Aya. It was their Martian bacteria that made her sick. They let her suffer for months knowing the danger, and when she began to . . . change, they made her the research subject. They were torturing her. They were the sick ones.”

Holly’s eyes began to water, and she turned toward Sara, her gaze filled with unbridled hatred.

“You killed her,” Holly said. “And you tried to cover it up.”

“No,” Sara said, shaking her head. “The bacterial infection was due to her own shoddy lab hygiene. We covered nothing up. After Aya died, Adam notified her family and sent her remains.”

Holly banged her fist on the door. “Don’t lie to me! She was my friend! You think I wouldn’t know her? Wouldn’t recognize her, even now? You think I wouldn’t help her kill you all for what you’ve done?”

Camila felt her eyes burn. Her head thudded in pain.

“Holly, I truly don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sara said, glancing nervously down the hall behind her. “But please, quiet down. You’re going to bring the creature this way.”

At that, Holly laughed. “Oh, I know,” she mumbled. “But trust me, you deserve it.”

“What about William and Jones?” Camila interrupted, her hands now clammy with sweat. “Did they deserve it?”

Holly looked up, her pupils dilated. She leered at Camila before breaking into a toothy grin. “She was just hungry,” she said. Her eyes glistened with tears, and she desperately shook her head. “She didn’t really mean it.”

“Dear God, she’s completely insane,” Sara murmured.

Holly then banged hard on the door again, the loud thumping echoing down the hallway. “Come on, Sara,” she sang out. “Perhaps we should invite Aya to dinner this time. I think she’s ready to eat.” She began to laugh, but behind her, there was the sound of scratching, lumbering footsteps.

Sara grabbed Camila’s wrist. “We have to go,” she whispered, eyes trained on the hallway. “Now.” She yanked Camila away from the door toward the communications wing. On the way out the door, she turned back to meet Holly’s eyes from the other side of the glass.

Her girlfriend’s expression was devoid of emotion. As if the mask she had carefully created had fallen off completely and all that was left was a husk of a human. Camila wondered how long she’d been that way. The entire relationship? Was it all a ruse to enact some kind of revenge?

Sensing her, Holly lifted up a hand in a wave to Camila. But her eyes . . . they were vacant. Empty. And possibly . . . growing inhuman. It occurred to Camila for the first time that Holly had also been working on Martian bacteria.

“Come on!” Sara called out. Fumbling with the suits in her hands, she held up her ID card to the lock on the door to the communications wing.

Camila met her across the room, her eyes still on the window. Once the doors opened, Sara pulled her through. For a moment, Camila continued to watch the shadow in the hallway behind Holly get closer.

But her line of sight was cut off when the metal doors slammed closed.

As the doors shut, Camila and Sara panted with exhaustion. Both women kept their gazes locked forward, refusing to acknowledge each other and the choices they’d made to get to this point. Sara eventually looked sideways at Camila, her eyes nervous and unfocused,

“I didn’t know,” Sara said. “If what she said is true, I had no idea about it.”

She extended one of the space suits to Camila, who grabbed it gratefully.

“Don’t hate me if I don’t believe you,” Camila replied. “But for now, let’s worry about finding the escape pod.”

Sara nodded. They continued in silence, heaviness falling around them. The air was already getting thin. They could feel it pressing in on their lungs. Toward the end of the hall, Camila paused, her mouth dropping open.

The hallway ahead was filled with debris, ceiling tiles pulled down, holes and scratches punched into the walls. Clearly something was rampaging through here, forging its own path as it burst through each barrier. Pipes and metal shavings were scattered across the room. Camila walked over and picked up a metal pipe with a jagged edge, ready to use it if necessary.

“Let’s get into the suits,” Camila said. “We don’t know if it can burst through the exterior walls.” She set down the oxygen tanks.

Sara opened her suit and immediately stepped in, zipping and pinning it securely to her body. Camila did the same, locking the oxygen tank into the air compartment built into her suit. Once Sara finished securing her own oxygen tank, she pointed her flashlight to illuminate the scratched and demolished hallway.

Camila held the sharpened pipe in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it tightly. Her body pumped with adrenaline. Each measured step down the hallway made her stomach sink lower and lower.

Camila’s flashlight flickered occasionally; whenever the light went out, she felt something in her stomach pop, as if the nerves couldn’t handle this prolonged stress. The lights flickered back on, and a white lump flattened against the wall caught her attention.

“Camila,” Sara said, her voice breathless. “There’s another space suit,” she said, dragging her flashlight over to the wall, engulfing most of the hallway back into darkness. Camila looked to where Sara was pointing. She could see a clean space suit that had been originally hanging on the wall but had long since fallen and crumpled to the floor.

Camila took a step forward, loosening her grip on the pipe for just a second. That second was all it took. Before either girl could realize, something crashed into Sara, something so large and heavy it couldn’t be stopped by just her alone. Claws dug into her skin and suit as she was flung across the hallway, hitting the wall with such force that her helmet cracked. She slid to the floor, taking in a ragged gasp. Camila watched Sara’s eyes flutter into her head as she lost consciousness.

Camila didn’t even have time to scream. The creature lunged at her, brandishing its boney claws and aiming for her stomach. Camila ran, dodging to the side to avoid the blades trying to skewer her. Even with her quick reflexes, she couldn’t come out unscathed. The claws cut into the side of her stomach, shredding the suit, clothes and skin alike. Camila felt the adrenaline flare in her veins, refusing to acknowledge the throbbing pain.

With her pipe, Camila swung out and stabbed the spiked end into the creature’s neck. The creature groaned as a liquid gurgled in its throat. Sara’s dropped flashlight flickered, and it revealed the full appearance of this monster.

Camila gasped, looking at it up close. Its slumped shoulders that had bones protruding from the skin, its face was pulled across its skull, leaving it thin and grayed due to lack of blood circulation. Its gaunt cheeks and bony chin served as evidence that it was once normal. That it was once human. What had once been lips was now just mangled skin, loosely hanging over exposed gums and teeth. Large scar marks marred its whole face, showing deep ridges and exposed muscle barely healed over.

What really caught Camila’s attention, however, were its eyes. Pupils that were so dilated that the colored parts of the iris were barely visible. Eyes that trembled in pain and fear, eyes that were so blue they were almost white, just like Aya’s. Holly was right. It was her.

Camila tried to pull the pipe out, but the skin and muscle had started to heal around it, locking it in place. Liquid started spewing out of the creature’s mouth, black in color and thick in texture, something Camila recognized as partially coagulated blood that had been exposed to air.

The creature trashed, using its enlarged arms to force Camila away. It swung at her, and Camila was thrown several feet, landing on her back, with the wind knocked out of her lungs. She gasped in the thin air, trying to muster up the strength to get back on her feet, to fight for her survival. But no matter how much she screamed in her head, her body wouldn’t listen.

The creature wailed, stumbling back and forth. It tried to pull the pipe from the partially healed wound in its neck. Camila began to crawl, grabbing on to a large broken shard of glass and dragging her aching body forward.

Seeing this, the creature rushed forward, stumbling in agonized pain. Camila swiped at it as she forcibly brought herself to her feet. She made small cuts on the creature’s outstretched arms, each time causing the creature to flinch in pain, only for the wounds to close and scar over. More black sludge came trickling out of its mouth while it gasped. What was left of its nose began to leak a transparent liquid. It kept opening and closing its mouth, trying to form some semblance of expression.

Camila watched Sara slowly rise behind it, holding a large metal chunk of the wall. Camila began to back up, egging the creature forward. She tried to keep its attention. Sara ran forward, slamming the piece of metal against the creature, which caused its neck to crane to the side. A large snap emanated from its neck, its head falling to its shoulder. A large bone poked out from under the skin.

The creature screamed, whipping its arms around, and it whirled toward Sara. Its arms smashed against her body, throwing her to the floor. The creature then started pummeling her. Throwing its arms around recklessly. Sara covered her head with her arms. It slashed through the suit, ripping her skin off her body, exposing her blood to the air. Sara didn’t scream. She gritted her teeth and bared the pain. Feeling each sharp bone that punctured her body, pulling out chunks of muscle.

Camila ran forward, slamming her body against the creature, which caused it to lurch forward. The creature’s unstable and bent legs couldn’t support its weight as it toppled to the ground onto its chest, exposing its back. Camila saw the blood pool around the pipe in its neck. The broken neck caused all healed muscle around the pipe to break loose. Camila grabbed the end of the pipe, and in one motion, with all the strength she could muster, she ripped it out. Pulling it free from the prison of skin it was once trapped in.

Camila quickly stabbed it back down, this time pulling it out before the skin could heal over. The creature bellowed underneath her and thrashed against the floor. Camila kept stabbing it, trying to poke holes everywhere she could see. Its back, spine, arms, legs, hips. Everywhere she could get it. Camila felt her arms shake with exhaustion as she skewered the creature, again and again and again and again.

Camila screamed louder with each stab, all the pain and grief, all the rage poured out. She felt her eyes pool with tears. Camila heard a gurgle burst through its throat; its wounds were healing much slower now. The internal damage drained the body’s energy as it desperately tried to heal itself. Camila looked at its face, one eye turned up while it lay on the ground. The eye stared straight at her face, its teeth chattering. Camila paused as she looked at it. A black liquid formed at the waterline of its eye, slowly leaking down the ridged cheeks and its iris trembled. Camila could see the expressions on its face. The pain that it wore. The desperation and pleading it tried to convey. Camila froze, her panting accompanied by the bubbled sound of the creature choking on its blood. Its breath ragged and panicked, its chest constantly rose and constricted. Its teeth began to slowly close, trying to squeeze out the words that rested on the creature’s mind.

“Kill . . . me . . .” it begged. Each word coming out slow and rippled.

Camila felt her heart squeeze in her chest, and she stared at the creature. She tightened her grip on her pipe, steadying her shaking hands. She took in a single breath before shooting the pipe back down. Piercing the creature in its face, aiming for the brain protected by the overgrown bones. The first stab didn’t fully take, only ripping the skin to reveal the skull. Camila tried again, bringing the pipe down once more.

Camila lost count of how many tries it took, how many times she had to stab this thing to free it from its own body. It wasn’t until her arms screamed in pain that she stopped. She refocused her eyes, taking in the sight below her. The entire floor was painted dark red, a black substance pooling out of what was once the creature’s mouth. Its head was smashed in, pieces of skin and bone scattered throughout the scene. Its brain was mush, ripped tissue and muscle dripping down its forehead.

Camila looked down at her suit, covered in this thing’s blood, tears, and brain matter. She dropped the pipe, taking several steps back before falling to the floor. Camila looked over at Sara, who still held her defensive position. She was taking calm and measured breaths, the blood gushing out of her body. Her suit was completely ruined; her clothes were torn and stained in blood. Her arms, legs, and parts of her stomach were shredded. The pink and white of her muscle flinched in the exposed air.

Camila stood up, groaning in pain. She pressed a hand against the wound on her stomach. She limped over to the unused suit that lay on the floor. She grabbed it and rushed back to Sara, lulling her out of the fetal position, and trying to get the ruined suit off her.

“Hang in there, Sara. We’re so close,” Camila said, her voice wavering in emotion. She tried not to look at Sara’s horrific injuries. Once the suit and oxygen tank were secure, she lifted Sara up while she grimaced in pain. They stumbled through the hall. Camila pulled out Holly’s ID card.

“Through here,” Sara said, her words faint and agonized. She slowly lifted up her arm, pointing down the left hallway toward a door with the word Emergency painted on the metal.

Camila and Sara lumbered that way, both exerting the remaining bits of their energy, and they walked toward the door. Camila quickly slammed the ID card to the lock; the seconds that it took for it to verify and open felt lethal as time dragged on.

Once the door clicked open, Camila pushed inside, seeing the small hatch to the escape pod. Camila unhooked one of Sara’s arms from her shoulder and set her carefully onto the floor. She opened the latch before guiding Sara through the entrance and down the ladder.

It was difficult keeping Sara upward while also keeping herself steady. Sara couldn’t hold on for long before she lost her grip, falling straight down on top of Camila. They hit the floor with a thud and moaned in pain.

Camila crawled out from underneath Sara. She forced herself to climb back up the ladder and close the hatch. Camila dropped down, landing on her feet, and yelped in pain, gripping the injury to her side.

She had to catch her breath before returning to help Sara, guiding her over to the piloting seats of the pod. She sat her down on one of the chairs gently before she rushed to the controls. She turned on the escape pod, watching the control panel flick to life.

“Welcome aboard. Thank you for choosing to stay at Liberty Station. We hope you enjoyed your stay,” the machine loudly chirped in an automated message.

Camila scoffed as she clicked through the menu, hastily selecting Earth as their travel destination. She clicked on the autopilot, the machine began to squeak and rustle while the window visors slowly rose. Camila froze when she saw, for the first time, the sun rise over the mountains. Illuminating the browned surface of the planet. A wind rustled as sand and dirt blew across the horizon. The sun shining down through the windows of the pod.

For the first time, Camila could feel the sun on her skin. Not the artificial sunlight that hung from the streetlamps in her sector. The real sun. She couldn’t help but smile and stare at it, her eyes burning in protest.

The pod launched itself from the station and away from the planet. Camila blinked away the tears in her eyes but then heard Sara wincing in pain. Camila noticed the emergency first aid box and dashed over to grab it. She brought it over to Sara and unzipped her space suit now that they were in flight. She examined Sara’s injuries, the blood pooling on the seat. Camila opened the kit and took out the bottle of morphine and a syringe.

“This will help with the pain,” Camila muttered before she injected it into her leg. Sara’s breathing remained shallow as her eyes were focused on the stars outside the pod window. Staring at the vastness of space while they left Mars’s surface.

Sara exhaled slowly, the pain easing. She muttered, “What a beautiful view.” She continued to look out at the surface and watched as they flew farther and farther away from the station.

“Stay with me Sara,” Camila said in a panicked voice, wrapping rolls of gauze around Sara’s wounds. “I need you to survive so I can write an article about this fucked-up station without feeling guilty, okay?”

Nervously chuckling to herself, she met Sara’s eyes once she turned her head slightly toward Camila. Her beautiful eyes glistened with both tears and hope. Even now, covered in all this blood, Camila couldn’t help but admire the beauty and strength of the woman in front of her.

“Can you hold me?” Sara asked, her voice meek and low. Camila felt her breath catch at her honest request.

She carefully wrapped her arms around her, trying to transfer her body heat to keep her warm. Sara closed her eyes as she slowly grasped Camila’s arms, feeling a comfort wash over her. The comfort of a human trying to help her. Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

As Sara’s consciousness drifted away, Camila held firm. Despite sorrow aching in her chest, what she felt right now wasn’t just grief. It was security. More than any security she ever felt with her family, with Aamir, or with Holly.

Right now, it truly was just the two of them. Holding on to each other while they drifted toward Earth.

Camila watched the stars, no longer scared of the dark because she had defeated it. No, she was scared for humankind. For the people hurt by the Adams of the world, stripping their resources, turning them into research subjects.

She looked down at Sara, soundlessly asleep in her arms, and for the first time in a long time, she had a sense of hope. A chance at change. For the first time in years, she had hope for the Earth and for humankind—fighting back with compassion. With honorable strength.

Camila thought all of this as she and Sara left behind the horrors of Liberty Station and sailed toward the long-forgotten hopeful tomorrow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sofia Ciccone is a writer and artist living in Padova, Italy, where she studies medieval and Renaissance art history. She enjoys writing and reading stories that focus on identity, memory, and change - all with a curve towards horror. When not studying or writing, she can be found sketching in a cafe or spending time at a local tattoo shop.

Delight in more of our horror fiction offerings . . .

1. John Carpenter’s “The Thing” (film)

   

An absolute masterclass on alien horror. Utilizing cosmic and body horror to disturb the viewer thoroughly, John Carpenter’s “The Thing” is a golden standard of alien isolation. Truly one of a kind. The mistrust between the party members is one of the most intense aspects of the film, even at the end.

2. Subhuman by Michael McBride (novel)

   

Following the atmosphere of arctic isolation, this book is one of my favorite alien isolation stories. The first half of the book is filled with setup and science, which I love reading about. The tension-filled buildup makes the latter half of the book all the more terrifying. This book was a good reminder to keep a strong sense of realism when it comes to the actual know-hows and science behind the story. While some liberties are taken, it’s realistic enough to feel like a possible reality.

3. Ridley Scott’s “Alien” (as well as Dean Foster’s novel adaptation)

   

One of my biggest touchstones for Welcome to Liberty Station. The suspense, atmosphere, and crackling tensions between the teammates were so detailed and informative. It is truly a generational creation. It reminded me that the scariest thing about the creature was how little you see it. Most horror is in the unknown, and sometimes the less you see the creature, the scarier it becomes when it’s finally revealed.

4. Ship of Fools by Richard Paul Russo (novel)

   

Another touchstone of mine. Themes of class divide and corruption are heavily shown throughout this book; combined with voyaging and alien horror, it is one of my inspirations. I read it several times to see how Russo would pace the commentary about social differences with the budding horror elements.

5. Visceral Games’ 2008 “Dead Space” (video game)

   

One of the most standout alien franchises I’ve ever seen. The monster designs are sickening in all the best ways; the game itself thrives on its themes of isolation and insanity. The body horror is intense, and the cosmic whisperings of the marker are just as horrifying. When designing the alien from Welcome to Liberty Station, Dead Space was one of my biggest inspirations. Taking something like the human form and twisting it beyond our realms of understanding is so visceral, and Dead Space’s monster designs gave me limitless ideas.

6. Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer (novel)

   

There is no list of cosmic horror without VanderMeer’s Annihilation. Disturbingly detailed, disgustingly designed, and beautifully tragic. Annihilation takes the philosophical aspect of cosmic horror and dials it to a million.

Thank you for reading,

Sophia

About the author

Sofia Ciccone is a writer and artist living in Padova, Italy, where she studies medieval and Renaissance art history. She enjoys writing and reading stories that focus on identity, memory, and change - all with a curve towards horror. When not studying or writing, she can be found sketching in a cafe or spending time at a local tattoo shop.

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pulls back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Sofia Ciccone, author of Welcome to Liberty Station, coming soon to Chain Letter!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Sofia Ciccone

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Sofia: Since I was a child, I’ve always been afraid of creatures that pretend to be human, and humans turning into monsters while still keeping their sanity. This started with one of my favorite movies, Coraline. Something that can walk, talk, and look like a human, however, is anything but. It’s rich with literary possibilities and the story could take any number of directions, with each and every one horrifying. With humans being turned into monsters, it’s so tragic and disturbing. One of my favorite examples of this is the game Still Wakes the Deep. Becoming a creature of horror while still maintaining your mind is something that deeply disturbs me.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

S: The author that inspired me the most is Junji Ito. He expertly mixes body horror and cosmic horror. He comes up with ideas many wouldn’t be able to conceptualize and translates it visually and narratively into the most grotesque and terrifying outcome. His ideas are truly unique, his art beautifully stunning, and his stories gripping and intense the whole way through.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing Welcome to Liberty Station?

S: My favorite part was the final battle. It felt like I could take the gloves off and write as gruesome, tragic, and bloodily as needed for the finale. Being able to describe the creature in detail, showcasing its horrifying abilities, and topping it off with the tragic truth behind the creature was so engaging to write. The words flowed out and before I knew it I was several pages in.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

S: There is a TV series called Channel Zero. It’s similar to American Horror Story in that every season is a different narrative. The season titled No End House is one of my absolute favorite pieces of horror media of all time. The concept is beautifully tragic, and absolutely terrifying. The characters are very well written, and the original sound track is so memorable because of how unsettling it is. The monsters also are very well done, they can be mindless and cruel, or beautifully sad. It’s a short series, so if you enjoy unsettling, intense and hauntingly bittersweet shows, I recommend No End House with every fiber of my being.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

S: Before I write any story, I try to think of a character’s personality traits. Are they sensitive? Hot headed? A people pleaser? I use it as a guideline whenever I write emotional moments. I draw on my own personal experiences, trying to recall the emotions of that moment. Once I have that feeling, I imagine how a person with those traits would react. If I was someone who avoided confrontation, what would I say in that moment? If I was someone who was calm and collected, how long before I would break? If I was completely detached from others, what actions would I take in a horror scenario? I try to think as realistically as I can, what can a human accomplish in that moment? Once I’m in the characters headspace, I feel ready. This helps me keep the emotions from getting too personal, allowing me to write without having it affect my mental headspace negatively.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

S: Any work made by Mike Flanagan, my beautiful dog Jasper, chocolate-covered strawberries, ice cold Dr. Pepper, and a warm heating pad.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

S: I absolutely love Sci-Fi horror. It’s rich with creativity. All bets are off, there’s little to no rules to follow. You can design and create absolutely anything. I love taking Sci-Fi monsters, and trying to fit them into the human world. How would a creature that exists out of all human bounds interact with humans? How would the humans battle something far beyond their understanding?

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

S: I love character driven horror stories. With directors such as Mike Flanagan, Ari Aster, and Robert Eggers I have been noticing a shift in horror media. Their stories are about how their characters would act in horrific situations. If you were to change the characters in Haunting of Hill House, you would have a completely different story. The characters are what makes the horror because I become invested in them and want them to not just survive, but recover too.

CL: What’s next for you?

S: I plan on continuing to create! Whether it’s writing, drawing, or painting. I have so many unfinished stories that I can’t wait to continue and lots of art pieces I want to bring to life.

Thank you for joining us, Sofia! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Delight in more of our horror fiction offerings . . .

1. Nothing but Blackened Teeth by Cassandra Khaw

   

   A Heian-era mansion stands abandoned, its foundations resting on the bones of a bride and its walls packed with the remains of the girls sacrificed to keep her company.
   
   It’s the perfect venue for a group of thrill-seeking friends, brought back together to celebrate a wedding.
   
   A night of food, drinks, and games quickly spirals into a nightmare as secrets get dragged out and relationships are tested.
   
   But the house has secrets too. Lurking in the shadows is the ghost bride with a black smile and a hungry heart.
   
   And she gets lonely down there in the dirt.
   
   Effortlessly turning the classic haunted house story on its head, Nothing but Blackened Teeth is a sharp and devastating exploration of grief, the parasitic nature of relationships, and the consequences of our actions.

Cassandra Khaw's Nothing But Blackened Teeth is a gorgeously creepy haunted house tale, steeped in Japanese folklore and full of devastating twists. You’ll find yourself thinking about this story long after you’ve turned the final page.

2. Middle of the Night by Riley Sager

   

   The worst thing to ever happen on Hemlock Circle occurred in Ethan Marsh’s backyard. One July night, ten-year-old Ethan and his best friend and neighbor, Billy, fell asleep in a tent set up on a manicured lawn in a quiet, quaint New Jersey cul-de-sac. In the morning, Ethan woke up alone. During the night, someone had sliced the tent open with a knife and taken Billy. He was never seen again.
   
   Thirty years later, Ethan has reluctantly returned to his childhood home. Plagued by bad dreams and insomnia, he begins to notice strange things happening in the middle of the night. Someone seems to be roaming the cul-de-sac at odd hours, and signs of Billy’s presence keep appearing in Ethan’s backyard. Is someone playing a cruel prank? Or has Billy, long thought to be dead, somehow returned to Hemlock Circle?
   
   The mysterious occurrences prompt Ethan to investigate what really happened that night, a quest that reunites him with former friends and neighbors and leads him into the woods that surround Hemlock Circle. Woods where Billy claimed ghosts roamed and where a mysterious institute does clandestine research on a crumbling estate.
   
   The closer Ethan gets to the truth, the more he realizes that no place—be it quiet forest or suburban street—is completely safe. And that the past has a way of haunting the present.

   This jaw-dropping thriller following a man who must contend with the long-ago disappearance of his childhood best friend—and the dark secrets lurking just beyond the safe confines of his picture-perfect neighborhood—will keep you up until ‘the middle of the night’ . . .

   3. The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco

   

   I am where dead children go.

   Okiku is a lonely soul. She has wandered the world for centuries, freeing the spirits of the murdered-dead. Once a victim herself, she now takes the lives of killers with the vengeance they’re due. But releasing innocent ghosts from their ethereal tethers does not bring Okiku peace. Still she drifts on.

   Such is her existence, until she meets Tark. Evil writhes beneath the moody teen’s skin, trapped by a series of intricate tattoos. While his neighbors fear him, Okiku knows the boy is not a monster. Tark needs to be freed from the malevolence that clings to him. There’s just one problem: if the demon dies, so does its host.

   If you’re looking for a suspenseful and creepy story, The Girl from the Well is it. It’s the perfect spooky book for young adults, as well as for fans of Japanese horror novels and East Asian folklore.

   4. The Place Where They Buried Your Heart by Christina Henry

   

   On an otherwise ordinary street in Chicago, there is a house. An abandoned house where, once upon a time, terrible things happened. The children who live on this block are told by their parents to stay away from that house. But of course, children don’t listen. Children think it’s fun to be scared, to dare each other to go inside.
   
   Jessie Campanelli did what many older sisters do and dared her little brother Paul. But unlike all the other kids who went inside that abandoned house, Paul didn’t return. His two friends, Jake and Richie, said that the house ate Paul. Of course adults didn’t believe that. Adults never believe what kids say. They thought someone kidnapped Paul, or otherwise hurt him. They thought Paul had disappeared in a way that was ordinary, explainable.
   
   The disappearance of her little brother broke Jessie’s family apart in ways that would never be repaired. Jessie grew up, had a child of her own, kept living on the same street where the house that ate her brother sat, crouched and waiting. And darkness seemed to spread out from that house, a darkness that was alive—alive and hungry.
   

   Looking for more books where women confront evil? Look no further than The Place Where They Buried Your Heart. It’s a gripping haunted house novel from the national bestselling author of The House That Horror Built and Good Girls Don’t Die.

   5. This House Will Feed by Maria Tureaud

   

   County Clare, 1848: In the scant few years since the potato blight first cast its foul shadow over Ireland, Maggie O’Shaughnessy has lost everything—her entire family and the man she trusted with her heart. Toiling in the Ennis Workhouse for paltry rations, she can see no future either within or outside its walls—until the mysterious Lady Catherine arrives to whisk her away to an old mansion in the stark limestone landscape of the Burren.
   
   Lady Catherine wants Maggie to impersonate her late daughter, Wilhelmina, and hoodwink solicitors into releasing Wilhelmina’s widow pension so that Lady Catherine can continue to provide for the villagers in her care. In exchange, Maggie will receive freedom from the workhouse, land of her own, and the one thing she wants more than either: a chance to fulfill the promise she made to her brother on his deathbed—to live to spite them all.
   
   Launching herself into the daunting task, Maggie plays the role of Wilhelmina as best she can while ignoring the villagers’ tales of ghostly figures and curses. But more worrying are the whispers that come from within. Something in Lady Catherine’s house is reawakening long-buried memories in Maggie—of a foe more terrifying than hunger or greed, of a power that calls for blood and vengeance, and of her own role in a nightmare that demands the darkest sacrifice . . .

   A chillingly evocative historical novel with gothic horror and supernatural suspense? Readers of Katherine Arden’s The Warm Hands of Ghosts and The Silence Factory by Bridget Collins will be clamoring for this one!

Looking for more ghost stories? Read our collection of haunting short stories and novellas featured below.

Share Chain Letter

With the turn of the season comes a new swath of books to put a “spring” into your step. From slashers to haunting reads, these novels will make you both embrace the coming sun, and read for long hours under the waning moon.

1. The Cove by Claire Rose (out May 5)

No phones, computers, or tablets. That’s the new life of Lindsay Weinburg.
Things start to feel hopeless until Lindsay meets twins Phin and Cass. After a party on the island, she wakes up with no memory of the night and only a sea-shell memento to point to the the truth. With the piling disappearances on the island, it’s clear the Cove has been waiting for them—and it won’t stop until it gets what it wants.

2. You’re Not Supposed to Die Tonight by Kalynn Bayron

What’s a better combo than Kalynn Bayron and slasher YA fiction? Nothing, that’s what. This book is filled with thrills of every kind, and like The Blonde Dies First, is filled with queer and Black rep that’s much-needed in the slasher novel landscape.

3. What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher

When retired soldier Alex Easton learns their childhood friend Madeline Usher is dying, they race to the ancestral home of the Ushers in the remote countryside of Ruravia. There, Alex finds more secrets than answers as they become entangled with the mysterious House of Usher in this delectable retelling by master storyteller T. Kingfisher.

4. The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

One moment can change everything. The Only Good Indians follows four American Indian men after a disturbing event from their youth puts them in a desperate struggle for their lives. A vengeful entity hunts them as their past comes crashing into their present.

5. Diavola by Jennifer Thorne

There’s nothing like a family vacation in the remote Italian countryside to get family secrets to come to the surface. Anna’s life choices have put her at the fringe of the Pace family. But she’s not the only one about to ruin the vacation. Their villa is haunted, and the thing inside isn’t done with Anna. This fast-paced horror blends Italian folk magic, ghost stories, and millennial existential dread in a helluva entertaining novel.

Delight in more of our horror fiction offerings . . .

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Shannon Phyllis-Rose Murphy, author of Barbara Vs the Monster!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Shannon Phyllis-Rose Murphy

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Shannon: What scares me is the creepy-crawly feeling on—and under—your skin. Flesh-eating fungi, bursting pustules, maggots. All of it gives me the heebie jeebies. If I’m reading a horror story or watching a scary movie, those are the scenes that make me squirm.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

S: Anime and manga. I am a huge anime fan and my favorites are favored because of the impeccable storytelling and the fearless approach to pushing boundaries. Currently, there is a Black female mangaka named Gigi Murakami who is breaking glass ceilings. She did a workshop session for a program, Blerd Chronicles, through my nonprofit Writing For Freedom. She’s an exceptional storyteller and artist, and her work exemplifies horror at its finest.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing Barbara vs The Monster?

S: As a writer, I usually center voices more like Abigail’s—a Black woman having to combat societal pressures and stereotypes. But Barbara is completely opposite. She’s the one perpetuating those challenges and directing them at Abigail. So, it was satisfying to write Barbara’s monstrous transformation and self-destruction at the end. I also enjoyed developing a plot that included Trinidadian folkloric characters.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

S: An underrated horror fact I wish more people knew was the origin of Zombies. There’s a distinct and fascinating lineage that traces back to Equatorial and Central African countries such as Gabon, Angola, and the Congo where there are languages that are believed to be the root of the word “zombie.” The language and religions of these people were transported to the Caribbean during the transatlantic slave trade, and the Afro-Haitian religion of voodoo developed along with the concept of zombification—a soul that was captured and forced to do hard labor with no food or rest for eternity. Even in death, they were not free. The origin of zombies was not what we know of today, but a reflection of the horrors of the slave trade.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

S: As a writer, I believe a good horror story is relatable and relevant. To dig deep in darker moments, I channel my characters’ emotions whether it be a reaction to something spooky or a psychological trigger. Keeping my characters’ voices and feelings at the center of my narrative wraps readers in the darkness of these moments.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

S: My horror summoning circle involves a cozy blanket, hot chocolate or white cheddar popcorn, eerie ambience music, and anything by Stephen Graham Jones.

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

S: Definitely supernatural/fantastical horror. Think The Changeling by Victor LaValle, Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones, or The Good House by Tananarive Due.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

S: I hope to see more Caribbean horror stories that don’t twist our folklore in some cliché tale, but reveal an honest truth about the culture, even if the truth is hard to swallow.

CL: What’s next for you?

S: Currently, I’m working on a new fantasy manuscript. I say new, but it’s a story that’s been with me for the past two years. I’m hoping to start querying the manuscript by the end of 2026. Think Oda’s One Piece meets Adeyemi’s Children of Blood Bone with crossover appeal.

Thank you for joining us, Shannon! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘Barbara Vs. the Monster’ here!

Home Sweet Home

by Baillie Puckett

Los Angeles celebrated the spring equinox with a heat wave. The change of the seasons signaled a time for growth and pruning what held you back. For Lola and Claudette, that meant replacing a dead car battery. Unfortunately, bringing their car in for service resulted in the discovery of a laundry list of other problems that kept it in the shop for weeks, waiting for parts.

Without a car, coming home from their overnight visit with Claudette’s sister meant walking a half mile to the bus stop that would take them from Sylmar back to their apartment in Sherman Oaks. It wasn’t a hard walk on a good day. Except last week’s brisk seventy-degree temperatures jumped to the mid-nineties.

The heat slowed them both down, and they were cutting it close. Five minutes until the bus was scheduled to be there and they were still three blocks away. The last thing Lola needed was for the bus to be on time today—God forbid, early. She was about to suggest they make a run for it when someone stepped out in front of them from behind a wall of overgrown foliage.

“Good afternoon, ladies!”

Lola and Claudette skidded to a stop and instinctively reached for each other’s hands. There were more than a few weirdos in the San Fernando Valley ready to shout obscenities at them for being visibly gay. Or worse. If they needed to run, they couldn’t get separated.

The stranger looked like she stepped out of an old movie, decked out in full thirties vintage despite the blistering heat. She wore a calf-length shirt dress with a fabric belt cinching her waist, along with cream-colored oxford heels. Dark brown hair peeked out from a short-brimmed hat pinned to her head. The stranger’s brown eyes locked on Lola’s and Claudette’s interlocked fingers. “Are you two here for the open house?”

“Excuse me?” Lola’s grip on Claudette tightened. There were two types of people who wore full vintage on an average day: normal people who valued aesthetic, and weirdos who wanted to pull civil liberties back seventy years. She couldn’t tell which one this lady was yet.

“I was afraid nobody would show up,” the stranger said, holding out her gloved hand. Her enunciation stuck in Lola’s head. Usually, the only places she heard a transatlantic accent was either listening to archival footage at work or watching old movies. “You beauties have saved my day from being a complete bust.”

Claudette stepped forward before Lola could take the woman’s hand. “Sorry, ma’am, we’re just trying to catch our bus.” She pulled Lola back into motion. “Good luck, though!”

Lola dragged her feet, unable to look away from the woman wearing nylons and gloves in the middle of a heat wave. Her presence felt anachronistic, and the researcher in Lola wanted to dig into the why of it all. It wasn’t unusual for people to commit to an aesthetic. Her work at the Huntington Library saw more than a few people dressed to the nines while visiting the gardens. This felt different.

“I promise to make it worth your while,” the woman called.

Her voice blew through the dry spring air, sending a chill down Lola’s spine. She yanked Claudette to a stop in time to watch the 234 Metro bus pass. Their bus was early. Meaning they officially had an hour until the next bus. And in this heat . . .

“The house has an updated HVAC system,” the Agent offered.

Lola and Claudette met each other’s eyes. Like most millennials, browsing million-dollar Zillow listings was where their homeowner dreams ended. Buying a house seemed as likely as Lola paying off her student loans. Maybe one day. But what were they supposed to do? Sit at the bus stop for an hour?

Claudette chewed her lip. “There’s no harm in looking,” she conceded.

Relief flooded Lola’s body, and she nodded eagerly. Finding the words to explain her curiosity felt impossible, and now here was an easy excuse to study this woman more without having to imagine her life story on the commute home. Turning back to the Realtor, she held out a hand with a smile. “I’m Lola,” she said. “And this is my wife, Claudette.”

“Lovely to meet you both.” The woman shook Lola’s hand. “My name is Leah Merced, and I’ll be your host this afternoon, if you’ll please follow me.”

Leah retreated to the hedge she emerged from, and Lola realized the wall of green was an overgrown rosebush obscuring a wrought iron gate. There was a door for sidewalk entry and, a few steps down, another bush hiding the driveway. They walked past this street corner yesterday and hadn’t noticed a house hiding here.

Lola and Claudette stopped after passing through the gate. Lola gasped and squeezed Claudette’s hand as they took in the house. It was beautiful. The house was a single-story home with yellowed stucco and a low, triangular roof with a covered entryway. Plants in front of the windows were wild, lush, and beautiful, though the unexpected heat tipped a few of the leaves with brown. A few crispy leaves couldn’t deter from the charm.

When they were delusional enough to believe they could afford homeownership last year, they toured several places in their price range. Even some houses in this neighborhood. Everything was either spackled in layers of landlord white or a Flip This House contender. All of which sold either well above asking or for full cash before they could dare put in an offer.

“This is a 1938 ranch-style house,” Leah said, pulling the front door open. “Built back when Sylmar was still a produce town, this house has two bedrooms, two full baths, with an attached garage and a beautiful back patio. The backyard is a hostess’s dream, if you’re a party person.”

Claudette nudged Lola with a grin. As if they were earnestly touring the place instead of passing time. Claudette had a big family, and they dreamed of being able to take over hosting duties.

Leah motioned them inside. “Come on,” she beckoned. “On the left, we have a coat closet and garage entry for easy access. And to the right, we have a sunken living room. It can easily be made into an office if you’re so inclined.”

They followed Leah through the house, stopping to appreciate the moderately updated kitchen and main bedroom. Leah told them the house changed hands a few times over the years, each owner updating the space with more modern amenities. Ceiling fans were added, and the hardwood floors polished. Lola wagered the house probably didn’t look too different from when it was originally built.

Their inside tour concluded with the second bedroom. It was positioned next to a sliding glass door leading from the kitchen to the backyard. Claudette stepped into the room and looked around. “This has office potential.” The room was small, but she made up for it with big gestures. “A desk and bookshelves all along this wall,” she said, motioning to where a queen bed currently rested. She pointed to the empty wall. “Maybe a reading nook in the corner.”

“I love that,” Lola agreed. “We can get a comfy couch and a good lamp.” She could picture Claudette’s vision as clear as day. Right now, Claudette worked from their bedroom and met clients at nearby coffee shops. Dedicated office space would be perfect for . . . She shook her head, pushing the thought away. It’s not as if this was anything more than a fantasy.

Leah watched from the doorway. “You two are quite the visionaries,” she remarked. “Just what this house needs.” She tilted her head toward the kitchen. “There’s still one place you haven’t seen.”

They filed out of the bedroom to follow Leah to the backyard. Lola only took a couple of steps before stopping again. “Oh my,” she breathed.

The patio was furnished with a dining table and a barbecue and flowers growing wildly all along the tall fence. In the back, however, was the showstopper: a mature orange tree with white blossoms on the verge of blooming.

Lola imagined the parties they could throw here. Claudette’s army of cousins had room to run around. They could tie a swing from the tree. There was even room for a bounce castle. She reached for Claudette’s hand and pulled her close, getting choked up. This was a backyard dreams were made of.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Leah asked. “Some call this house small, but I like to think of it as—”

“Cozy,” Lola finished.

Leah smiled. “Exactly,” she said. “This house is perfect for a couple like you.”

“We wish,” Claudette said.

Leah couldn’t take the hint. “Do you ladies want to make an offer?”

Their hesitation lasted longer than it should have. Lola knew when to quit a game she was positioned to lose. She was passed over for a promotion twice, and Claudette moonlit as an internet psychic. They had once-in-a-blue-moon vacation money, not buying-a-house money.

“I’m sorry,” Lola said. “We’d be outbid before the ink was dry. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t worry,” Leah said, waving her hand. “We’re looking to make a private sale. The owner is old and wants to move in with family.” She pressed a business card into Lola’s hand. “You two can write a letter and share your story along with your best offer. No matter what you have, your offer will be considered.”

Claudette snorted. “What’s the catch?”

Leah had the decency to look appalled. “I beg your pardon?”

“What’s wrong with the house?” Claudette asked. Her disbelief solidified into suspicion. “Nobody in their right mind would pass the opportunity to sell for a fortune. Not in this market. There must be something wrong. Foundation issues. Leaky roof. A murder on the property.” She paused. “Is it haunted?”

“Don’t be silly.” Leah laughed. “The owner knows what it’s like to buy in an unforgiving market. Think of this as her paying it forward to the next generation of homeowners. This way, she knows a family is buying and not some corporate schmuck looking to gut it for profit.”

Lola and Claudette shared incredulous looks. The reasoning sounded too good to be true. And they knew better than to get their hopes up. Still, even knowing all that . . . Lola already started to visualize a future here. She saw herself growing old with Claudette in this house. Leah was offering them a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Only if they tried.

“You’re welcome to order a home inspection if you don’t believe me,” Leah said. “I promise you there’s no trick.”

“Okay,” Lola agreed. The word slipped from her mouth without a second thought. Claudette shot her an alarmed look, though Lola ignored it. She didn’t know what she was saying, only that it felt correct. “We’ll make an offer.”

“We will?” Claudette squeaked.

Lola wasn’t usually this impulsive, but she had a good feeling about this place. “There’s no harm in trying, right?” she asked. “And our lease is almost up . . .”

Claudette’s eyebrows furrowed, but she didn’t argue. “Okay,” she said. She looked at Leah. “We’ll be in contact soon.”

“Wonderful! I look forward to it.” Leah followed them to the front. “It was a pleasure and a blessing to meet you two. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

It had been two months since she and Claudette first toured the house, and living here still felt like a dream. Like any moment Lola would wake up sweating out a fever in their old apartment. Apparently, the letter they sent so moved the homeowner that they accepted their offer within twenty-four hours. No counteroffer. No negotiation at all. After double house inspections, promises to their bank that they weren’t scamming an old woman out of her house, and frankly frightening mortgage math, Lola and Claudette owned a house. They were ecstatic—obviously—but everything happened so fast. Neither Lola nor Claudette really realized what was involved in a move like this.

Then came the horrifying prospect of furnishing the house. They brought what they had from their apartment along with a coffee table from Claudette’s cousin, but there was still more empty space than they knew what to do with. They didn’t have time to thrift, and the buy-nothing groups online were swarmed—no matter how quickly they replied to a post, they were only one of fifty others and rarely got picked. In the meantime, the house echoed while it waited for more furniture to fill its rooms.

The silence was new, too. Both Lola and Claudette grew up with big families and houses filled with the constant noise of siblings and cousins. At their apartment, that was replaced by upstairs neighbors stomping, street traffic, and overnight freeway construction. This house, on the other hand—just the two of them, away from major roads, insulated by the wall of rosebushes—was terribly quiet.

So, they adopted a dog. Normal people might have waited until the house was fully set up. However, Chica was a necessary distraction from the silence of an empty home.

Her nervous yapping and toenails clicking against the hardwood cut through the oppressive silence, and her light sleep yipping and tiny snores helped Lola sleep. Claudette slept through anything, but Lola dreaded being left awake with only the company of her thoughts.

Luckily, they didn’t need a fully furnished place to host their first party. Earlier today, Claudette’s extended family filled the walls with laughter and brought enough food to feed the two of them for a week. It was, honestly, a lovely night.

Lola was trying to do the last of the dishes before bed, but Chica’s barking and digging at the base of the orange tree kept interrupting her Chappell Roan solo.

“Claudette,” Lola sighed, nudging the faucet off. “Can you make sure Chica’s not finding another stash of food your little cousins dropped?”

Claudette was up before Lola finished speaking. She pushed aside the notes she’d been taking post-party—one of her followers emailed her, desperate for an emergency protection spell. Usually, Claudette loved a tight deadline, but she’d been struggling to find the words even after asking for advice from her mom. Chica’s shenanigans were a welcome distraction.

Coming up behind Chica, Claudette froze. Not a chicken bone. “Babe?” she called. “Can you bring a flashlight?”

Lola peeked out the back door. “Something wrong?”

“I wouldn’t say wrong,” Claudette said. Accepting the flashlight Lola handed her, she illuminated the base of the tree. Chica danced in the light, barking excitedly at her discovery. A small wooden box with flower carvings lay half buried in the dirt. “She found treasure.”

Lola stared into the shallow hole. A strange feeling overcame here; her heart pounded, and her ears buzzed. “We should leave it,” she heard herself say.

Claudette balked. “What?”

Admittedly, the response was unlike Lola. Buried treasure was supposed to be catnip for an archivist and certified history buff such as herself. Except, as Lola stared at the hazy lacquer of the wooden box, unease bubbled in her gut. This reminded her of snooping through her mother’s jewelry as a child. “It could be somebody’s ashes.”

“Don’t be a buzzkill,” Claudette said, already kneeling. She handed the flashlight over and unearthed the box. The soft clang of metal on metal rang from inside it.

Lola fell to her knees beside Claudette, her curiosity overriding the anxiety churning in her belly. She peeked over her wife’s shoulder as she pulled the lid open. A handful of mismatched rings sat cushioned by threadbare silk lining.

“Tell me, oh great historian.” Claudette started, pulling a ring from the pile, “what kind of person buries their jewelry?”

“People who don’t trust safety deposit boxes, usually,” Lola said. There was a built-in safe in the closet. That would be safer than abandoning valuables to tarnish in the ground. She plucked a ring from the box and held it to the light. It was a mixed-metal cigar band with an engraving along the inside: R.P. to T.P. 11-29-47.

Claudette snorted. She slipped on the ring she picked over her own wedding set. “Whoever buried these had good taste,” she said, moving her hand so Lola could see the white-gold band with an etched orange blossom pattern.

Lola shook her head and exchanged the ring she’d taken for a new one. “I’m not sure these belonged to the same person,” she said. This one was a more modern rose-gold chevron band with diamonds studs. No engraving, only a maker’s mark. “They’re different sizes and wildly different eras.”

“Turn off your researcher brain, babe.” Claudette nudged Lola with her shoulder. “Don’t think so hard about it; we’ve literally struck gold.”

Sticking her tongue out, Lola studied another ring. Thin golden filigree glinted in the flashlight. She could crush it between her fingers if she wanted to. “We should call Leah in the morning to make sure the previous owner isn’t missing these.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Claudette grumbled. “Take the fun out of everything.” She pulled off the ring and checked for an inscription. “‘For Josie, with love.’” She tossed the ring back into the box and sighed dreamily. “That’s sweet. We should get engraved rings for our anniversary.”

Lola was halfway to reminding Claudette that the house ate up their new-wedding-band fund, when Josie shot back through her head like a boomerang. “Hold on . . .” The name sounded familiar, though she couldn’t place it. Too many census records passed her desk at work, and names blurred together. Except she hadn’t heard this name at work. “You said Josie?”

She didn’t wait for Claudette’s confirmation. Scrambling to her feet, Lola bolted back to the house. Leah gifted them a file of the house’s history when she gave them the keys. Lola barely skimmed the contents before sliding it into her file cabinet for later. Work was a mess during the move, and she forgot about it. She recalled exactly one name.

“Wait up!” Claudette rushed to catch up. Chica barked at their heels as Lola ran to her desk in the kitchen. “Don’t keep your revelations to yourself.”

Rolling her eyes, Lola spread the folder’s contents across the kitchen table. She pointed to a newspaper clipping. “‘Young Hollywood Starlet Missing in Sylmar,’” she recited.

“Where did all of this come from?” Claudette asked, reaching for a page. “You’re not usually one for hoarding ephemera.” Lola typically claimed she dealt with enough paperwork at work.

Lola swiped the clipping back from her wife. “From Leah.”

“Why did she have them?”

“Does it matter?” Lola asked. “You wanted me to share my revelation. Listen here: Josephine ‘Josie’ Lester disappeared after attending a dinner party with Sandra Merced, a young starlet and the original owner of the house in 1939.”

Claudette squinted at the page. “She didn’t get far if her wedding ring is in the backyard.”

“Her body was never found, and cops assumed she ran off after incurring gambling debt. Her husband was apparently a Hollywood producer who discovered both her and Sandra and helped launch them to starring roles.” Lola turned over one of the clippings. “People think Josie’s husband killed her over the debt.”

“No way it was the husband,” Claudette said. “A producer wouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

Lola gasped, her mind syncing with her wife’s. “It had to have been—”

“Sandra,” they finished in unison.

They burst into laughter. Hours of true crime documentaries clearly served them well. Their theory wasn’t a jump in logic. They saw countless shows about cases like Josephine’s. Together, they extrapolated the details of her case as easily as breathing. “Josephine and Sandra were friends. Or at least were friendly. They were both actresses.”

“They were more than friends,” Lola suggested. “Secret affairs were all the rage back then.”

Claudette clapped. “Yes! Of course they were lovers. And Josephine wouldn’t leave her husband. He was the reason she was in LA, and without him, she had no chance of a career.”

“Sandra couldn’t take it. Living alone, with nobody in her bed,” Lola continued. The scene played out in her head like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. “Nobody could blame her for wanting companionship. But when your lover is married . . .”

“Feelings get hurt quickly. And when Josephine tried to break up their affair . . .”

“Sandra bashed Josie’s head in!” Lola blurted.

The women stared at each other with mirrored grins, breathless. As if murder was that easy. Besides, there was more than Josephine’s ring in the box. For all they knew, the last owner simply bought it at an antique store without knowing its connection to the house.

Chica barked, focused on a moth fluttering behind the sliding door. The moment broke, and Lola tore her eyes from Claudette. “Come on, Chica,” she cooed. She turned the porch light off so Chica wouldn’t alert them of every bug lurking in the night. Scooping the dog into her arms, she started for the bedroom. “Time for bed.”

Claudette scoffed. “Bedtime already? It’s only . . .”

Midnight.

Her eyes went wide as she double-checked her phone. “When did it get so late?”

Lola smiled, bemused. “Your family didn’t leave until ten,” she reminded her.

“Shit.” Claudette ran a hand across her face. “The protection spell. She needs it before noon.”

“Then you better get moving,” Lola said. Luckily for her, tomorrow was her day off. That’s what happened when she planned ahead, something Claudette was terrible at. “Want me to keep you company?”

Claudette waved her off. She could have turned down the request if she didn’t want to do the work. Pretended she hadn’t seen the email until it was too late. That wasn’t the sort of person she aspired to be. She did this work to help people—not the money. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll call my sister if I need to work things out.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“Positive.” She kissed Lola gently on the lips. “Now, go to bed. I’ll be there before you wake up. Love you lots.”

“Love you, too,” Lola called over her shoulder as she retreated to their bedroom. She winked. “Don’t stay up too late.

Lola woke up dreaming of a skull caved in like a rotting pumpkin.

Again.

Ever since she and Claudette found the rings in the backyard, Josephine Lester haunted her nightmares. The dream changed every night. Sometimes she dreamed of the pulpy secret romance she and Claudette spun, and other nights she dreamed of a vindictive Sandra who slept with Josie’s husband and wanted her out of the way. Her brain worked in overdrive writing and rewriting Sandra Merced and Josephine Lester’s last argument. Regardless of the argument’s source, it ended the same way.

Sandra slammed Josie against the dresser in a fit of rage. Josephine cried as she tried pushing her off. It was no use. Sandra’s ringed fingers wrapped around her neck and bashed her skull against the dresser over and over and over until Josie stopped resisting. Then Sandra dropped the body in a heap on the bedroom before making her escape.

This was when Lola always woke up.

Tonight, she rolled across an empty bed, and her eyes opened to regretfully discover the light shining in their en suite bathroom. The light was only on when Claudette hadn’t made it to bed for the night. Usually, she was fast asleep when Lola woke up from her nightmare. What time is it?

She rolled back to look at her phone. Three in the morning.

God.

Claudette’s refusal to go to bed before finishing whatever task she was working on would destroy her mental health. She vaguely remembered something Claudette said about researching local ghost stories for a new TikTok series she wanted to do. Hopefully she wasn’t still up because of that. Too tired to drag herself out of bed and persuade her wife to take a break, Lola turned instead to the glass of water on her nightstand.

Lola woke up most days with dry eyes and her throat feeling like it was coated in fiberglass. Ice water first thing after waking up was usually her solution, except she left her insulated water bottle at work. Her forgetfulness resulted in needing to gulp down mouthfuls of tepid water from a glass in an attempt to wash the nightmare away.

A cold, metallic object passed over her tongue and lodged against the back of her throat. She froze mid-swallow.

Panic coursed through her body as Lola held her breath, trying to remember how to breathe through her nose with her mouth full. Whatisitwhatisitwhatisit? Lola didn’t even put food in her mouth without inspecting the bite. This was worse than her actual nightmares. Sobs shook her body and water dribbled from her mouth, drenching the front of her pajamas. She wanted to cry but couldn’t without hyperventilating this thing into her lungs.

Lola banged a fist on her nightstand with the hope Claudette might somehow hear her across the house. The knocks echoed hollowly through the bedroom.

Goddammit! Not even Chica was here, undoubtedly curled up without a care in the world in Claudette’s office. She needed to do this on her own.

Blinking back tears, Lola pushed her tongue flat against the roof of her mouth to force the object forward. The object was too thin, too smooth, and slipped farther against her tonsils with the movement. A frantic gargle bubbled up her throat as she tried not to hyperventilate.

She pulled in a deep breath through the back of her nose and used one hand to steady the base of her throat while the other passed through her lips to excavate. Fingers prodded past her tongue and cheeks, filling her mouth with the taste of her lavender hand lotion. She gagged and pushed past her teeth. The corners of her short nails grazed the soft skin of her throat, making her jaw constrict.

Her fingertip brushed against a curved edge, and she curled her finger into a hook to push it out, and the mystery object flew forward, rattling her teeth. Lola spat it into her palm.

A ring.

In the glow of their bathroom light, one of the rings they found in the backyard glistened with saliva. The white-gold orange blossoms were instantly recognizable. Even without double-checking, Lola knew what was engraved along the inside.

To Josie, with love.

Impossible. Last week, she watched Claudette lock the box of rings in their closet safe after leaving a message for Leah. And now Josephine’s ring was inexplicably in her water after dreaming of her demise. Lola looked around to make sure the box wasn’t sitting on Claudette’s nightstand, but it was absent. Besides, Claudette would never pull a prank like this. It was too cruel. But how else could it have gotten in there?

Lola resisted the urge to throw the ring out the window and opted to drop it inside her nightstand drawer. It landed with a delicate clink! as she shoved the drawer shut.

Sitting back, Lola held her breath and waited.

One . . .

Two . . .

She opened the drawer again.

Still there.

Relieved, Lola flopped back into bed with a sigh. Sleep never returned to her, and she instead watched the ceiling until dawn brightened the room.

Claudette never came to bed.

Lola waited until dinner to bring up her nightmare, and the incident with the ring.

She had peeked into Claudette’s office before leaving for work, only to find her passed out on the couch with a dozen crumpled spell drafts strewn across the floor. Even though last night’s fear mellowed out with her exhaustion, seeing Claudette so tired made Lola’s stomach churn. Claudette was always inclined to overcommit to her work, but the move made her worse. Now that she had a dedicated space for her witchy stuff, Claudette pulled more all-nighters than she used to. If she went to bed at a decent hour, Lola knew the whole ring fiasco might never have happened.

But as Lola sat through work with last night’s nightmare playing on repeat in her head, she knew she had to stop being so petty. If anybody had answers about nightmares and rings that appeared out of nowhere, it was Claudette.

“Weird question,” Lola started, waiting until Claudette was mid-bite to speak, “but have you moved the box of rings?”

Claudette nearly choked on her chicken pasta salad. She cleared her throat before speaking. “No?” she said, her voice strained. “You told me to leave them alone until we heard back from Leah. I haven’t even opened the safe since then.”

Lola looked away, biting her lip. She thought Claudette might say that, yet she was still disappointed. It had been weeks since they contacted Leah about the rings. No reply yet. So much for Leah’s insistence on closing day that they could contact her with any more questions. Maybe all real estate agents said the same.

“Why do you ask?” Claudette set her fork down.

Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. Lola shouldn’t be scared confiding in her wife, but this was new territory for her. Lola liked the tangible and the researchable; this wasn’t either. “Something happened last night,” she said slowly. “It felt real at the time . . . Now I don’t know.”

When Lola had resigned to getting ready for work, she’d opened the dresser to put the ring away. It was gone. She was too exhausted to be frightened by its disappearance and instinctively checked the safe. There it was. Exactly where Claudette left the ring box.

Claudette leaned across the table, her eyes bright. “Tell me more!”

“Don’t look so excited, damn.”

“Sorry,” Claudette said without tamping down her curious expression. “Nothing weird ever happens to you; it’s fun.”

“Nearly dying isn’t fun,” Lola snapped.

There was nothing like death to sober a room.

Claudette’s smile dropped. “What happened?”

The story fell from Lola’s mouth like a downpour. She spared no details, from her recurring dream to the chill of metal in her throat to her panic of realizing she was alone. Claudette’s expression remained unreadable as Lola described prying her mouth open before spitting out a ring. The ring. Josie Lester’s ring that was back in the safe in the morning.

When Lola finished, the dining room remained quiet for one dreadful second.

Claudette’s jaw tightened with determination. She pushed her half-finished plate aside and stood. “A séance,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Josephine was trying to communicate with you!” Claudette said. She was already across the kitchen and halfway to her office. “Ghosts are known for metaphors. A séance will help clear up her message. If we can help her, she can finally pass on.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Lola called after her wife. “I thought—” Her mouth snapped shut. She didn’t know what she expected. A spell for dreamless sleep, perhaps. Maybe a lecture about the subconscious’s secret language. But ghosts?

“If not a ghost, then what?”

“You don’t do séances,” Lola said, trying to steer the conversation into a new direction. “I don’t want to call your mom in the middle of the night for something we can solve ourselves. We’ll get rid of the rings. Tons of women in my office who collect vintage jewelry will be happy to take them off our hands.”

“That would piss Josephine off, and her next bid for attention could be even more dangerous! Maybe even deadly.” Claudette threw up her hands. “Besides, a séance is easy. I’ve helped my mom dozens of times.”

Lola stared at Claudette. She thought she knew everything about her wife’s spiritual calling. When they started dating, Claudette swore her work didn’t involve ghosts. Most psychics were swindling grieving people, Claudette promised. Her focus was helping people live more dedicated lives. Online, she suggested crystals to put on your altar and wrote custom spells for people. And though Lola didn’t understand what any of it meant, she never questioned Claudette’s work.

“C’mon, we can do it in my office.”

“Now?” Lola’s chest tightened. Séances didn’t feel like something to rush into. Claudette was like a dog with a bone. Except Chica knew what was good for her and remained asleep in the living room. “Don’t you need to prepare?”

Claudette arched a brow. “We can wait till witching hour, at three a.m.?”

Lola shook her head. She didn’t know what “witching hour” entailed, but she was already running on fumes after not sleeping. “No thank you.”

“Then look alive and grab some candles,” Claudette barked as she stormed into her office. “We’ll start at the top of the hour.”

Lola flinched as the door slammed. According to her phone, she only had ten minutes to suck it up and put on a brave face. “Chica, help me,” Lola whispered to the other room. The dog didn’t stir.

She wasn’t getting out of this, was she?

Resigned to her fate, Lola collected an armful of scented candles before approaching her wife’s office. She regretted bringing up the nightmare, or anything that happened afterward. All of it could be explained by stress and exhaustion. They were putting together a new exhibit at work, and moving was tiring. So, why were they going to play with ghosts?

“Excellent!” Claudette reached for the candles in Lola’s arms. She arranged them in a circle in the center of the room. A single ring light on Claudette’s desk illuminated the room. Beside the lamp was a tripod with her phone pointed toward the circle.

Lola frowned. “Are you recording this?”

“Yes,” Claudette said as she continued her preparations. “My followers would love to see a séance. It’s a good opportunity to branch out from my niche.”

“Are we . . . ?” Lola turned away from the camera and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you live?”

Claudette laughed, short and abrupt. “Of course not,” she said. “Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to go live and have nothing happen?”

“Right,” Lola said. Now she understood. This séance had little to do with protecting herself and more to do with view count. Before they moved, Claudette expressed disgust with what other spiritualists did on TikTok to attract viewers: selling curses, summoning the spirits of dead celebrities, and livestreaming tarot readings with exclusively positive reads. Lola failed to see how this was any different.

She hoped this séance failed.

“Let us open our minds and accept the possibility of experiencing something supernatural.” Claudette dragged Lola into the center of her circle. She lowered her voice, utilizing the soft and sultry tone typically reserved for her videos. “We join hands tonight in hopes of convening with those who have moved on from their earthly lives. I offer myself as your humble conduit—a voice for the voiceless.”

Silence followed.

The smell of the scented candles clashed, swirling into a nauseating mix of linen, pumpkin pie, and lavender. Lola squirmed beneath Claudette’s touch, waiting for whatever came next. Everything she knew about séances came from horror movies and the occasional ghost hunting show she watched in exchange for Claudette keeping her company during Bridgerton marathons. Except they weren’t using a Ouija board and she wasn’t “intuitive,” as Claudette called it, so Lola was lost.

“I’m sensing a presence,” Claudette murmured. “A woman.”

That sounded convenient. Lola’s eyes darted around the room looking for what Claudette felt. Empty.

Claudette’s eyes fluttered shut, and her head turned toward her desk. “Sandra.” Her voice came out as a strangled gasp. She squeezed Lola’s hands. “Are we speaking with Sandra Merced?”

Josephine was supposed to be the one with the message.

“Sandra, we want to speak with Josephine Lester. Is she here with you?”

“My friend . . .”

A disembodied voice blew against Lola’s ear. Goose bumps erupted down her neck. Lola tried pulling away, but Claudette held tight. The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. It occurred to her that Claudette could be playing a joke. Maybe there was a recording playing on her laptop? Except, when Lola checked the desk, the computer was closed.

“I know Josephine was your friend,” Claudette said. “We want to know why she choked my wife with her wedding ring.”

“Return the rings.”

Lola squeezed her eyes shut, fighting her instinct to run.

“Are you talking about the rings we found buried in the backyard?” Claudette asked.

“Please,” Sandra pleaded. Her voice rose to a shout in Lola’s ears. “Return the rings to their place! Josephine will not rest until they do!”

“We’ll return them tonight,” Claudette said. She sounded less shaken by the encounter than Lola felt.

No reply, but the pressure in the room shifted. The whine in Lola’s ears stopped. This felt too real to be a setup. Claudette ran her thumb in circles along the back of Lola’s hand. “Thank you for your intervention, Sandra. May you have a safe journey back to your resting place.”

Lola opened her eyes as Claudette released her. She blinked a few times at her wife’s grin. This didn’t feel like a smiling moment. This felt like a pack-up-and-run moment. “What now?”

“We rebury the rings like Sandra said.” Claudette shrugged. “Can you imagine if we got rid of them like you suggested?” She shut off the light and camera.

Lola picked at the hem of her shirt. She didn’t like being wrong. Now she was going to be wrong in front of Claudette’s thousands of followers. Perfect. “Do you think burying them will really help?” she asked.

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t.”

“Can you edit out the last bit where you mention my suggestion?” Lola smiled plaintively. “I don’t want your followers knowing you married an unbeliever.”

“I love you regardless of your skepticism,” Claudette said. “But sure. Anything you want.”

“Then . . . can I bury the rings?” Lola asked. Not that she didn’t trust Claudette. Except she didn’t trust Claudette. “I want to be the one to do it.”

“I can help.”

Shaking her head, Lola started for the door. She didn’t want Claudette to notice her trembling hands. “No, it’s okay,” she says. “You should edit the footage, anyway. Don’t want to keep your followers waiting.”

If Claudette noticed the venom in Lola’s words, she pretended not to. “You’re handling this haunted house thing well for a so-called nonbeliever,” Claudette said. She pulled Lola back and kissed her cheek. “You won’t have to worry about nightmares anymore. Sandra promised.”

Sandra had not said that. There was no point arguing, though. Claudette heard what she wanted to hear. “You’re right.” Lola smiled stiffly and shuffled to retrieve the box from the safe. When she opened the box, all the rings appeared to be there. Josephine’s ring sat at the top of the pile, glinting mockingly.

Lola tucked the box under her arm and made her way to the front yard in search of the shovel. She’d been trying to tame the shrubbery in her free time. It was going as well as you’d expect from someone whose knowledge of plants came from books instead of experience. After retrieving the shovel, Lola had every intention of reburying the box at the base of the orange tree in the yard. However, the thought of this cursed box so close to home made her skin crawl.

Looking back, she checked to make sure Claudette wasn’t watching before opening the front gate. She walked to a spot outside the property line beyond the overgrown rosebushes to a plot of dirt allegedly maintained by the city and started digging.

If Sandra wanted them to rebury the rings, Lola would happily do so.

Just . . . not on their property.

The house remained blessedly quiet in the week following Lola’s reburial of the rings. For the first time since moving in, she slept nightmare-free. She finally had energy to fulfill her spousal duties—which tonight included ordering pizza and cozying up on the couch with Claudette and Chica for a Deadly Women marathon.

They learned about a woman who evaded her crimes by chance, having killed people at the same time as a local serial killer. It wasn’t until police solved the first crime that they discovered there was a second murderer involved. Lola and Claudette watched at the edge of their seats, holding hands even though they’d seen the episode before.

When the show started to introduce the next case, Claudette reached over Lola for the remote and paused. “Speaking of suspiciously timed murders . . .” she started.

Lola rolled her eyes with a good-natured smile at her wife’s poor segue. “Let me guess,” she said. “This reminds you of something you read online.” Even though Lola was the professional researcher, Claudette was prone to falling down Wikipedia rabbit holes and the occasional internet conspiracy. She always had a story to tell whenever they settled in to watch their true crime shows.

“It’s about Sandra, if you can believe it.” Claudette waggled her brows.

“Oh?” Lola’s chest tightened at the name. “I thought we were done with her after reburying the rings.”

“So did I,” Claudette said, “but when I posted the seance video, my comment section blew up with questions about Sandra. Who she was and about her connection to the house. I started with that folder you got from Leah, then expanded into my own research. I’ve exchanged some emails with the San Fernando Valley Historical Society and checked out microfiche for newspapers that haven’t been digitized yet.”

“Microfiche?” Lola echoed. “When did you go downtown?”

Claudette shrugged. “My sister took me this week while you were at work,” she said. “I told you we got lunch.”

Lunch, yes. Lola remembered that conversation. She thought it was strange that they went all the way downtown for ramen on a Tuesday. Now she knew. And almost wished that she didn’t. Lola knew she would regret asking, but still the question spilled from her lips: “What did you learn?”

“A lot of weird shit, honestly.” Claudette grinned and readjusted on the couch, facing Lola as she sat on her knees. “Like, how Sandra Merced immigrated from Mexico to work in Hollywood—but when she finally made it big, nobody would sell her a house in LA proper. It was a scandal that a promising young star was forced to live among the olive farmers.”

Lola tightened her grip on her wineglass. “Really?”

She couldn’t bring herself to feel much sympathy. The fact that Sandra was able to buy a house—even in Sylmar—was a privilege back in the thirties. Lola imagined that she and Claudette had a rougher time finding a house than Sandra ever did.

“It was only a scandal because nobody knew she was from Mexico!” Claudette continued. “Mr. Lester cast Sandra on the condition she kept her nationality a secret because of housing covenants that forbade her from living there. The truth only came out when police investigated Sandra’s death.”

This was a story Lola was familiar with. “Let me guess. She was murdered.”

“Death by suicide.”

Damn.

Claudette leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “That’s not the unbelievable part,” she said. “Her whole career is riddled with rumors and speculation. Like, Ryan-Murphy-could-make-a-bad-TV-show-about-her-life sort of shit.”

“Nobody knew how a young Mexican woman could be so successful—she must have slept her way to the top?” Lola rolled her eyes. “Come on, Claudette. That’s not a mystery; it’s misogyny. And racist.”

“I said nothing about sex,” Claudette insisted. “Remember, I promised you a story about murder.”

A vision of two women struggling against each other, one’s skull caved in, flashed through Lola’s mind. She hadn’t thought of Josephine Lester’s murder since the nightmares stopped. Honestly, she didn’t want to think about it now. But Claudette persisted despite Lola’s silence.

“Sandra’s fame shifted like the tides. Her first big movie let her buy this house. Then her next few movies flopped. Not because they were bad—other movies were simply better. But after Josephine died, all the attention on Sandra led to her being cast in a big MGM production. She was longlisted for an Oscar but never made the nomination list. Big-shot directors ignored her after the snub, and Sandra was back to smaller roles. This happened for years. Small, insignificant roles followed by something big, followed by more small roles.”

“That’s just what it’s like working Hollywood,” Lola said. They had plenty of friends who struggled to find persistent work in town when TV shows were canceled after a season and films preferred shooting in cheaper locations with cheaper labor.

Claudette stuck out her tongue. “Let me finish! I haven’t gotten to the scandalous part yet!” When Lola motioned for her to continue, Claudette took a deep breath. “If you line up the ebs and flows of Sandra’s career, they follow a pattern. Her career would skyrocket after various disappearances and murders of up-and-coming starlets.”

Lola set her wine aside, her throat tight. “You don’t think . . .” She thought about the night they found the rings. How quickly they came up with their theory about Josephine’s murder. Had they been right all along? She leaned closer to Claudette as her heartbeat roared in her chest. “Was she killing the competition?”

“Probably not,” Claudette said with a laugh. She sat back with a satisfied smirk. “It makes a hell of a story, though, doesn’t it? Do you think my followers will like it?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Lola breathed, tossing a throw pillow at Claudette. Her unease burned into hot frustration. She hated when Claudette did this. “I thought you were being serious. Not testing out one of your stories!”

Claudette batted the pillow away, changing its trajectory to land squarely in front of Chica. The Chihuahua looked up from her sleep and barked once before turning away from them entirely. “Sorry, I didn’t think it was scary,” she said. “You usually love coming up with theories together.”

Exasperated, Lola ran a hand through her hair. “About strangers,” she said. “Not about ghosts that may or may not still live in our house.”

“Sandra’s not here anymore.” Claudette reached for Lola’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You reburied the rings, and I haven’t felt her presence since. It’s fine. We’re allowed to laugh about our house ghost.”

Lola huffed. “You say that like she’s a pet.”

“She kind of is, if you think about it,” Claudette joked. She nuzzled up against Lola, tucking her head into the crook of her neck. “I’m thinking of making a miniseries about Sandra. A ghost roommate is sure to get my interaction rates up. People always want to add their two cents to wild conspiracies. Especially when there’s murder involved.”

Starting a whole series about Sandra sounded like the opposite of a good idea. But Lola knew her wife. Once Claudette got an idea in her head, she didn’t let it go. Lola would simply have to wait this newfound obsession out until something new captured Claudette’s attention.

Desperate to change the topic, Lola took back the TV remote and resumed their show. Luckily Claudette took the hint. And that was the end of it.

Lola was in her car half an hour earlier than usual because she deserved a goddamn cinnamon roll. Claudette became insufferable since she started diving into Sandra’s past. Half of everything out of her mouth somehow tied back to their residential ghost. Did you know Sandra was discovered when she was working as a waitress in Mexico? Fun fact: Sandra lost her last audition to Katharine Hepburn! The whole situation was exhausting.

Lola yawned as she adjusted her rearview mirror, mentally preparing for the day ahead. Today was going to be a good day solely because her phone connected to the Bluetooth speaker on the first try. Her commute podcast, The Tinseltown Blotter, filled the cabin as she started the car.

“Tonya Price was only twenty-five when she moved to Los Angeles with her husband in 1947 with Hollywood aspirations,” the narrator said. “She never knew following her dream would lead her into the path of a killer.”

Shaking her head, Lola pressed the garage door clicker. “That’s the price of chasing fame,” she murmured under her breath as the garage groaned open. She pulled the car into reverse.

“Many speculate Mrs. Price’s murder was a crime of opportunity. But recent evidence uncovered in another case has led cold case investigators to speculate Tonya’s death was the work of a serial—”

The car stopped short, and Lola’s body slammed against her seat. “Shit,” Lola muttered, fiddling with her key. They just got it serviced! It shouldn’t be crapping out yet. She wasn’t even out of the garage. She killed the engine and turned the key again. This time the engine didn’t start at all. “Are you kidding me?”

In reply, the garage door let out a low groan as it made its descent back to the ground. Strange didn’t even begin to describe what was happening. Lola reached for her garage door clicker. The first click did nothing. Three seconds passed before she tried again. Again and again and again and again. Nothing.

Lola pulled her door handle, resigned to opening the garage manually. This, too, didn’t budge. Nervous laughter bubbled up her throat as she fumbled for her phone. Shaking fingers dialed Claudette’s number. No service. The useless thing wouldn’t even let her make an emergency call. You’ve got to be kidding me.

She threw her phone aside. This wasn’t happening to her. Lola took a deep breath. There was no ghost. This was just a quirky old house, and they had a junker car. She shut her eyes and counted back from ten.

Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .

“—seven with Hollywood aspirations.” Her podcast blared suddenly through the speakers, making Lola jump. The radio wasn’t even on, and pressing every button didn’t help. She banged at her car door and hit the horn. Nothing worked. Hours of watching true crime and Lola didn’t even know how to get out of a fucking locked car. Talk about pathetic.

“—into the sights of a killer—” the radio continued. “Perhaps the work of a serial killer.”

“Shut up!” Lola shouted.

“Stay with us as—you—death!” The podcast host’s voice cut in and out, distorted through static. “Are you—scared?”

Unbidden, tears welled in her eyes. Memories of the night she almost swallowed Josie’s ring ran through her head. Had Sandra realized she buried the rings off the property?

The engine roared to life before she mustered up the courage to try speaking with Sandra. Relief coursed through Lola’s body, and she slammed her foot on the gas, garage door be damned. The car didn’t budge. What happened instead was that exhaust started filling the small space. Lola cursed under her breath, and she yanked her key from the ignition. The engine kept humming. Of course, now it wanted to work, when she didn’t want it to.

“Body found—days—later. Ring—only thing missing. Ring—missing. Ring missing. Ring. Missing.” Gargled laughter rang out through the stereo. “Ring.”

“This isn’t funny!” Lola screamed.

Feedback screamed back, grating at her ears before cutting out as quickly as it started.

Silence.

Lola took a shaky breath. She reached for the door again. Still trapped. Tears fell freely as she racked her brain for a plan. Breaking the glass might work, though she didn’t know how to accomplish that. For all she knew the glass was unbreakable now, unlike everything else in this goddamn car.

Thunk.

Something heavy fell against the trunk and shook the car. Lola jumped, turning in search of the source. Outside, the white plume of exhaust steadily filled the garage. She smelled it now, gasoline and burnt rubber. But she didn’t see what hit the car.

Thunk. Thunk.

A shadow disappeared from her peripheral. Now matter how fast Lola turned her head, it remained barely out of sight. The car shook after every missed glance, the impacts moving farther up the passenger side, rattling the side-view mirrors.

Lola squeezed her eyes shut. She could almost convince herself that the carbon monoxide made her see shadows. Tears soaked her cheeks, and she whispered out a prayer. God probably wasn’t listening to her after all these years, but it was worth a shot.

Thunk.

The hood of the car shook, and Lola’s eyes flew open. She swallowed a scream, pressing a hand to her mouth at the sight of the shadow in front of her. Human-shaped, but not human. It stretched its limbs as it climbed atop the hood. Too-long fingers dragged through the condensation from the exhaust, writing dripping letters across the windshield.

R-I-N-G-S

“I’m sorry!” Lola shouted. Sorry for what? Everything. She was sorry for burying the rings wrong. She was sorry for letting Claudette do the séance. She was sorry for having the audacity of buying this goddamn house. “I promise I’ll fix it. Just let me go. Please.”

Thunk. The shadow thing slammed against the hood. Thunk. Thunk.

“Let me out!” she cried, pounding the steering wheel. Each punch felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. “Let me out, let me out, let me—”

“Lola!”

The shaking stopped.

When she looked up, the figure was gone.

Lola gasped for breath, twisting in her seat in search of the shadow. What she found instead was a familiar two-tone cigar-band ring on the passenger seat beside her purse. “What the fuck?” she whispered hoarsely.

Banging on the driver’s door window ripped Lola from her stupor. She braced herself for whatever was waiting outside. This was how she was going to die. Death by shadow monster. Better than carbon monoxide poisoning, she supposed.

“Dolores!”

Claudette’s voice cut through Lola’s daze. Her eyes cleared, and she realized that she wasn’t face-to-face with her demise. She was staring at her wife.

The car door didn’t resist when Claudette pulled it open. “Jesus,” Claudette breathed. Her words were muffled through the wet towel pressed to her face. The garage door was open, letting in fresh air. “Are you trying to kill yourself? What the fuck are you doing?”

Lola broke into sobs, falling into her wife’s embrace. “I didn’t do anything,” she cried. “The garage door closed on its own and then my car wouldn’t move, and I couldn’t get out. The engine started and there was exhaust. And the radio was playing even though my key wasn’t in the ignition. There was a shadow person thing and—and the ring! One of the ones I buried.” Lola pointed to the passenger seat. It was gone. Her chin wobbled. “It was right . . . I swear it was right there.”

Claudette furrowed her brows, looking at the empty passenger seat. “You buried the rings yourself, Lola. You can’t blame a dead woman for everything that goes wrong.” She met Lola’s eyes. “If the carbon monoxide detector hadn’t woken me up . . .” She shook her head. “What were you thinking?”

Lola shrunk away, hating this feeling. It felt like she was twelve years old again, being scolded by her mother. She didn’t understand why Claudette was mad.

Angry tears ran down her cheeks. This wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault! The only thing she was guilty of was trying to protect her home by burying those haunted rings off property. Garage doors didn’t close on their own, and cars were supposed to stop when the key was out of the ignition. Claudette was supposed to be the expert on all things paranormal—and yet every time something happened to Lola, she wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” Claudette’s face fell. She wiped Lola’s face with her towel. “Are you okay?”

Lola shrugged away from her touch. “I’m fine,” she grumbled. She wiped her own cheeks, mascara and sunscreen stinging her eyes. “I’m going to be late for work.”

“Of course.”

Claudette stepped away so Lola could close her car door. Under her watchful eye, the car started properly this time, and Lola backed out from the garage. In the sunlight, Lola saw a trace of the shadow’s message smudged across the windshield, and her stomach roiled with anger again. She clicked the windshield fluid and watched it wipe it away.

“Drive safe. Love you lots,” Claudette called.

Lola mouthed the words but couldn’t bear saying them out loud.

Going home after work filled Lola with dread. She hadn’t slept through the night in almost two weeks. Worse, her newfound insomnia didn’t account for any of the new phenomena she experienced since the car incident. She faced enough mysterious power outages, misplaced valuables, and ominously placed rings to last a hundred lifetimes. Even through her exhaustion, every creak and groan raised her hackles, like she was waiting to be attacked. Lola didn’t know how much more she could handle. She even tried reburying the rings at the foot of the orange tree when Claudette was at the grocery store. It hadn’t helped.

Claudette, on the other hand, somehow remained unfazed by Sandra’s torment. Activity ceased when Claudette was around; once, a knife flew across the kitchen to land back in its drawer when she emerged from her office. While Lola lost sleep and her nerve, Claudette flourished. She was full of energy and living her best life on TikTok.

To avoid this, Lola’s new routine involved getting to work early and staying as late as her supervisor allowed. Today, her boss cut her loose at five sharp, saying Claudette probably missed her. Lola instead opted to sit in the employee lot, doomscrolling. Lola didn’t have the heart to admit that Claudette hadn’t noticed her weird hours yet; she was too busy chasing clout.

Now she got a notification that Claudette was live, performing yet another séance for her viewers. Lola counted at least three others this week alone. The séances along with her new series “Co-Living with My Ghost Roommate” grew more popular every day. Brands reached out to buy sponsored episodes; everybody from online therapy to rose-shaped vibrators wanted in. Lola found out about the latter after her TradCath cousin, who stopped talking to Lola when she and Claudette got engaged, sent a wall of text raging about Claudette’s inappropriate sponsorships. Then she had the audacity to inquire about family discounts on tarot readings. Lola blocked her.

“—are you here with us today?” on the phone screen, Claudette was dressed in a new drapey black dress that Lola recognized from another influencer’s witchy aesthetic videos. “I offer myself as your humble conduit this evening.”

Lola tossed her phone aside with a sigh. Once upon a time she might have texted Claudette something silly in the middle of her live to make her smile. She didn’t bother today. Instead, she drove the long route home in silence. And if she stopped for a fast-food snack, that was her prerogative. It wasn’t as if Claudette consulted her about dropping a hundred dollars on a dress when they were supposed to be saving for furniture.

When she couldn’t procrastinate going home any longer, Lola pulled into the driveway. She didn’t park in the garage anymore.

“Welcome back!” Claudette was on her knees in the front lawn, fiddling with Chica’s leash as Lola parked. “They kept you late tonight. How’s the new exhibit going?”

Lola raised a brow. “You’re done streaming,” she said in lieu of an answer.

“Yup!” Claudette followed Lola through the front door with Chica nipping at their heels. “It was a short one because a freeze-dried candy shop wanted me to promote an upcoming sale.”

“A sponsored séance?” Lola resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she dropped her bag on the entryway bench. Next, Claudette was going to start selling trips to the afterlife. “How much did that cost them?”

Claudette huffed. “Don’t be that way,” she said, catching Lola’s wrist before she escaped into the kitchen. “I’ve already made this month’s mortgage payment with my new series. Halfway through the electric bill, too.”

“Wow, that’s . . .” Lola wanted to be excited. This was what Claudette wanted when starting her business: modernizing tradition through an online community, and helping more substantially with the bills. She’d always been anxious about her paltry contributions to the household budget. This didn’t feel like success, though. Claudette wasn’t talking about spiritual healing and protection anymore, offering tips about ofrendas and celebrating your ancestors. She was making a quick buck on suffering. Their suffering, to be specific. “That’s nice.”

“Is something wrong?”

Everything. “No?”

Claudette licked her lips. “You just seem pissed off, and I don’t know what I did.”

“What happened to your blessings and spells?” Lola asked. “I miss that. I miss going online and seeing my wife tell people how to protect themselves. Now everything is ‘Sandra this’ and ‘Sandra that.’ It’s obnoxious.”

“Are you kidding? You know the spells weren’t paying the bills. I’m finally pulling my weight in this relationship, and you’re—what? Insecure about a couple sponsorships?” Claudette snapped. “I thought you of all people understood why I’m doing this.”

Lola pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m not insecure,” she said. “It’s a matter of propriety! You’re not selling a ghost story—you’re selling our lives. Your sister texted to see if I was okay after getting trapped in the garage. Not because you told her, but because she saw your skit on fucking TikTok.”

Claudette scowled. “Would it have been better on reality television? A podcast?”

Jesus Christ. “I don’t want to argue with you right now, Claudette,” Lola said. She ran a hand across her face. “Why don’t we take a moment to cool down? You take Chica on her walk and I’ll—!”

A crack like lightning shook the house. Time seemed to slow down, and the grandfather clock mounted by the door ripped itself from the wall. Its trajectory headed straight to crush Claudette and Chica, who faced away from it.

Lola didn’t have time to think before jumping to push them into the living room. Chica yelped as glass shattered across the tile, her leash tangled between Claudette’s legs. A searing pain exploded across Lola’s leg, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. The taste of copper filled her mouth.

“Lola!” Claudette screamed.

Lola pried her eyes open and was relieved both Claudette and Chica looked unharmed. However, Chica was barking up a storm. She looked more distressed than Claudette somehow. “Is everything okay, Chica?” Lola asked. Shifting on her elbows to look, she hissed as glass scattered across the floor pierced her skin.

“Worry about yourself,” Claudette says. “Your leg—”

“My leg is fine,” Lola said. “What about Chica?”

Claudette groaned. She kicked aside larger pieces of glass to kneel beside Lola. “She’s stressed about your leg, dammit.”

She dared to peek at her leg. It was red, covered in glittering shards of glass. She tried shaking the glass off, but it only made the pain shoot up her thigh. “Fuck.”

“No shit!” Claudette laughed incredulously. “What were you thinking?”

“I was trying to protect you!”

For a moment, Lola swore Claudette was going to fight her on this. But Claudette took a deep breath instead. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure Chica does, too. To show my gratitude, I would love to drive you to the emergency room.”

“That’s not necessary,” Lola said, gritting her teeth. They hadn’t hit their deductible yet, and all their savings was spent on the house. “Can’t your sister fix me up? She’s right down the street.”

“Sorry, babe. We can’t first-aid you out of this one.”

Lola shook her head. “The hospital is too expensive.”

Claudette offered a half smile. “I can take a few more sponsorships,” she joked.

For half a second, Lola forgot about her leg and was back in their previous argument. If only Claudette took Chica on her walk, then none of this would have happened. Guilt quickly followed. This wasn’t Claudette’s fault.

“Fine,” she relented. “But first we’re dropping Chica off at your sister’s place. I don’t want her getting into the glass.”

“Deal,” Claudette said, easing Lola into a standing position. She picked up Chica with her free hand. “C’mon, girl. Time for a playdate.”

Bleeding profusely was a shockingly effective way to be prioritized in the emergency room. They stitched Lola’s leg up within an hour and sent her home with crutches. Lola wanted to say she felt better, except getting back into her now-blood-soaked car reminded her that she was returning to a house that wanted them dead.

“Do you think your sister’s up for a sleepover?” Lola asked. The drive from Olive View back to their house was frighteningly short, and there weren’t many options for escape.

Claudette glanced at Lola at the red light. “Probably not,” she said. “Especially since we already asked her to babysit Chica for the rest of the week.” They decided that it would be best for Chica to stay out of the house while they cleaned up and sorted out a game plan. They both agreed the clock couldn’t have fallen on its own.

Lola leaned against the window. “I don’t want to go back,” she mumbled. “I’m so tired.”

“We can go to bed when we get home,” Claudette suggested.

“That’s not what I mean,” Lola snapped. Anger filled her chest, rearing to come out. “You may get along with Sandra, but I don’t, and she won’t leave me alone. I haven’t slept in weeks because our house is trying to kill me. I know you’re suddenly an expert on all things ghost, but I’m not! I’m scared, and I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Oh, babe,” Claudette said. She was going for sympathetic; Lola only heard patronizing. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“It’s not just you. I know Sandra’s fucking with us,” she said. “Her spirit oozes malice. I can feel it. She’s trapped, so she’s playing with us like Sims. Haven’t you watched my videos?”

Shame pooled in the pit of Lola’s stomach. “No.” She couldn’t bear watching them these last few weeks. They only made her anxiety worse.

Claudette barked out an incredulous laugh. “Of course not,” she said, shaking her head. “While you’re at work, those of us still at home have to deal with Sandra’s mood swings. The power will cut out for no reason. My whole office is a cold spot. Chica barks at the wall all day. Last night, a knife flew across the kitchen when I was making dinner. There’s a hole in the cupboard if you hadn’t noticed.”

Lola blinked. This whole time, she felt like the odd one out. That Claudette couldn’t possibly understand her fear. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you knew!”

“Telling the internet isn’t the same as telling me!” Lola countered. “How was I supposed to know what was happening? From my perspective, you’ve been having fun with all your sponsorships and séance bullshit while I’m getting tortured by a vindictive spirit!”

“You should have asked,” Claudette said, her jaw tense.

For the first time in weeks, Claudette looked as tired as Lola felt. They were both battling demons and never talking. If this is what it meant to own a home, Lola didn’t want it. “We should move,” she said as they pulled onto their street. “Cut our losses before anything worse happens. I don’t want to die in this house.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s the only option,” Lola argued.

Claudette scoffed. “With what money? We sank everything into the house,” she said. “We can’t sell this place in good faith, either. Nobody will buy a place this haunted.”

Lola bristled at the mention of their finances. “If we stay here, I know in my heart that this house will consume us. And I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me. Fuck, Lola. I’m trying to save us.” Claudette pulled into the driveway. “The séances really help me connect with Sandra. Once we figure out what’s keeping her tethered here, then we should have no trouble helping her pass on.”

“That’s what you said about the rings,” Lola said. “Why should I believe you now?”

“She’s just really pissed. About everything.”

Lola hated that Claudette spoke of Sandra like a mutual friend instead of a murderous specter. A psychic should know better. “How do you know you’re not making things worse?”

Claudette’s shoulders slumped. “If you want to run, then run. Stay with my sister or someone from work.” Her voice was hollow as she pushed the car door open. “But I’m not letting a ghost keep us out of our dream home. This ends tonight.”

“Claudette!”

She was out the door and marching up to the entryway before Lola could stop her. Lola wanted to go after her. But she was so scared. Claudette had barely been doing séances for a month. Now she wanted to play exorcist?

Lola knew how the movie ended.

The exorcist died.

Lola was at a crossroads. She wouldn’t go inside to watch Claudette kill herself, and she couldn’t stay in this car a moment longer. It was only a half mile to her sister-in-law’s place. That wasn’t too far, even on crutches.

The walk was slow moving, but the fresh air helped clear her head. However, that serenity faded when she turned down this street and she got the impression someone was watching her. She hoped the feeling would pass as she continued to mind her own business. It did not. Honestly, Lola wasn’t in the mood to be stared at. She turned as fast as she could on crutches and locked eyes with a white-haired woman across the street.

She knew that look. Honestly, she was surprised it took so long for someone in the neighborhood to look at her like this. Like she didn’t belong. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

For all the hostility in her glare, the woman didn’t flinch when Lola crossed the street. She sniffed haughtily. “Just wondering why you’re around so often with your rat dog.”

“I live here.” Lola pointed with her crutch. “In the corner house off Aztec.”

“Bullshit.”

Lola clenched her teeth. All her pent-up stress bubbled the surface. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “Look I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but I can assure you me and my wife bought the house months ago and have the mortgage payments to prove it.”

The woman’s brows furrowed. “No real estate agent in their right mind would sell that house.”

Lola’s bravado faltered. “What do you mean?”

“It’s cursed.”

“Excuse me?” Not even Claudette had used the c-word. “You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t joke about that house.” The old woman pursed her lips. “A young Realtor wanted to sell it in ’08 when the market crashed. But . . . she disappeared. Walked in for a tour. Never came home.”

“Our agent would have said something,” Lola said. There was nothing about a missing Realtor in the manila folder Leah left them. “Leah Moore. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

The woman’s face went gray. “Liar!” Her face twisted into a snarl. “Who sent you?” she shouted. “How soulless do you have to be to play a prank on a grieving old woman?”

Lola groaned. Forget about the house—today felt cursed. “I’m just trying to get to my sister-in-law’s house, ma’am,” she said. “I don’t have any reason to fuck with you.”

“Leah was my daughter’s name.”

“It’s a common name.”

“My name is Darla Moore, and my daughter was the last Realtor who tried to sell your house,” Darla snapped. “She grew up with the kids in the neighborhood telling tales of a haunted house down the street. Got it into her head that she could make a business selling unsellable houses after watching too much HGTV.

“She got her real estate license out of high school and went through hell tracking down the owner: some stranger in Texas who inherited the house after their aunt died. They sent her the keys in the mail, ecstatic to get the house off their hands.” Darla’s face crumpled. “I told her not to go—bad things happen in empty houses. But she went. And I never saw her again.”

Lola’s stomach churned. “What happened?”

Darla shook her head. “Nobody knows. They only recovered this in the backyard.” She pulled out a gold ring on a thin chain from under her shirt. “I gave it to her for graduation. It was covered in blood.”

“That’s . . .” Impossible. Except the proof was in the ring. There was a box of them buried in her backyard backing up Darla’s story. How many of those rings belonged to people like Leah? Lola’s heart pounded. Claudette didn’t have the whole story—she needed to find her. “Sorry, I need to go . . .” Home. Except it wasn’t her home. It was Sandra’s.

Darla called after her, “You’ll leave that place if you know what’s good for you.”

She could only move so fast and had to take a break after only a block because her leg throbbed. Panting, she pulled out her phone and pulled up Leah’s contact number. She dialed. It didn’t ring.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

Fuck.

Next, she opened a browser. Her fingers shook as she typed Leah’s name plus “Realtor.” Several archived news reports popped up along with a missing poster advertising a reward for any information regarding her whereabouts dated back to 2009. The Leah in the picture looked nothing like the woman they toured the house with. The real Leah Moore had a soft baby face and shoulder-length, light blond hair. Lola saw a hint of Darla in her gray eyes.

Then who the hell showed them the house? She was on the brink of an epiphany but didn’t know how to proceed. She was too worn-out to follow her own train of thought. Clearing the search, her fingers hovered over her keyboard in anticipation as she tried to think of the right search query.

“Do you need help, miss?” A stranger’s voice interrupted Lola as she scrolled through a hundred unfamiliar faces on the San Fernando Real Estate Professionals site.

She looked up to find two men lounging shirtless in their yard a few houses down. Odd, given the hour. Given their margarita glasses, it seemed like a happy hour kind of thing. They had to be in their sixties with how gray their chest hairs were. “Oh, I’m okay,” Lola said, trying to smile. “Just had an idea. Can’t type and walk.”

“May I ask what happened?” a man with the handlebar mustache asked before his partner smacked his arm.

A half-formed lie jumped to the tip of Lola’s tongue. The truth came out instead. “A grandfather clock fell on top of me,” she admitted. She waved with her crutch. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Mostly just stitches.”

Still, the couple winced. “Poor thing. Do you need one of us to drive you to your car?”

Why did nobody realize she and Claudette lived in the neighborhood? She’s seen these men a few times and gave them a neighborly courtesy nod when she walked Chica. “My house is down the street, but thank you,” she said.

“No shit?” the man with no mustache said. “Not the haunted house on Aztec, I hope.”

Lola’s smile soured. “The one and same.”

“I never knew that place went back on the market. A shame because I’ve been dying to know what it looks like inside.” The mustached man winked. “No pun intended. I’m Adrian, by the way. This is my husband, Baz.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said stiffly.

Baz lowered his voice. “Now, I didn’t mean to scare you, darling. It’s only a silly neighborhood ghost story.”

She looked back at Darla’s house. “I heard someone died.”

Adrian stroked his mustache. “Shame what happened to Darla’s daughter. No mother should outlive her child.”

Lola chewed her lip. “So it’s true?”

Baz leveled his gaze, his eyes stern. “There’s the truth, and then there’s what Darla believes.” He heaved out a sigh. “Leah’s body was found in the main bedroom with her skull bashed in. She was mutilated so badly that Darla couldn’t make the ID. As a result, Darla never believed the body was her baby. Even when DNA said otherwise.”

“They never caught the guy, either,” Adrian chimed in. “I mean, who does that to a kid? Suffocates her and beats her head in?”

Lola knew the answer to his question.

Sandra.

Lola dreamed about it dozens of times. Sandra with her hands wrapped around Josephine Lester’s neck before smashing her head in. Her stomach churned. “I, um, just remembered that I need to change my bandage.” She wiggled her leg; it bled through the gauze with all her movement. “It was nice meeting you two.”

“Don’t be a stranger!” Adrian called after her. “We should do dinner.”

She barely used the crutches the rest of the way. Her heart beat erratically as she put the pieces together. At the heart of everything that happened in this house . . .

The car, the clock, the power . . . It all pointed back to Sandra. Every séance Claudette held, only Sandra would answer despite at least two other women dying on the property. The articles in the folder mentioned Sandra dozens of times, but it wasn’t until now that Lola realized she never saw a photo.

She pulled out her phone again and typed the name Claudette had been talking about for months.

A black-and-white portrait filled the top half of the page followed by a short biography. Lola knew who she was without reading any of it. Because she recognized the young woman with dark hair and even darker eyes.

Of course.

Claudette had been allegedly talking to Sandra for weeks and never once mentioned Sandra was the one who sold them the damn house, charading as Leah Moore. All this time they were playing a game they were predestined to lose.

Lola knew what she needed to do. No matter how much money they lost, no matter how much Claudette fought her—they were leaving this house.

Tonight.

The door swung open when her hand touched the handle. Cold, thick air spilled out into the autumn warmth. Shivers run up her spine as she stepped inside. “Claudette?” Lola called.

There was no response, but Lola heard Claudette talking in her office. She crossed the kitchen to stand outside the door, hesitating. Hearing Claudette’s voice was a good sign; Sandra hadn’t killed her yet. She didn’t know how long that would stay true. “I’m coming in!”

Inside, she found disaster. Claudette was never the most organized person in the world, opting to leave half-organized piles all around her workspace. But noe her office had transformed into a minefield of haphazard stacks of open books and papers scattered across every available surface. In the center of it stood Claudette hunched over a notebook, talking to herself.

“What’s going on?” Lola asked. It was colder in the office.

“Grab a book.” Claudette didn’t look up from her notes. “We’re looking for Sandra’s weakness. The hurt that makes her lash out.”

“She’s lashing out because she’s evil,” Lola said. She ripped the book from Claudette’s hand and threw it across the room. “She wants us dead because she enjoys killing people. This is nothing but a game to her. She killed Josephine Lester. She killed Leah Moore. There’s no knowing how many others she hurt.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no evidence that Sandra’s actually killed anyone. It’s all internet conspiracies and ghost stories.”

“We’re living in a ghost story!” Lola snapped. “We can’t solve a problem like Sandra with good vibes and healing thoughts. We solve this by leaving. Right now.”

“Sandra doesn’t have power over me. This is our home.”

“Tell that to Leah Moore,” Lola said. “She wanted to sell this house, so Sandra beat her head in. You don’t need to prove your power, or whatever it is you’re trying to do. We’re allowed to give up. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt, especially not you.”

“There’s nowhere to go, Lola.” Claudette’s determined mask faltered. Her eyes were rimmed with red, sunken with dark circles. The internet psychic was gone, and in her place was Lola’s wife. “I’ve done the math. Even if we bought a house from a ghost—we can’t get the money back. The bank would never believe us.”

Lola squared off her shoulders. “Then we burn the house down. Blame it on old wiring.”

Claudette gawked. “You want to commit insurance fraud?”

“I’m not hearing any better options.”

“I might have a few.” Claudette and Lola both startled, grabbing one another as they turned toward the voice.

Holding her hands up in mock surrender, Sandra stepped out from behind Lola’s bookcase. She looked as perfect as she had on the first day they met, wearing a dark skirt suit with shoulder pads and perfectly coiffed hair. “Don’t look so surprised, ladies,” she said. “It’s rude to talk about someone behind their back. Especially when you say such rude things about the woman who helped you buy your dream home.”

Claudette crossed her arms. “What are you doing here, Sandra?”

Sandra sighed dramatically. She swept a hand across Claudette’s back and hugged her close, ignoring her stiffness. “You know, I used to be like your lovely wife,” she said dreamily. She released Claudette and approached Lola. Sandra wove her fingers through Lola’s hair and gripped Lola’s skull. Lola trembled under Sandra’s touch but was too afraid to move; she knew what Sandra could do with her head. “I was talented. I had ambition. Just like pretty little Lola here, I saw a future in this house where I could grow old with my family.”

“You can save the sob story,” Claudette said. “I’ve read all about you.”

Sandra tightened her grip on Lola’s hair and pulled it taut. “You ladies have no manners,” she growled into the crook of Lola’s neck. “It’s polite to let someone finish their story before adding your little quips.”

Lola yelped and cringed away. Sandra released her with a chuckle, wiping her hands on her skirt. “To make a long story short, I would like to offer you both a deal.”

“We don’t make deals with murderers,” Lola bit out.

“Meow!” Sandra made a clawing motion, her red nails glinting in the light. “Looks like the kitten grew claws. What happened to the pretty little dame excited to move into her perfect little house she couldn’t afford?”

“You tried to kill her.”

Sandra grinned. “Oh, it’s my fault? Apologies.”

Lola had no idea how she ever thought Sandra’s smile was kind. Seeing it now made her stomach turn.

“I’m offering you a chance to stay in the house.”

“Bullshit,” Lola spat. They shouldn’t have come back. She should have fought Claudette harder. Been more persuasive. She failed as a wife. “You want to kill us.”

“Nobody said a word about killing anyone, darling,” Sandra drawled, running a nail down the side of Lola’s cheek. She winked as Lola shivered. “Yet.”

“What are you proposing?” Claudette asked.

“A tether.”

Sighing when Claudette didn’t react, Sandra continued. “Murder has fueled my spirit for over ninety years. Other ghosts can’t flicker the lights, let alone kill someone. Killing people gives me power. But when I met you two, I found something stronger than murder.”

“A conscience?”

“Obstinance,” Sandra volleyed back. “Your unwillingness to accept death is invigorating. The power I’ve gained feeding off your stubbornness is unlike anything I’ve felt before. I feel twenty again!” She offered Claudette her hand. “I’m offering to tether my spirit with one of your souls in exchange for your delicious determination. I’ll stop trying to kill you and you won’t have to burn my house down.” She glared at Lola.

“What does tethering our souls entail?” Claudette asked.

“Stop it,” Lola snapped, pulling Claudette away. She wasn’t supposed to bargain with her! They couldn’t trust a word coming out of Sandra’s mouth. “You’re not doing this.”

Sandra answered Claudette without a second glance at Lola. “I thrive on your strong will, and you’ll continue to live your life. Your body will have the same limitations as my spirit. You won’t be able leave this house. My home is where I died, and it will be where you die, too.”

“And when I die?” Claudette yanked her arm from Lola. “What happens to you?”

“Perhaps I’ll hitchhike my way to heaven,” Sandra said.

Lola flipped her off.

Sandra clucked her tongue. “There’s no need to be rude, Dolores,” she said. “If you prefer, I can make the decision easier and kill you both.”

“We can leave,” Lola countered. She almost believed it was an option. But she wasn’t Claudette; she knew there was no negotiating with a ghost. Not one as vindictive as Sandra.

Sandra smiled. “Either you accept my offer, or you die,” she said. She leveled her gaze at Lola. “Both of you.”

There had to be another way. Lola looked around the room, as if Claudette’s senseless notes could offer last-minute inspiration. Weren’t ghosts supposed to want to move on? Surely, they could all say a little prayer and—

“I’ll do it.”

Claudette stepped forward with grim determination written across her face. “As long as you promise not to hurt Lola . . . I’ll do it.”

Sandra clapped. “Excellent!”

“Claudette,” Lola breathed. She reached for her wife, only for Claudette to slip away. “You can’t.”

Blowing her a kiss, Claudette smiled gently. “Love you lots, Lola,” she whispered. “Sorry for fighting with you all the time.” She turned away before she could witness Lola’s tears. “What do we need to do?” she asked, approaching Sandra.

“No!” Lola jumped after Claudette. If they ran fast enough, maybe—

A wave of energy sent Lola flying into the wall. Thwack! She whimpered, unable to pick herself up off the ground. Her whole body ached, and her leg felt like it was on fire. Her stitches had popped. “Claudette, please.”

Sandra yanked Claudette back from her attempt to run for Lola. “Sorry, no interruptions allowed.” She sneered, pressing a finger into Claudette’s chest. She pushed her to her knees and tilted her chin up with one finger. “Let’s have fun, shall we?”

Whatever Sandra did to throw Lola across the room made sure she stayed down. Her limbs were numb, but she couldn’t sit and watch this happen. “Leave her alone!” she screamed as tears streamed down her cheeks. Her words were lost in a pickup of wind that circled the room. Books and papers flew in haphazard paths around the eye of the storm.

“Claudette Figueroa-Diaz, I accept your humble sacrifice to offer me a second chance at life,” Sandra shouted over the roar of the wind. She squeezed Claudette’s chin to keep her from squirming out of place. “May we be bound as twin souls, now and forever. Amen.”

Sandra leaned in close, her breath cold across Claudette’s face. “I promise I don’t bite,” she said before pressing a kiss to her mouth.

“No!” Lola sobbed.

A bright light swallowed the room, blinding Lola. Hot tears trailed down her cheeks as she shielded her eyes. She was in hell. Sandra killed her with the grandfather clock, and everything that followed had been a nightmare conjured by her subconscious.

Slowly, the light faded and Lola could see again.

She wasn’t in hell; she was in Claudette’s office.

Claudette passed out on the ground, and Sandra was gone.

Relief flooded Lola’s system. Her leg screamed in agony, but the pain meant she was alive. She crawled across the floor, crushing papers beneath her knees, to evaluate her wife. “Claudette,” she cried. She cradled Claudette’s head into her lap, wiping away blood dribbling from her nose. She was breathing. Thank God. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Claudette groaned. Her eyes blinked open as she stirred. Her pupils were blown out, nearly all black. Despite everything, she beamed at Lola. “I told you I’d keep you safe.”

A month passed since Claudette’s deal with Sandra, and Lola was still familiarizing herself with her new normal. Her nightmares stopped along with the weekly murder attempts. She could almost pretend that everything was okay.

Almost.

There were also no more spontaneous drinks with coworkers or family dinners. Claudette insisted that the house was safe, but Lola wasn’t interested in inviting anyone over for the foreseeable future. They became homebodies instead. Every night was spent trying new hobbies to occupy their time: puzzles, board games, painting, crocheting, backyard yoga. They watched POV tours of cities they dreamed of visiting and hours of reality TV.

It was easier for Lola because she could leave for work. She had the privilege of socializing and stretching her legs. Claudette struggled. She worked freelance for the sole purpose of controlling her own schedule. That didn’t matter now that she was tethered to Sandra. With nothing else to do, Claudette threw herself back into the confines of the internet.

Her “Co-Living with My Ghost Roommate” series had lost its novelty now that she was literally sharing her body with a ghost, so Claudette moved to uncovering the ghost stories behind popular horror movies while she calculated her next move. She couldn’t go back to simple tarot readings and protection spells even if she wanted to; staying at home was expensive. It was too easy to fall susceptible to TikTok shop sales and gacha games when she spent all day at home alone with her phone. Posting about ghosts got more interactions, which meant more opportunities for sponsorships. She wasn’t making nearly as much as she had when she was posting 24/7 Sandra updates, but it was enough to at least cover her new spending habits.

Lola kept her mouth shut about her wife’s online endeavors. Claudette was lonely and did all this for her. She couldn’t appear ungrateful. Not after everything Claudette had been through.

Still, it was hard to wake up without Claudette in bed. It reminded her too much of the worst of Sandra’s torment. Today Lola was about to leave for work and Claudette hadn’t so much as poked her head out to say goodbye.

Lola took a deep breath outside Claudette’s office, holding it in her chest until her lungs burned. Please be alive.

She knocked and pushed the door open. “Claudette? I’m about to leave.”

Claudette sat on the couch along the wall nursing a steaming mug, her face turned toward the light peeking through the blinds. “Good morning, Dolores,” she said.

The voice did not belong to Claudette; it was too smoothly enunciated. Lola hesitated in the doorway, heart lodged in her throat. The woman in the early morning light wore Claudette’s clothes, had her tangled hair, and tried to use her voice. But the smile was wrong.

“Claudette should be in bed, Sandra,” Lola said. She hated looking over to find Sandra dancing through their home instead of her wife. Lola screamed the first time it happened. Now Lola knew how to bite her tongue. This was part of the deal she still needed to get used to.

Claudette’s shoulders shrugged. “She never stops to appreciate a sunrise.” Sandra met Lola’s eyes with a smile. “She’s such a workaholic. You should talk to her about that.”

Lola grit her teeth. “How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Wanting to spend time to myself isn’t a crime.”

Lola narrowed her eyes. Sandra’s moral compass wasn’t exactly due north. “Stealing her body wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sandra’s earsplitting laughter filled the room. She set her cup aside and approached Lola. “There’s no need to be uneasy, doll,” she said, brushing a hand across Lola’s cheek. Her finger trailed down her mouth, parting her lips. “Unless you’re worried that I might appear when you don’t want me to.”

“Don’t touch me.” Lola wrenched away, her cheeks burning. “And leave Claudette alone.”

“Oh, Dolores,” Sandra cooed. “You misunderstand. I couldn’t do this if Claudette didn’t let me.”

“No.” Lola shook her head. She didn’t believe her. They made many concessions dealing with Claudette’s tether to Sandra. This couldn’t be one of them. Claudette would never. They agreed to survive this together. “You’re lying.”

“Ask her yourself.” Sandra grinned. “Or are you scared?”

This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come in here this morning. Lola walked backward through the room, keeping Sandra in sight. “I hope you rot in hell when this is done,” she spat.

“Don’t be like that, lovely,” Sandra cooed, her voice like honey. “Have a good day at work!”

Lola slammed the door and rushed to grab her things. She needed to get out of here. She needed—

“Babe?”

The office door creaked open, and Claudette stepped out. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and yawned. “Sandra was here again, wasn’t she?” she asked as she stretched. “I don’t know what she does with my body, but I always feel like shit when she’s through with me.”

Attempting a smile, the corners of Lola’s lips wobbled. This was her Claudette. Not Sandra’s mocking approximation. Yet unease still churned in her gut after the morning’s encounter. “Good morning, Claudette.” Lola’s voice wobbled despite her efforts to remain neutral.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Claudette’s brows furrowed. “Did Sandra say something nasty again?”

I couldn’t do this if Claudette didn’t let me, Sandra had said. But Lola couldn’t press her wife for confirmation. She didn’t know which was worse: Sandra lying or telling the truth. Tears welled in her eyes, and she turned away before Claudette could see. “It’s nothing,” she said, hitching her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m just running late, is all. You should get back to bed; it’s too early for you to be awake.”

“I will,” Claudette promised. “Drive safe. Love you lots.”

Lola waved, closing the door behind her. And she prayed Claudette would be the one waiting for her when she got home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Baillie Puckett (she/her) lives outside Los Angeles. She got her MFA from Hamline University, specializing in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Her hobbies include stabbing (embroidery), going to the movies, and playing ungodly amounts of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. Find her online @BailliePuckett.

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Baillie Puckett, author of Home Sweet Home!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Baillie Puckett

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Baillie: Things that scare me as a long-time horror lover: aliens. When I watched Nope it never occurred to me to be scared of the monkey. Jean Jacket gave me nightmares. I don’t often have nightmares but I dreamed of Jean Jacket for two weeks after seeing the movie. Also not a fan of zombies. If the dead come back to torment the living, I would prefer them to be non-corporal, please.

I’m also very squeamish if that counts as fear. Splatterpunk and gratuitous violence/gore makes me queasy. The newer Scream movies, for whatever reason, had a lot of throat stabbing for the sake of the blood gush. *shudders*

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

B: Ghost Hunt by Fuyumi Ono. What hooked me was the manga adaptation from Shiho Inada, but speeding through the manga and the anime (both dubbed and subbed) led me to scouring the internet for translations of the light novels. This series transformed me from casual horror enjoyer to a horror writer. There are plenty of teenagers represented in horror, but Ghost Hunt felt very special to me. It was as if the paranormal investigation shows from the aughts filtered through a sixteen-year-old girl. The series itself is old, with the light novels dating back to ‘89, but I read the manga in high school (2014). Something switched inside me after that first volume. I started chasing the feeling of reading this series and as every writer knows… you have to write what you want to read. So, I started writing horror. And I haven’t looked back.

This next paragraph is for Kodansha USA. If you are not working at Kodansha USA, you may disregard:

I am on my hands and knees begging for a reprint of the full Ghost Hunt manga. It has been sixteen years since Del Rey Manga shuttered after translating eleven volumes. It’s time. Horror is trendy! Japan is printing beautiful collector’s editions! Now is a perfect time to reprint the manga and introduce the US market to the light novels and the sequel series! This is what the people want!

Please and thank you. 🙏🏻💖

CL: What was your favorite part of writing Home Sweet Home?

B: Honestly? Claudette! The story is filtered through Lola, but I spent a lot of time in my prep work thinking about her character. Claudette’s position as a TikTok psychic was super exciting to me when I jumped into this project. Despite the time I’ve spent writing psychics, it was fascinating thinking about using social media as a way to reach clients. Despite the smaller screen of her phone, she falls to the trap of the television psychics of yore. Where does she draw the line between profit and keeping her family safe? Work is hard when it’s close to your heart and Claudette is literally living in a haunted house. She’s a fascinating character. I could probably spend a hundred more pages thinking of her, especially given where her story ends.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

B: Contrary to titling, there is no poltergeist in Poltergeist. Even with the pop cultural understanding of a “noisy ghost,” it’s impossible to attribute the movie’s events to a single/many ghosts. There’s a portal to an ambiguous purgatory, a sentient tree, and a killer clown (doll). Don’t get me wrong, this was my favorite horror movie as a kid. But that was not a poltergeist haunting.

My favorite interpretation of poltergeists is a belief that they’re not caused by ghosts at all. Instead, they’re caused by manifestations of human energy via Telekinesis. Sometimes it’s subconscious, sometimes it’s purposeful. It’s a marvelous fiction tool. Feeling so much that you’re causing paranormal activity? Delicious.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

B: Horror is very personal. What scares you is not going to be what scares me. It’s really easy to get into my head about how I might scare a reader. But at the end of the day, my focus needs to be on what scares me. What gets under my skin. And to do that I need to kill my inner editor (*cue the Psycho music*). So, I typically draft the hard parts when I’m tired.

There’s that old adage: write drunk, edit sober. My motto is: write tired, edit well-rested. Is it the healthiest writing habit? Probably not. (Definitely not, considering my sleep schedule is practically vampiric.) I love coming back to my computer in the afternoon after a late night to discover what I’ve left myself. It’s not always right, but it’s always a start that helps me find the start of where I need to be.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

1. Unlimited JSTOR access for project research. These days I’ve been starting most big projects with research about the main trope. For Home Sweet Home, I researched a bit about haunted houses as a trope but also read papers from paranormal investigators reflecting on hauntings.

2. A pan of cakey brownies. My favorite treat when revisions make me want to claw my face off. Or, in general, tbh. Brownies solve most problems (except hauntings).

3. Halsey’s album If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power. Every horror project I’ve touched since its release has a song from this album on its playlist. I chose “People Disappear Here” for this story. Music is very important to my process and I am maybe just a tad obsessed with Halsey.

4. Haunted jewelry! I don’t have any, but I like the idea of it. When stalking vintage jewelry online and in antique malls, I enjoy making up stories about what I find. To be honest, I like the idea of haunted objects in general. But when I was young I swear I heard the Cabbage Patch doll in my closet giggle in the middle of the night. Stayed up all night waiting for it to laugh again. It never did but it kind of killed my interest in IRL haunted dolls. Fictional haunted dolls are always cool, though.

5. A ghost statue from York Ghost Merchants. My dad visited York last year and got a bunch that I have been slowly unwrapping with my mom to draw out the fun. I scatter them across my bookshelves and desk. This is my newest one, living on my shelf of my (mostly unused) journals and research books:

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

B: Paranormal Horror! My childhood consisted of watching Paranormal State and A Haunting and that 100% influenced my horror preferences. Tell me to write a horror story and I will start dreaming of ghosts.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

B: Okay, some people have heard me say this before but it bears repeating:

I want to see more people playing with form in mainstream horror fiction. Or fiction, in general, but let’s talk about the horror genre for a moment.

Multi-media fiction is so fun and there are so many avenues to explore. Found-footage horror ala Kate Alice Marshall’s Last Seen Leaving to the chat-log style of the titular story in Eric LaRocca’s Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke. Last year I read both Strange Pictures and Strange Houses by Uketsu and both utilize pictures in such fun ways. Indie horror will always be the best place to find this because I suppose these forms are more of a risk though that doesn’t stop me from wanting to see more of it. Is this a selfish wish because I would love to publish a found footage horror novel one day? Mmmm… Perhaps!

CL: What’s next for you?

A nap. Then… world domination. And by “world domination” I mean that I’m finishing a YA Contemporary manuscript that I’ve been dreaming about forever. And by forever, I mean 2016. I’m also in the middle of researching an adult horror novel and marinating on the story’s shape. Currently, I’m buried under a pile of academic papers, research books, and novels that will eventually bleed into the work. My reading list includes The Exorcist, so you know something spooky is brewing. 🥰

Thank you for joining us, Baillie! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘Home Sweet Home,’ out now!

Read HOME SWEET HOME

I’ll generously say I’ve been writing since seventh grade. That said, I exclusively wrote fan fiction. It wasn’t horror. I wrote cheesy love stories that existed for the sole function of making characters kiss. Let’s be clear about that. It didn’t matter what genre I watched or read, fantasy or horror or crime drama—I wanted my ships to sail.

High school is when I started exploring original fiction. I wrote one partial draft of a fantasy story as part of the novel writing challenge of yore. Surprisingly no kissing. The next year: a horror novel. Something I had never written before. And I quickly became obsessed.

But how did we get here?

A life-long fascination with horror. And ghosts. I love a good ghost.

Looking at my past and present, these are the horror media that brought me to writing horror today:

1. Ghost Hunt by Fuyumi Ono, manga by Shiho Inada

Ghost Hunt is why I write horror. This is what I read a literal month before writing my first horror novel in high school. I might have never heard of this story if it hadn’t been for a manga book club hosted at Barnes and Noble. Volume one of the manga was assigned for October (because spooky). And the day of our meeting, I was halfway through volume eight.

For the anime nerds, Ghost Hunt is spooky Ouran Host Club. A girl ends up working for a paranormal investigation group after breaking an expensive camera. Each story arc follows a new case to solve and sometimes cleanse (with the help of a middle-aged miko, a rockstar Buddhist monk, an Australian Catholic priest, and a TV medium). This series tackles a bunch of horror conventions, which gives a lot of entry points for readers to find things they love. Abandoned school buildings, spirit boards, and festering demons, oh my! I repeatedly come back to this series, especially when writing YA horror.

2. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997-2003)

I’m going to be so honest: It didn’t occur to me that Buffy was horror until college when taking a gothic literature class. Baillie, this show is about vampires and demons and hell-bent gods. Yup. But I watched it on LOGO* and SCI-FI. Do those sound like horror-centered channels? Actually, don’t answer that. In my defense, watching Buffy was like the YA paranormal romances that I later devoured the middle school.

If you’ve somehow missed the cultural phenomena that was Buffy—it’s about a young high school girl who has been chosen as the 0nce-in-a-generation Slayer. She is responsible for protecting the world (otherwise known as Southern California) from evil. Buffy uses the very popular monster-of-the-week format, which lends itself to a lot of different horrific hijinks. My favorite episodes range from “Out of Sight, Out of Mind” to “Gingerbread” and “Hush” (the latter being the episode we studied in my Gothic lit class!).

*Why did Buffy reruns air on LOGO in the early 2000’s? There are lesbians, next question.

3. Bad Girls Don’t Die by Katie Alender (The first book, especially, but I love the whole series!)

I picked this up at junior high Scholastic book fair because the cover looked cool and creepy. At this point in my life, I had been watching a lot of Paranormal State and A Haunting with my mom. So, finding a book about ghosts at the book fair felt serendipitous! This book became my obsession. My copy is beat up and highlighted and so, incredibly well-loved. Bad Girls Don’t Die didn’t make me want to write my own horror fiction, though it did make me want to learn screenwriting. It was young-Baillie’s dream to adapt this for film. Ambitious? Definitely. But in retrospect, my obsession was like dipping my toe into the idea of writing horror.

This book is a culmination of several things that I love: a haunted house, creepy dolls, uncanny children, spunky protagonists (with pink hair!). What more can you ask for? The book follows a teenage girl who discovers that her house might be haunted… and her younger sister is partly responsible. Once again, you can see my love of haunted houses here. The next books are centered on different horror tropes (including a freaky beauty-cult!) and are equally fun.

4. Poltergeist (1982)

This was my favorite horror movie as a child. I’ve been told that this explains a lot about me and I refuse to reflect on that. The meat-face and clown scenes were never my favorite, but everything else was delightfully terrifying. Justice for the Child-Eating Tree! Sometimes I wonder if my younger adoration of this movie was partly to spite my younger brother who had been terrified of it. But whether that’s true or not, this movie was definitely my gateway to the horror genre.

Poltergeist is a tale as old as time (or as old as TVs have existed): A young girl talks to the “TV people” she hears in the television static and is consequently stolen away to purgatory. In a modern remake, Carol Anne would probably be kidnapped by her phone. It’s no wonder that I watched this and fell in love with haunted houses. To this day, I cannot sleep if the closet light is on when the door’s closed.

5. A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay

This was the first adult horror novel I read. In the fall of 2018, I was applying to grad school and reading a lot of possession horror. No, I will not reflect on that, either. I’d been drawn to this because of the paranormal investigation reality show conceit along with a tell-all interview after the fact. I zoomed through this book in a couple of nights, desperate for answers. I haven’t read it since then and cannot tell you much about it (maybe I should re-read!).

But! It’s on this list because within minutes of me putting this book down, I turned over and pulled out my laptop. I wrote the first draft of what would later become “The Devil in Me.” It was the first piece of writing I’d ever had professionally published, in a now out-of-print indie anthology called Latinx Screams. A Head Full of Ghosts clearly possessed me because that story would have never been written otherwise.

Anecdotally, I recommended this to my brother when he started getting into horror fiction (yes, the same brother who was scared of Poltergeist). He finished it in January of 2020. I know this because I was in Minnesota at the time and he called me one night after lectures with little warning. The first thing out of his mouth? “What the f*ck was that?”

6. The First Omen (2024)

Stay with me, I know we’re jumping in the timeline here. Since starting to write horror in 2014, I had largely stayed firmly in the YA horror territory. I’d been idly considering making the jump to adult fiction but outside of a few short fiction pieces I’d drafted, I hadn’t been drawn to an idea that I wanted to spend thousands of words with. I’ve never seen the original Omen film, so you might ask what possessed me to see this movie (pun intended). FOMO. My corner of the Internet exploded when The First Omen came out and I’m nosy.

Holy moly! I see a lot of movies, and I’ve been thinking of this one pretty much since it came out. I love a good religious horror movie. Especially Catholic horror. My brother, who sees a lot of scary movies with me, is pretty anti-religious horror but even he’s made an exception for this one. The visuals were striking and, honestly, iconic. It doesn’t matter that we’ve seen takes on this story before (I literally saw Immaculate a few weeks before)—The First Omen was special. Walking out of the theater, I thought that if I wrote adult horror, I would like it to emulate how this movie made me feel. And now it’s on my inspo-board for the adult horror novel I’m planning. :D

I could go on and on, but I think this is a good basic map following my path into horror writing. A few honorable mentions that I ran out of time and space for include: Scooby Doo (2002)—it definitely counts, fight me; Star Wars: Attack of the Clones (2002)—the robotic bug things??? Still terrifying; Get Out (2017), and Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant—which made me do a full-body cringe on an airplane!

About the author

Baillie Puckett (she/her) lives outside Los Angeles. She got her MFA from Hamline University, specializing in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Her hobbies include stabbing (embroidery), going to the movies, and playing ungodly amounts of The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. Find her online @BailliePuckett.

The year is 1998 and I’m at a slumber party. Half a dozen eleven-year-old girls asking the questions they can’t ask their parents and bursting with other questions they definitely can’t ask their strict immigrant parents. For any grown adult who still thinks pre-teen slumber parties were something out of Grease, all pink satin and boys, all I remember is leaving with a new understanding that my body was suddenly scarier than any of the ghost stories meant to terrify me into doing homework or eating vegetables (specifically La Llorona). Soon I’d be a geyser of weird hair, volcanic acne, and blood—my body a new horror and new enemy. Now that I’m pushing forty, I think I was right the first time. The story of La Llorona is scarier. It’s one of those legends that takes on new meaning with every iteration.

The first time I heard about La Llorona was in Ecuador.

I’m from a neighborhood right on the Guayas River, so the myth placed right in. Whenever I misbehaved or rebelled, I was threatened, not with physical violence but with a stand-in for my mother’s fury to do something my own saintly mother would never dream of. (My mother is saintly, by the way.) If our parents teach us how to love, then they also teach us how to be afraid. As a five-year-old, I only saw the ghost and the fear of disobedience.

A book that comes to mind, even though it is not a horror but is macabre, is a young adult suspenseful magical realism novel. Don’t be fooled by the Spanish word for “butterfly” in the title. Summer of the Mariposas by Guadalupe García McCall is a retelling of The Odyssey about five sisters on a journey to return a dead man’s body to Mexico. Along the way they meet La Llorona, only here she is a guide who helps them through the monsters waiting on their journey. It’s a powerful reversal of fears. Maybe if I’d had it a kid, I might have reclaimed her earlier.

When I revisited La Llorona for my Latin American Studies minor,

I learned about the links between the legends of La Malinche and La Lorona. In Rudolfo Anaya’s retelling, he suggests that “the first Llorona of the New World was Malinche, the consort of the Spanish conquistador, Cortez.” Her story is more complex. She was an Indigenous woman who allied with the Spanish after her people were killed by the Aztec empire. Depending on who is telling the story she is a victim, a traitor, a consort, a feminist icon, or all the above.

From then on, the horror became a hydra: the fear of sexual violence, the fear of becoming dispensable after a powerful man is finished with you, the fear of raising biracial (mestizo) children in the 1500s, the fear of losing your identity to motherhood and assimilation, the fear of inherited trauma and pain.

In Toni Morrison’s Beloved, set in the aftermath of the Civil War, these horrors share similarities, through the lens of enslavement in the American in the American South. Here, Sethe would do anything to stop her child from being re-enslaved. Eighteen-years-later, she is haunted by her dead baby, known only as Beloved, who feeds off her guilt.

In The Haunting of Alejandra, V. Castro makes a direct link between La Malinche’s legend and the eponymous heroine of, who is trapped in the “perfect” married American life, and becomes haunted by the ghost of a woman going back to the Mexican conquest by Spain.

Jennifer Givhan’s psychological supernatural thriller, doesn’t directly name check La Llorona, but when Eva's husband is arrested for the murder of a friend, she must confront her past to find out what really happened that night on the river.

In an interview with The Adroit Journal, Givahan writes, “La Llorona defies and blurs lines, like Medea before her—and there are socio-political considerations contextualizing her story that we must pay attention to.” Across songs, movies, books, slumber party stories told by flashlight, La Llorona still resonates. She survives because our fears connect us. Those of us who grew up fearing her maybe want to hear her side of the story instead, to better understand her, and hope she gets a little revenge along the way because she remains the scariest mother around.

When her brother disappears, Isabel Ortega faces her fear of drowning as she plunges into the spirit world to get him back . . . Read The Drowning River by Amber Clement . . .

About the author

Zoraida Córdova is the acclaimed author and editor of more than two dozen novels and short fiction, including The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina, Star Wars: The High Republic: Convergence, and the Brooklyn Brujas series. She’s written for Disney Books, Marvel Comics, and Lucasfilm Press. Zoraida was born in Guayaquil, Ecuador, and calls New York City home.

Welcome to another installment of Behind the Screams, a series of interviews with horror writers that pull back the curtain on writing spooky stories. Let’s meet our newest guest, Jessica Greene Camara, author of Study Days!

BEHIND THE SCREAMS

Interview with Jessica Greene Camara

Chain Letter: What scares you?

Jessica: I’ve never really been afraid of the supernatural. Ghosts, demons, the boogeyman…none of that stuff scares me, because I don’t believe in it. But I’m terrified of the possible. Murder, betrayal, secret societies run by corrupt power players—those kinds of things scare the living shit out of me, because they’re real. Some years ago, a person I hung out with, trusted, and had a positive relationship with was convicted of several murders. Turns out, he was actually a serial killer. You hear of this kind of thing on TV, and you (or at least, I) always think, “and no one noticed that he was a little…off?” But you really don’t. That’s what fascinates and chills me: the idea that regular, everyday people that you pass in the hallway, or party with, or even live with potentially have this darkness lurking just below the surface. I’m deeply afraid of the horrible things we’re capable of doing to one another.

CL: What was the horror media that turned you into a genre writer?

J: Maybe this is a stereotypical answer, but Jordan Peele’s Get Out. I mean, it’s the metaphor of it all, of course, but also the way it was simultaneously chilling and hilarious, razor-smart and Black as hell. I saw that movie and thought, “I could see myself making something like this,” which I guess also speaks to how important representation is. As a writer, I’m always aiming to strike that same balance of entertaining and thought-provoking in my work.

CL: What was your favorite part of writing Study Days?

J: I love a good plot twist, and I’m freakishly good at predicting them. It doesn’t matter the genre; the second the Hans character from Frozen opened his mouth, I was like, “this guy is evil.” It’s gotten to the point where my friends and family consider my guesses “spoilers” because they’re usually right. So I’m always delighted when I come across a truly jaw-dropping twist that sends me back to look for all the clues I missed. The worst are the ones that come completely out of nowhere, with no chance of guessing what would happen. With Study Days, I wanted to create that exact “Oh, shit!” moment. Then it became a challenge: how many little foreshadowing nuggets could I drop in so you can guess the ending, but without giving it all away? That was so much fun.

CL: What is an underrated horror story or fact you wish more people knew?

J: I loved The Black Girl Survives in This One. The whole anthology is stacked with great stories across every horror subgenre. One I don’t think gets talked about enough is “Queeniums for Greenium!” by Brittney Morris. It’s creepy and hilarious, which is basically my favorite combination.

CL: How do you dig deep as a writer through darker moments?

J: To be honest, the dark moments come easily! I feel really emotionally connected to those moments when my characters completely lose it. With Study Days, the ending just flowed out. I felt it all: the desperation, the jealousy, the pressure to succeed. Writing the darker moments can be cathartic, which I think is one of the genre’s biggest appeals. Horror gives us permission—and a safe space—to experience the worst. So, I don’t feel I need to necessarily “dig deep” through the dark moments; I enjoy them. It’s fun to explore how unhinged I can go without actually becoming unhinged.

CL: What is your horror summoning circle?

J: The entire Scream franchise playing on loop

A dangling basement light with a pull string

That jump scare in The Haunting of Hill House (iykyk)

The “Ermahgerd, Gersberms” meme

A secret cult

CL: If you could only write one horror sub-genre forever, which would it be?

J: Psychological horror, easily. They feel like the literary equivalent of a puzzle, and I love puzzles.

CL: What do you hope to see out of horror fiction in the future?

J: We need more Black final girls.

CL: What’s next for you?

J: I’ve been working on a YA murder mystery about two Black scholarship students at an elite boarding school (ha, sound familiar?). When her academic rival is accused of murder, the main character knows she didn’t do it…because they were secretly together that night, and admitting it would be outing herself. Now, she’s trying to clear her rival’s name and keep her secret before the real killer closes in on them.

I’m also seeking representation for a short story collection titled Tenderheaded. The stories revolve around Black people and hair, exploring themes of success, respectability politics, intimacy, and power. It’s not horror-related, but it is really close to my heart.

Thank you for joining us, Jessica! Look out for more screaming-good interviews, coming soon.

Check out ‘Study Days’ here!

Some dolls’ eyes follow you. Some dolls stay perfectly still when you’re not watching. And some live within the pages of a perfectly fictional novel.

Emphasis on the fictional.

Have you dug into these haunting reads? Beware: they might just be watching you . . .

1. Doll Bones by Holly Black

   

Zach, Poppy, and Alice have been friends forever. And for almost as long, they’ve been playing one continuous, ever-changing game of pirates and thieves, mermaids and warriors. Ruling over all is the Great Queen, a bone-china doll cursing those who displease her.

But they are in middle school now. Zach’s father pushes him to give up make-believe, and Zach quits the game. Their friendship might be over, until Poppy declares she’s been having dreams about the Queen—and the ghost of a girl who will not rest until the bone-china doll is buried in her empty grave.

Zach and Alice and Poppy set off on one last adventure to lay the Queen’s ghost to rest. But nothing goes according to plan, and as their adventure turns into an epic journey, creepy things begin to happen. Is the doll just a doll or something more sinister? And if there really is a ghost, will it let them go now that it has them in its clutches?

This book will grab you in its clutches and keep you reading. Zach, Alice, and Poppy’s friendship grounds you in a story full of creepy delights, and you’ll begin to wonder whether they are truly fighting just a ghost, or fighting for a better version of their friendship. The ghostly imagery of the Great Queen will stick with you long after you’ve finished.

2. Night of the Living Dummy by RL Stine

   

   Lindy names the ventriloquist's dummy she finds Slappy. Slappy is kind of ugly, but he's a lot of fun. Lindy's having a great time learning to make Slappy move and talk. But Kris is jealous of all the attention her sister is getting. It's no fair. Why does Lindy always have all the luck? Kris decides to get a dummy of her own. She'll show Kris. Then weird things begin to happen. Nasty things. Evil things. No way a dummy can be causing all the trouble. Or is there?

   The adventures of Mr. Wood and Slappy the Dummy—his first ever appearance in the Goosebumps series!—is unparalleled. Hijinks, creepy midnight happenings, and best of all, the classic slapstick jokes from Slappy himself. If you need a classic kids’ horror with a walking, stalking dummy, this is the one.

   3. Night of the Mannequins by Stephen Graham Jones

   

   From the New York Times bestselling author of The Only Good Indians, Stephen Graham Jones, comes a slasher story where a teen prank goes very wrong and all hell breaks loose in a small town. Winner of both the 2020 Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Awards!
   
   We thought we'd play a fun prank on her, and now most of us are dead.
   
   One last laugh for the summer as it winds down. One last prank just to scare a friend. Bringing a mannequin into a theater is just some harmless fun, right? Until it wakes up. Until it starts killing.
   
   Luckily, Sawyer has a plan. He’ll be a hero. He'll save everyone to the best of his ability. He'll do whatever he needs to so he can save the day.
   
   That's the thing about heroes―sometimes you have to become a monster first.

   Just when you thought the dolls couldn’t get any creepier . . . then there came the mannequins. When harmless fun turns into horror, and light frights turn into real threats, this dark and twisted adult horror will keep you guessing—and hoping your faves will survive to the end.

   4. How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix

   

   Grady Hendrix takes on the haunted house in a thrilling new novel that explores the way your past—and your family—can haunt you like nothing else.
   
   When Louise finds out her parents have died, she dreads going home. She doesn’t want to leave her daughter with her ex and fly to Charleston. She doesn’t want to deal with her family home, stuffed to the rafters with the remnants of her father’s academic career and her mother’s lifelong obsession with puppets and dolls. She doesn’t want to learn how to live without the two people who knew and loved her best in the world.
   
   Most of all, she doesn’t want to deal with her brother, Mark, who never left their hometown, gets fired from one job after another, and resents her success. Unfortunately, she’ll need his help to get the house ready for sale because it’ll take more than some new paint on the walls and clearing out a lifetime of memories to get this place on the market.
   
   But some houses don’t want to be sold, and their home has other plans for both of them…

   If you have a puppet in your room, you might want to turn it around so it’s facing the wall. At least, if you live in a haunted house that creaks at night, filled with deep-seated memories that won’t let go . . .

   5. House of Small Shadows by Adam Nevill

   

   Catherine's last job ended badly. Corporate bullying at a top TV network saw her fired and forced to leave London, but she was determined to get her life back. A new job and a few therapists later, things look much brighter. Especially when a challenging new project presents itself -- to catalogue the late M. H. Mason's wildly eccentric cache of antique dolls and puppets. Rarest of all, she'll get to examine his elaborate displays of posed, costumed and preserved animals, depicting bloody scenes from the Great War. Catherine can't believe her luck when Mason's elderly niece invites her to stay at Red House itself, where she maintains the collection until his niece exposes her to the dark message behind her uncle's "Art." Catherine tries to concentrate on the job, but Mason's damaged visions begin to raise dark shadows from her own past. Shadows she'd hoped therapy had finally erased. Soon the barriers between reality, sanity and memory start to merge and some truths seem too terrible to be real...

   With a book that’s been deemed ‘Britain’s answer to Stephen King,’ it’s no wonder this book is full of frights that will have you flipping the pages long into the night. Shadowy pasts meet horror-tinged futures in this unputdownable story.

Looking for more stories about dolls? Read ‘The Drowning River’ here!

Share Chain Letter

The Drowning River

by Amber Clement

From a very young age, Isabel Ortega had a morbid fascination with drowning. It started as a terror, manifesting itself whenever she wandered to the deep end of the community pool, but as she grew and learned how to swim, her fear slowly morphed into intrigue. They said drowning wasn’t like the movies. There was no screaming or thrashing, it was much more subtle. Invisible. Mouth bobbing above and below the surface, unfocused eyes, vertical, jerky motions as the body succumbed to the pull of the ravenous waters. There was some depressing statistic about the average number of kids drowning directly in front of their parents every summer.

Perhaps Isabel was drowning too, because in that moment, surrounded by grocery shoppers, no one made a move to save her. Not while her younger brother Daniel was dashing through the aisles of the cramped mercado, running his tiny, brown fingers over all the fresh produce. He nearly collided with an elderly woman and her jam-packed cart, then he stopped to stare up at the piñatas dangling from the ceiling. There were colorful stars and animals like penguins and llamas, plus a cluster of janky-ass, bootleg Disney characters. Isabel didn’t blame her brother for gawking. Only problem was he was blocking the way for a middle-aged couple.

“Daniel,” Isabel called, biting back a sigh. “Come over here.”

“NOOO!” he screamed.

Isabel softly groaned. The day started out so smoothly—they’d gone to the park and then the playground, and Daniel absolutely loved it, squealing with delight as she pushed him on the swing while he enthusiastically shouted, “Underdog!” But when it was time to go, and Isabel tried to explain they needed to get some groceries for dinner, he threw a fit. She swiftly scooped him under her free arm. Thankfully, he was still small enough to do that, though he was getting heavier and heavier by the day.

“No! Stop it!” Daniel’s shrill voice wasn’t enough to drown out the murmurs from the middle-aged couple, and the older woman shot Isabel a dirty look.

Isabel loved shopping at the Mexican grocery stores as a child. Compared to the sterile, corporate vibe of most big chains, it felt like stepping into a magical world. But now she regretted her choice. At least in a massive Walmart, the entire store wouldn’t be subjected to Daniel’s rowdiness. Walmart shoppers didn’t give a shit about disruptive kids.

“Qué niño tan malcriado,” someone said—a middle aged couple, each with a basket on their arm.

Isabel did everything she could not to react. Keep breathing. Keep breathing. In situations like this, sometimes it was better to pretend she couldn’t understand Spanish. At twenty-five, she probably looked more like Daniel’s mother than his big sister. Now his guardian.

“He is too old to be acting up like that.” The couple switched to English. Of course they wanted her to understand.

Isabel’s cheeks burned. The fire sank deep into her pores, leaking into her throat and down all the way to her lungs. Blazing and burning, she struggled to breathe. All she could do was grip Daniel tighter and walk away. Logically, she knew they were right. Daniel was five but acted more like a toddler. He was always a bit of a handful, but ever since the disruption with their mother, he had gotten far worse.

Ducking into an empty aisle, Isabel took the chance to really study her baby brother. His brown cheeks puffed out as he pouted at her. His long, dark lashes framed his deep, brown eyes. His shock of hair, thick and black, was mussed from struggle. That hair. He came into this world with a full head of it and it hadn’t stopped growing since.

“Oh, angelito,” she sighed. That was what their mom used to call him. Before. “Do you want any sweet bread?” She nodded at the case of pan dulce on display. The sugary rolls sparkled in their place behind the glass, golden brown interspersed with pops of pink. Whenever her mom took her to the Mexican grocery store, she would beg for a pink concha. The promise of her favorite treat was usually enough to get her to behave.

“Nuh uh!” Daniel squinted up at her with his lower lip stuck out. “I want fish sticks.”

Of all the things he could ask for. Most kids wanted ice cream or candy, but not Daniel. “You know I’m allergic to fish.”

He shook his head. “I eat them and like them!”

The Joneses, Daniel’s foster family, must have given him fish sticks during his time with them. Like they got him hooked on the iPad. Yes, they were really nice people who seemed to genuinely care about the kids they fostered, and she appreciated them for stepping in when no one else could, but those small nuances made the transition a little rockier.

“But if I eat fish, I’ll get very, very sick.” She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice, but instead of seeming chipper, she sounded pained. “You don’t want me to get sick, do you?”

He stared at her, then squealed in an extra shrill voice, “FISH STICKS! Fish sticks! Fish sticks!” He dug a crayon out of his pocket and started drawing on the labels of the shelved canned goods. It was so fast, it took a second for Isabel to realize what was happening. He had gotten in a few strokes before she pulled him away. He only knew how to write his name, and there it was, with his signature backward D. It was adorable at first, but the novelty wore off after he drew it on her apartment wall, the coffee table, and in a few of her books.

Isabel pressed her lips together. No damn fish sticks. But she didn’t want to lose her patience with him. He had already been through so much. She wanted to give him a stable place, somewhere he could feel safe. “How about instead, you pick out something to play with? Anything you want.”

Daniel’s eyes grew and he vigorously nodded.

Isabel felt herself relax. “It’ll be a little present to celebrate you coming to live with me.”

She set him down and pointed out the shelf full of different toys, trinkets, and Our Lady of Guadalupe tchotchkes. Once Daniel scampered over there, Isabel hurried to shop for dinner and grabbed some cans of menudo and hominy. The tripe soup was one of her favorites and super quick and easy to heat up. It would be her own celebration for winning custody of her brother.

After the incident, their mom was deemed unfit to care for him. That was awful enough, but on top of that, to have her brother taken by CPS and put into a foster home? It was a bridge too far. Isabel fought tooth and nail for custody, because there was no way in hell she could live with herself if her own brother ended up trapped in the system. The ordeal lasted months. Paperwork, phone calls, and sleepless nights, all culminating in the court hearing last week. The judge ruled, and Daniel was with her now. His family. It was the best outcome, all things considered. She thanked God every day, and yet, the stress still clung to her bones. She found her first premature grey hair.

She won, but there were still a lot of things she needed to figure out, like who would care for Daniel while she was at work, how she would handle his behavioral issues, not to mention the expense that came with raising a child.

All her friends would party, date, get to be a mess before they figured themselves out—while she was raising her kid brother. She knew it would be a sacrifice but, in just one week, the reality of the situation was settling in. This was a lot. She was up for the challenge, but sometimes, when she was especially overwhelmed, the tiniest of dark voices whispered in the back of her head—

It wasn’t her fault their mother was wildly unequipped to deal with her own emotions.

It wasn’t her choice to have CPS take Daniel from them as a result.

All of it was unfair. She’d been forced into a role that should never have been hers to begin with.

But whenever those thoughts crossed her mind, they were instantly drowned by a wave of guilt. Daniel didn’t get to choose either. The only people they had in the world were each other.

She pushed the anger down. She was doing her best. She knew that.

Behind her, Daniel giggled, loud and high-pitched. The sound raised goosebumps on her arms.

Isabel whirled around. “I told you not to laugh like that.”

Earlier that morning, not used to having him in the apartment, she startled upon seeing him in her bedroom doorway, and he giggled that way—like a spooky, little gremlin. She explained that the noise creeped her out, but that ended up being a mistake, because now he giggled like that every chance he got.

Her insides were a ball of tightly tangled stress. She knew it wasn’t Daniel’s fault. She started over.

“Did you pick something?” she asked more gently.

“Doll!” Daniel held up, well, something. Technically a doll, a little boy muñeco, but it was nothing Isabel would want to play with. It had a little straw hat and wore a blue serape which would have been cute. But its eyes, bulging under its furrowed eyebrows, and its huge, crooked yarn smile, made it look uncanny.

Isabel inwardly cringed. Why couldn’t he choose the panda or kitty toy? Even an Our Lady of Guadalupe would have been better than this monstrosity. Looking at it made her scalp tingle. “What about this one?” she asked, plucking a plush monkey from the shelf.

“I like him!” He hugged the doll tight to his chest.

She couldn’t go back on her word, no matter how creepy it was. “Okay then. Let’s get it!”

“Yay!” Daniel jumped up and down, and his happiness made Isabel smile.

They walked to the front counter, which was packed with an assortment of Mexican candies, and in the back were shelves full of medications, cigarettes, and hair products. The illogic of it warmed her heart. If she were in a better mood, she would explore each and every vibrant aisle of this place.

“Whoa!” Just before the register, Isabel slipped. She lost grip on her basket and when it clattered to the ground, the cans and fresh fruit she gathered rolled out around her. The customers, including those rude people from earlier, turned to stare.

Isabel’s hand was wet. She glanced down and saw a puddle on the floor with a long skid mark extending toward the exit. She must have stepped right in it.

Daniel burst into squealing giggles.

“Daniel,” she gasped. “I could have hurt myself.”

“Sorry…” He hugged the doll tighter and averted his gaze.

Isabel softened. “It’s okay. Now let’s go.” She put everything back in the basket—no help from the judgy couple, of course—and took Daniel’s hand, careful to make her way to the register without further incident. This was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

“Oh my!” The older woman at the counter smiled when she saw Daniel, her face lit up like she’d won the lottery. She wore a flowy, white top and her grey-streaked hair was pulled into a bun. Isabel set the doll and her shopping basket onto the counter ready to get this excursion done with. But the woman was too busy beaming at Daniel to ring anything up. “And who is this doll for?”

“It’s for me!” Daniel proudly declared.

“I see, I see.” Her watery eyes crinkled with mirth. “And how has your day been, Papi?”

Daniel let out a little gasp. “Poppy Playtime?”

The old woman tilted her head. “Who is that? I never heard of someone with that name.”

Daniel held up his tablet.

Ugh. Poppy Playtime was one of the weird, scary characters Daniel watched all the time. Isabel didn’t like him talking about that stuff. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, mentally willing the woman to ring them up already.

It was going to be a long evening finishing up Daniel’s bedroom—originally her office with a desk and bookshelves she was in the process of rearranging. She didn’t want to have to stay up all night figuring it out.

“You can have playtime with your new friend,” the cashier continued, clearly not understanding what Daniel meant, oblivious to the impatient line growing behind them. “You can tell him all about your worries and he will listen, but you must be very careful—”

“I’m so sorry, but we really need to get going!” Isabel didn’t want to interrupt, but she was frayed at the edges. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, softly this time.

The woman nodded. “Oh, yes, yes.” She rang up the items one by one, putting them in a bag. But when she rang up the doll, she handed it to Daniel instead. Then, with a smile, she gave Isabel the receipt. “Such a cute little boy you have.”

“Thanks,” Isabel muttered, now feeling awkward about being so anxious. The woman was simply trying to be friendly.

“By the way,” the woman continued, “congratulations on the judge’s decision.”

“What?” Isabel’s blood ran cold. Had she heard correctly? There was no way she could have. Before she could ask the woman to repeat herself, she started ringing up the items for the judgy couple behind her, still all smiles. Surely Isabel heard wrong.

“Let’s go, Daniel.” She took his hand and led him out of the store.

But when she grabbed the door handle, she recoiled. It, too, was soaking wet. First the water on the floor, now this? She loved mercados, but this one clearly had a pipe problem somewhere. She pushed the door open with her elbow and wiped her hand on her pants.

When she glanced back, the older couple shook their heads and murmured to each other. As for the cashier, she smiled at Isabel.

Daniel sat on the floor of his new bedroom, feeling sad. New rooms were supposed to be fun and exciting with toys and cool things to look at, but all this room had were boxes overflowing with Isabel’s boring, grown-up stuff. The walls were plain white with no awesome posters or glow in the dark stars like his old room at Mami’s house. And Isabel was too busy cooking to play. She took away his tablet and wouldn’t let him watch stuff on her phone. She said he had to “limit his screen time.” Whatever that meant.

He missed being at the Joneses. There were so many kids there! Always someone to play with in that house. Why couldn’t Isabel take the other kids to live here too? That would have been more fun.

And why couldn’t they go see Mami?

He missed her too.

All he could do was set his new doll onto his lap. He liked the doll’s straw hat and big eyes. The nice lady at the store said he could tell the doll his problems, so he gave it a try.

“I’m bored,” he whispered. “There’s no friends here, or games to play and…Isabel’s mean.”

I’m your friend…He heard the doll’s voice in his head, clear as day, and gasped in delight.

“Really? What’s your name?”

Pablo.

“I’m Daniel!” He danced Pablo around in his hands. A magic doll! There might finally be some fun around here!

Let’s be friends forever and ever and ever. We’ll never have to be sad ever again, because we’ll always be together. How does that sound?

“I like that.” Daniel squeezed the doll tight to his chest. “I’m tired of always leaving people. First Mami and now the Joneses.”

Hey, let’s play the best friends game.

“Okay. How do we play?”

Turn around.

“Huh?” Daniel turned. Directly behind him, a big pair of scissors sat on top of a taped-up box. He frowned. “Isabel said not to touch those. She’ll get mad.”

Don’t worry. We’ll put them back when we’re done.

That was good enough for Daniel. He tucked Pablo under his arm and stood, grabbing the scissors. The handle was so big, he dropped them with a clatter, but quickly picked them back up.

Hee hee! Yay!! Pablo cheered.

Holding the scissors made Daniel’s heart thump hard in his chest. This was almost as exciting as when Isabel pushed Daniel on the swing super high. He giggled, dropping the scissors again.

Pick them up and hold them tight in your hand.

“Okay.” Daniel did as he was told. He couldn’t wait to find out what would happen next.

Now hold out your other hand. And then…press the scissors into your skin as hard as you can.

“W-won’t that hurt?” Daniel asked, feeling unsure and squirmy for the first time. He didn’t like getting owies. One time he tripped and fell in the Joneses driveway, and it cut up his knees so bad, he cried.

No, it’ll be fun fun fun! It’s the only way we can be friends forever. Just hold onto me tight and do it! On the count of three!

One…

Daniel made sure Pablo was still under his arm.

Two…

Then he held up the pointy part of the scissors over his palm.

Three!

Isabel was standing at the stove stirring the hominy into the soup when Daniel’s high-pitched scream cut straight into her heart. She nearly flung her wooden spoon and knocked over the pot.

“Daniel!?”

She rushed out of the kitchen, mind racing faster than her legs. She hadn’t left him alone all that long. Heating the menudo took no more than a few minutes. Maybe he saw a bug? Sometimes earwigs got into the apartment. But what if he hurt himself? She should have taken more time to childproof everything—the closets, electrical sockets, and her shelves full of books that could crush him. She should’ve—

The bedroom was empty, the new muñeco left behind on the floor along with the scissors, her half-packed boxes still untouched.

“Daniel?” No answer. “Daniel, this isn’t funny!” She checked under the bed, then her bedroom. Still nothing. “Daniel?” she called, panic rising to her throat. He wasn’t in the bathtub or hiding under the living room furniture. None of the windows were open. She ran out to the hallway, which was empty as well, but surely she would have heard him open the front door. She rushed back into the kitchen, the pot of the menudo nearly bubbling over. The apartment wasn’t that big. There was nowhere else to check.

“DANIEL!” Slowly, she sank to the floor and covered her mouth.

He was gone.

Isabel called the police sobbing, but they were barely any help. The investigator repeatedly asked if she was certain he hadn’t snuck out the front. No, I was cooking and you can see how close the front door is. I would have seen him. Then came the questions about her. What was her relationship to Daniel? He’s my little brother. Had there been any issues since he moved in? It has been a transition, but I’m happy he’s with me now. What was she doing right before he vanished? As I said, I was cooking dinner when I heard him scream. They probably thought she did something to him, and she couldn’t fully blame them. He seemingly vanished into thin air! It was the sort of far-fetched story that would have made her suspicious if she hadn’t experienced it herself. But there was no evidence against her, either, so she was in the clear.

For now.

She tore up the apartment three times, but there was still no sign of Daniel. He hadn’t gotten himself wedged inside a cabinet and wasn’t hiding in the dryer. What on earth could have happened to him?

Days blurred by. In the past, she had dreams about falling into water, but she would always jolt awake just as her body went under. Not now. Now she was helpless, sinking farther and farther from the light of the surface, guilt, anxiety, and dread crushing her lungs.

She was taken to the police station, gave a statement to the detectives. Showed them a picture of herself and Daniel from the day she became his guardian. They promised to search. Told her they’d bring him home. But since then, there was nothing.

Maybe it was pointless, but she scoured the apartment clean, cleared her boxes and desk out of Daniel’s room, squishing them into the already cramped living room. She set the toys he brought from the foster family onto his bed along with the muñeco from the mercado. She promised herself when he came back, she would fill his room with more toys than he could ever imagine, and they would decorate the room however he liked, even if it was covered in plushies of those creepy characters he loved so much.

When he came back…

If he came back.

Isabel stared at the bed, hoping beyond hope that tomorrow she would see him there playing with that ugly, little doll.

She trudged to the living room and sank onto the couch in front of the TV. Without thinking, she booted up one of Daniel’s favorite movies. Back when he could barely walk, he’d watch the island girl and the preening Hawaiian god on their quest almost every day. Once it annoyed her, but now, the memories were comforting. Sitting with Daniel on the couch, singing along to distract him whenever their mother had one of her episodes.

“Where are you, Daniel?” she whispered.

Down the hallway, the floor creaked. Then again, like slow footsteps. She muted the movie and listened, but all she could hear was her own pounding pulse. The apartment was old and made weird sounds whenever the heat kicked on or it was windy outside. Ignoring the coil of unease tightening inside her chest, she grabbed the controller to turn the volume back up, but then she heard another sound. This one was unmistakable, and she couldn’t ignore it.

It was the bathroom sink running on full blast.

Her heart rate picked up as she rose to her feet. “D-Dan…Daniel?”

She bought him a little stool so he could wash his hands, though he always seemed more interested in splashing the water than actually washing up. She rushed into the bathroom, expecting to see him playing in the sink, but there was no one there.

“Daniel?” Too hopeful, she peeled back the shower curtain. The tub lay empty and dry.

He wasn’t there.

No one was.

But the sink was still running, the brassy handle flipped up and everything. She went to turn it off and yelped.

The muñeco sat in the basin, soaking under the faucet’s spray. Droplets of water dropped from its face, clung to its sewn-on eyes.

She backed away, stomach twisting. “What the hell?”

The mirror was covered in dew. Isabel took a cautious step closer and read the word someone smeared across the glass.

DANIEL. The letters were slanted and crooked, the D backwards. Exactly how he would write it.

She snatched the doll and rushed out of the bathroom. “Daniel!” she called again. “Daniel, please, come out!” She searched his bedroom and then her room. “Daniel, it’s okay. I’m not upset. If you come out, we can have ice cream. Please. Where are you?” But as she crossed the living room to check the kitchen, a sick feeling twisted her stomach. This didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. The water was running. His name was written there. He was just in the bathroom. Right?

She looked down at the doll in her fists. It was absolutely soaked, dripping water all over the floor.

“Where is he?” she whispered. “And who moved you if it wasn’t Daniel?”

The doll simply stared up at her. Well, not actually stared. She knew that of course, but it felt like it was watching her. With that ugly, sneering expression on its face. Mocking her. The yarn on its mouth looked more frayed than before.

She let out a shaky breath and squeezed the doll harder and harder. “Damn it!” She threw the doll as hard as she could. It bounced off the wall with a wet plop and hit the floor headfirst. Choking back a sob, she stormed to her room, locked the door, and stayed there the rest of the night.

More than anything, Isabel wanted to drown in her dreams, stay there under the depths and not have to face a reality where Daniel was still gone, but she woke the next morning, eyes swollen and crusty after crying herself to sleep. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her clothes or wash her face, and now she regretted it. Her head pounded and her neck was stiff. She felt all around disgusting.

She checked her phone to see if the investigator called, but instead she found a text from her cousin Lola.

Lola: Hey Isa, I’m off today! Bringing you breakfast! Sushi!!!

“Shit.” Isabel flew out of bed. The house was a mess after tearing it apart yesterday and she was an even bigger mess. She barely managed to throw her hair into a ponytail, brush her teeth, and splash her face with water before there was a knock at the front door.

She scrambled to put away all the shoes and jackets she ripped from the foyer closet, then opened the door.

“Hey!” Lola held up a takeout bag in each hand and quickly swooped in to hug Isabel. She was always the best hugger, even if it was a bit awkward with the bag in her hands. The way she held Isabel tight was full of love and support. The two stood like that for several moments until Isabel pulled away.

No one but Lola went out for sushi for breakfast. The two cousins agreed long ago they could eat sushi for every meal for the rest of eternity. A perfect way to start the day, Isabel used to say, back when she had an appetite.

“Sorry it’s such a mess in here,” Isabel said.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Lola scolded. “Not after everything you’ve been through. I can eat on the floor if I have to.”

Isabel and Lola were around the same age, and used to be confused for sisters, but as years went on, that changed. Unlike Isabel, Lola kept her dyed, honey-blonde hair long, with short, fluffy bangs. She had round, dewy, tan cheeks and sympathetic, amber eyes.

“I’ll set up the table.” Lola scurried into the kitchen, setting aside the bags on the counter and grabbing paper plates from the cabinet.

Sometimes Isabel envied her cousin. Lola grew up with two stable parents who she still lived with. Maybe it was the lack of burdens that kept her so lively. Then again, maybe Lola was just putting on a brave face. Maybe the sparkle in her eyes were unshed tears for Daniel. Without judgement, Lola cleared the pots and pans off the table—Isabel practically crawled through the cabinets yesterday to see if Daniel was hiding in one of them.

“Oh,” said Lola, “I made sure to call ahead and tell them about your allergy just to be extra safe. They put yours in a separate bag and everything.”

People were always shocked to discover the woman allergic to both fish and shellfish actually loved sushi. It was probably a bit demented, especially since there were a couple times she needed her EpiPen after having some cross-contaminated rolls, but it was worth it. There were plenty of non-fish options: chicken, shiitake mushroom, mango, but tempura sweet potato was her absolute favorite. It felt…comforting.

Lola remembered. Even went through the extra trouble of making sure it was safe for her. Isabel tried to smile, but her lips wobbled instead. Comfort was the last thing she deserved.

“Oh, Isa.” Lola came over, arms wide open as Isabel completely broke down and crumpled into her cousin’s embrace, sniffling and gasping for air.

The soft smell of her perfume was so familiar and soothing; a sweetly, subtle blend of vanilla, honey, and caramel, but right now, it made Isabel cry even harder. “I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay to cry. All of us are worried about Daniel.”

Isabel held Lola tighter, and squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s just…I fought so hard for custody, and now he’s gone. And while he was here all I could think about was how stressful everything was. Maybe it’s my fault. I should’ve been happy to have him with me.” She couldn’t hold back her sobs.

Lola was the only person to whom she could ever admit something so terrible.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love him, but I…” Isabel trailed off, unable to put the complicated mess of feelings into better words.

“I know,” Lola whispered. But she didn’t know. Not really.

“Maybe if Daniel was still with the Joneses, he would still be here. I should’ve been more patient with him and let him watch YouTube like he wanted a-and—”

“No…no no no,” Lola whispered and gently rubbed Isabel’s back. “You can’t think like that. I know you love Daniel, but anyone would be overwhelmed by such sudden circumstances and responsibility. I know I would be. Those feelings are valid too. But you’re the best person he could have. I mean look at you. You’ve worked your ass off and now you have your own place and you’re thriving despite the odds.”

Thriving? Isabel wasn’t so sure if she would describe her life as thriving. She juggled waiting tables, taking online classes, and saving as much money as she could so she could get her own place and a better paying job. The only dream she was living was scraping by on her bills, making ends meet, and maybe getting six hours of sleep.

“Now come on.” Lola grabbed a napkin off the table and handed it to her. “You need to eat. You have to stay strong and healthy for Daniel. You’ll feel a little better once you get some food in you.”

Isabel dabbed her eyes and followed Lola to the table. The two dug into their sushi rolls. It wasn’t until the food was in front of her that Isabel realized she was starving. Using her chopsticks, she dipped a roll into her soy sauce-wasabi mixture and stuffed the entire roll in her mouth. The salty tang along with the nasal-clearing rush of the wasabi calmed her senses.

Lola had never been able to figure out chopsticks, so she ate with her fingers. Rice and sauce clung to her finger pads and her sushi rolls crumbled as she tried biting into them. She had always been a messy eater. “Does your mom know about Daniel?” she asked between bites.

Isabel half shrugged. “I think they sent word, but I don’t know if she received it or what she thinks. She’s still in the program and I don’t think she can accept visitors.” Not that Isabel wanted to visit her. She was just glad to not be the one to break the news to her.

I told you he would be better off with me, Isabel. For all the awful things you say about me, I never lost him. You did. You lost my son.

Isabel stuffed another roll in her mouth, trying not to imagine her mom furious, tearful, and most of all, flooding her with guilt.

Lola effortlessly changed the subject. “And your job has been okay with you taking all this time off?”

“Yes. They’ve been really accommodating. They’re letting me extend my leave for as long as I need.” She had taken time off for the custody battle and getting through the transition of Daniel moving in, but HR was sympathetic when she told them Daniel was missing. Some jobs wouldn’t have been so kind. “I should probably at least see if I can do some work from home.”

The thought of doing anything while Daniel was gone felt impossible.

“And what about you?” Lola asked, voice soft and cautious. “I know a lot’s going on, but are you taking the time to care for yourself?”

Isabel hesitated. After dumping her guts out earlier, she could have left it at that. Downplayed the absolute torrent of anxiety. But she couldn’t hide things from Lola. “I’m feeling a bit tsunami.”

Without a word, Lola reached across the table and set her hand atop Isabel’s. When they were younger, when everything went to shit with her mom, Lola was the only person Isabel could confide in about her dark thoughts. The feeling of drowning, and the urge to give in and let herself sink under. Back then, it was hard to put her feelings into actual words, so she referred to it as “tsunami.” It felt safer to call it that. Lola would sit on the phone with her for endless hours, or text her cat videos whenever she felt that way.

Then and now, Isabel appreciated it more than she could express. “I…I think I’ll be okay. I’m overwhelmed, but I’ve always gotten through it, right?”

A tiny voice in the back of her mind softly whispered, What if this time, you don’t?

She ignored it.

“I know,” Lola said. “But listen, please, if you ever need anything, call me. The offer still stands with my parents as well.”

Back when the custody battle started, her aunt and uncle offered to support her in any way they could, even offering to watch Daniel whenever she needed. The idea made Isabel feel guilty. Her aunt and uncle didn’t have the best relationship with her mom. Even now the thought of accepting their help felt wrong.

“What’s with the doll?” Lola suddenly asked.

Isabel followed her gaze and her stomach flip flopped. Laying on the floor as if it toppled off the counter was the muñeco. But it hadn’t been here before. She left it in the living room.

“It’s kind of creepy.” Lola pulled her legs up to chest, resting her feet on the chair.

Isabel tried to ignore the chill in the pit of her stomach. “Yeah, Daniel picked it out the day he disappeared. I was trying to get him to behave at the mercado, and out of all the cute toys we saw, that’s the one Daniel wanted.”

“You know, it kind of reminds me of a Labubu.”

“La-what?” Isabel bit into another sushi roll.

“They’re these ugly-cute dolls that are super popular, but I swear some of them are like cursed or demon possessed because—”

Isabel didn’t hear the rest of what she said. The food suddenly tasted off. She looked at the half-eaten roll in her fingers and inspected it, but instead of the fried sweet potato she picked, there was something pink and fleshy inside. She realized her mouth was tingling.

It was fish. She was eating fish. Nearly gagging, she rushed to the sink and spit it all out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Fish! Fish!” she rasped between spitting into the sink. A choking cough tore past her throat.

“Oh God!” Lola jumped out of her seat. “Your EpiPen—”

“Bedroom. Nightstand.” Isabel’s heart pounded. She kept spitting and rinsing until all she could taste was bile.

Soon Lola returned, the pen in hand. “Do you need it? Should I dose you?”

Isabel held up her hand. She needed a second to assess. She grabbed a glass of water, taking careful sips. She could swallow fine, her throat wasn’t closing up, and while her mouth felt a little itchy, that was probably paranoia more than anything. The few times she had a full-blown allergic reaction felt much worse. “I don’t think I swallowed any.”

It would probably be wise to go to urgent care to be safe. But it was hard to find the motivation to do it. She didn’t want to leave the last place Daniel was for even a minute. Her heart rate slowed, but a chill clung to her bones.

Lola inspected the rest of the sushi rolls on Isabel’s platter with a perplexed frown. “It’s just this bit that has fish. Isn’t that so weird? Almost like they switched one piece in both of our rolls.”

Isabel gripped her stomach. Her blood ran cold at the sight of the doll, which now lay closer to the table. In their panic, had one of them kicked it? As Lola ranted about leaving the restaurant a bad review, Isabel’s mind wandered to the strange things that seemed to keep happening. Daniel’s sudden disappearance. The sink. The writing in the mirror. Now this. Each incident connected to that thing from the mercado.

The doll gave her a strange feeling from the moment she saw it in the store. As a child, her mom used to tell her stories about children turning into dolls when they disobeyed. Even back then, she hadn’t believed her. The same way she knew Santa couldn’t possibly be real since their house didn’t have a chimney. But what if…?

Daniel liked to write on the walls.

Daniel wrote his Ds backward.

Daniel knew about her fish allergy.

It was almost like the muñeco was Daniel.

Ludicrous and yet, what if it was somehow true?

With their candles to the saints and ancient, moldy garlic cloves above their entryway, Isabel’s grandparents had always been superstitious. Her grandmother started every day with teas made of special herbs, and ended the night with a small shot of mezcal. She believed, as long as she did both, she’d never get sick, and true enough, Isabel had never seen her ill. Her grandfather had a silver pendant of San Antonio. Whenever he lost anything—his keys, his lucky dice, his wallet—he held it and said a little prayer. Moments later, miraculously, the thing would be found.

The mercado had a vibe that reminded Isabel of her grandparents. Maybe the doll was like that. Maybe it contained an answer.

“Isa? Isabel!”

Isabel snapped back to reality.

“You, okay?” Lola asked. “If you need the pen—”

“No, I’m fine. Just still a little out of it.”

Lola may have been Isabel’s most trusted confidant, but this was far too outlandish to say out loud.

Lola stuck around to help Isabel declutter the apartment, then they watched a movie, popped open a prosecco and downed the entire bottle. It felt nice. The sweet wine calmed her and soothed her raw throat. Soon she felt soft and drowsy. She nearly sunk into a nap—almost—but thoughts of the muñeco lurked in the back of her head.

After Lola left, Isabel took a long shower and went through her skin-care routine—double cleansing, moisturizer, retinol, face mask and all, but only because Lola made her promise to. According to Lola, Isabel didn’t want to have dark circles and a dull complexion when she got Daniel back. Isabel wished she could be so optimistic or afford to be so vain.

Before going to sleep, she checked Daniel’s room, same as she did every night since he vanished. The doll was still on the bed where she put it while cleaning. A prickly sensation slithered across the back of her neck. She shook off her earlier worry as a desperate need for answers. In her room, she put on a fresh pair of pajamas and went to bed. Still fuzzy from all the wine, she easily drifted off, but didn’t stay asleep long. That was the annoying thing about wine. It made her have to pee every other hour. Eyes half open, she pushed away the blankets. If she hurried, maybe she could fall back asleep quickly. As soon as she stepped out of bed, her feet slipped on something wet. Her legs flew out from under her and she landed on her butt. Hard.

The shock of it all woke her up. The floor was soaked and slippery with what seemed to be water. Careful not to fall again, she managed to stand and turn on her bedside lamp.

“Ow…” she winced, rubbing her backside as her eyes adjusted to the light. There was a big puddle next to her bed, but the ceiling above it wasn’t leaking.

An eerie giggle filled the air.

Her mouth dried.

Daniel’s gremlin giggle. It came from the doorway, but it wasn’t him standing there.

It was the muñeco laying limp on the floor.

Now there was no doubt. The doll did it. Just like it turned on the sink and tried to poison her with fish. It was messing with her. Torturing her.

Daniel would never hurt her and this doll had something truly evil about it. Her heart thudded so loudly, it sent trembling vibrations down to her fingers and stabbing pulses to her skull. She scrambled to her feet and snatched the doll. Her mind raced through all the different horrific possibilities. Whether it was cursed or demon possessed, she needed to get rid of it. Now.

She stormed to the kitchen, straight to the garbage can and slammed her foot onto the pedal, opening the lid. It was half full of trash with the remnants of the sushi and empty wine bottle on top. She dumped the doll inside, but as soon as the lid closed, the entire can began to quake.

“Shit!” She opened the lid and the tremoring ceased. The doll sat atop the rest of the trash, still as could be. She wanted this thing out of her home. Isabel grabbed it and stormed out of the apartment, down the silent hallway into the garbage room. The hot air and odor of stale trash made the tiny room even more claustrophobic, but she had to endure it. Once she dumped the doll into the chute, she would never have to deal with it again, but something deep in her gut made her hesitate. Warning bells rang in her head and the hairs on her arms stood. Her grandmother used to say, problems don’t go away until you face them. She’d been referring to an elementary-school bully, but it could apply to anything, even this. What if there was something she was missing? What if every horror movie she ever watched way too young was right, and throwing out or destroying it would unleash even more evil? Maybe it was better not to mess with it. Maybe she didn’t have to face the doll, but the person who sold it to her. She needed to return to the shop, but it wasn’t open at this hour.

Isabel returned to her apartment, trembling and struggling to breathe. She spent a good hour looking for a good place to put, or rather lock up, the doll. Finally, the washing machine caught her eye. She could place the doll inside and stack several books over the lid. If that didn’t keep it at bay, she didn’t know what else would.

She returned to bed but couldn’t sleep. Not when it could come back into her room at any moment. Somehow, she must have dozed off, because next thing she knew, her eyes fluttered open and a bit of sunlight poked through the curtains. Relief morphed into dread. With a small gasp, she jumped out of bed, heart thudding. She took several cautious steps. There weren’t puddles or other strange booby traps and the doll was nowhere to be seen. She crept down the hallway to the washer and dryer. The books were still in place on the lid, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Holding her breath, she moved the books and slowly opened the lid.

The doll lay floating face first in about a foot of water.

“What in the actual hell,” she whispered.

Her machine was new. That was the whole draw of this tiny unit. Everything was freshly remodeled, and the machine never filled with water on its own before. With a shudder, she snatched the doll. Wrapped it in a towel. Stuffed it into a bag. Not even bothering to brush her teeth or change out of her pajamas, she threw on a raincoat, grabbed her car keys, and left for the market.

The small mercado was right next to a bridge which overlooked the river. As she crossed the sidewalk, she had the urge to toss the doll in the waters. Instead, she gripped the bag tighter and walked faster.

As soon as she stepped inside the store, a musty odor hit her nose. It hadn’t smelled like that before. The air was oddly humid, but she remembered all the leaking water from last time. Isabel ignored it and marched straight to the counter.

The same woman was at the register. Her eyes looked a little red, as if she was crying. Isabel’s eyes were probably just as puffy and bloodshot.

“Buenos días. Hello,” the woman greeted in both languages. “Ah, I remember you. You were here the other day, hm?”

Isabel wasn’t in the mood for small talk or niceties. She set the bag on the counter. “I’d like to return this.”

“Oh.” The woman pulled the towel out of the bag. Her face didn’t change until she unwrapped it and found the muñeco. “Oh my.” She held it in her arms as if it were a child, and gingerly adjusted its straw hat. “You are not happy with him?”

Suddenly, her throat felt tight. “I’m sorry, but I no longer want this—” Thing, Monster, Demon, “—doll.” She took the soaked receipt out of the bag and pushed it toward the woman, who kept staring at her. “I-it’s fine if you can’t refund me. I just don’t want it.”

The cashier looked from the doll to Isabel and smiled. “No, no, I will refund you, but are you certain you want to return it?”

Isabel sharply exhaled. “Yes.”

It was over now. Isabel’s heart pounded for the duration of the drive home. This was a good thing, she assured herself. Now she could put all her focus on finding Daniel. She resolved to go home, get dressed and fix herself up, eat a little something, and then go to the police station to see if there was anything she could do to help with the search. They kept giving her the runaround on the phone, but they would have to pay attention to her face to face. No more wallowing. Lola was right. Isabel needed to take care of herself so she could be more proactive. She was always the type who came up with a plan of action. It was how she survived for so long. If she did it before, surely she could do it again. She gripped the wheel tighter.

By the time she returned home, the sky darkened considerably, and she hurried inside before the storm could start. Thunder rumbled in the distance as she took the stairs two at a time and unlocked her door, eager to be home without the curse of that doll lurking everywhere.

“Okay,” she mumbled, pulling off her raincoat and setting it on the shoe bench.

Just as she was about to go into her room and get dressed, a noise made her pause. It sounded like a steady stream of water, but it hadn’t started raining yet.

No, it came from the bathroom. The bathtub.

For a split second, she stood completely paralyzed. She stopped taking baths many years ago, but since Daniel moved in, every night after dinner, she filled the tub with water and a few of his plastic toys. When she was a kid, Isabel used to love playing with her naked Barbies in the water, destroying their hair in the process. And as her mom had once done for her, she used the biggest plastic cup to rinse Daniel’s thick hair. It was always hard to get all the shampoo out. During bathtime specifically, Isabel didn’t dare take her eyes off him even for a moment. She swore she never would again after the incident with her mother.

The running water grew louder by the second, echoing off the walls. Isabel crept to the bathroom. The door was closed and the lights were off, but the tub was definitely running. She gripped the doorknob with a clammy hand and slowly opened the door. Empty. The shower curtain was shut. With a shaky breath, she grasped the curtain’s edge. By now, her entire arm trembled.

She ripped the curtain open.

The tub was on the cusp of overflowing but was otherwise empty. Isabel blew out an exhale. It wasn’t quite in relief. More like release. She quickly shut off the water and flipped up the drain. Feeling superstitious, she watched the water as it gradually lowered, not leaving until it was completely empty.

All of the strangeness was supposed to be over, with the doll gone. She turned away from the tub and screamed.

Sitting in the doorway was the muñeco. Sopping wet, there was already a puddle forming underneath it. Isabel screamed again and kicked the doll as hard as she could. It hit the wall with a heavy thud. She raced out of the bathroom, toward the front door. She needed to get out.

“Oh my,” a voice cooed as she reached the front door. “We didn’t mean to cause such a stir.”

Isabel’s heart jumped all the way to her throat.

The woman from the shop. She stepped out from the kitchen, calm and smiling.

“What the hell are you doing in my home? How did you get in here?” Isabel shrieked.

“Oh, I simply would like to speak with you, Isabel.” The woman’s smile was unwavering, and much too wide given the situation. There was also something imposing, the shadow of a threat, in the undertone of her words.

“No! I’m not talking to you!” Isabel fumbled with the doorknob, unsure what she was going to do: force the woman out or maybe run straight back to the police station. But the doorknob wouldn’t budge. Panic set in as she struggled in vain.

“Now, now, let’s not get hysterical, Isabel. We are not here to hurt you.” The woman spoke softly. It could have been soothing, if this entire scenario wasn’t unhinged. “I know Daniel has been frightening you. He is quite feisty, hmm?”

Isabel froze, her hand gripping the doorknob so hard her knuckles throbbed. “What did you just say?” Slowly she released it and looked back.

The woman moved down the hall toward the bathroom and picked up the doll, pausing to gingerly adjust its hat. “I’m afraid Daniel did not want to be returned to the store. It’s only natural he would want to be here with his sister.”

“What do you mean ‘Daniel’?” Isabel took a few cautious steps toward the woman. “What are you saying?”

The woman looked up with a smile. “Your younger brother. He’s not missing. He’s right here.” She held up the doll. “Did you not recognize him?”

The room spun and Isabel wanted to vomit. Growing up with everyday superstitions and home remedies was a world away from this nightmare. She pressed her palms over her eyes. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. Even as she rationalized, she knew the spirit woman wasn’t lying. This was real. Her brother really had become the doll. “Daniel!” She rushed to grab him but the woman sidestepped her. Isabel tripped over a stray shoe and fell to her hands and knees.

“Now let’s have a conversation like adults, shall we?” Without waiting for a response, the woman continued down the hall and into the living room.

All Isabel could do was get up and follow her. The woman made herself comfortable on the couch, with the doll, Daniel, on her lap.

“Give him back,” she demanded.

The woman tilted her head to the side. “Ah, now you want him back. Are you certain? He told me all about how you threw him against the wall, tossed him in the garbage, and trapped him in the washing machine and then just now—”

“N-no…” Isabel stopped breathing.

She thought back to how she had thrown the doll, but now instead she saw Daniel slamming headfirst into the wall. She imagined him wailing inside the washing machine as she closed the lid, plunging him into pitch black for a full night. Then his scream when her foot connected with his head.

“I didn’t know!” She choked back a sob. “Oh, Daniel, I’m sorry!”

“But the part that hurt him most was how ready you were to be rid of him. The same way his mother and the Joneses threw him away.”

“But that’s not what I—” Isabel stammered, her mind racing a million miles a minute. “He wasn’t thrown away. He left the Joneses because I won custody of him.”

“Maybe so, but in his mind, he was unwanted. That is his truth.” The woman held Daniel tighter, rubbing her thumb in circles on his tiny, doll arms. Outside, the downpour started. Rain pattered against the walls and a smear of liquid dripped outside the window as Isabel’s vision blurred with tears. “I suppose he became used to it after it happened so many times. Pobrecito.”

The hot tears in Isabel’s eyes spilled over, dripping down her cheeks. The woman was so damn friendly to Daniel. Isabel remembered her excited expression, her too-wide smile. The way she mentioned the judge—like she knew more about them than she should. “What did you do to my brother?” She shouted and stormed over the couch, half tempted to yank the woman up by the neck.

The woman didn’t flinch or even break eye contact.

There was something disturbing about her smile and calm demeanor. Everything about her felt wrong from the very beginning. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

The woman clicked her tongue. “I am no witch, but a spirit. You would be surprised how many of us walk amongst you.”

“W-what did you do to my brother?” Isabel repeated, much quieter this time.

“I have done nothing with Daniel. It is the cursed muñeco you purchased. My Pablo. He gets quite lonely, but he quickly took a liking to Daniel.” She serenely smiled, like it was a good thing.

“What does that mean?”

“It seems Daniel agreed to join my Pablo inside the doll, to be friends forever.”

“He must have been tricked. There’s no way he’d agree to that.” But even so, he agreed to something, and that was Isabel’s fault. If she kept a better eye on him, none of this would have happened. She swiped her tears and paced the room. “So, it was Pablo who was trying to hurt me.”

The woman’s smile grew as if she fed off Isabel’s horror. “No, no that was Daniel.”

Isabel shook her head, about to argue, but the woman spoke over her.

“You see, Pablo enjoys finding new friends because he helps them. He exposes all of the rage and misery in them, and channels it out.” She patted the doll’s head. “So, it was Daniel doing that to you. Pablo helped him express himself, his real self. And if they stay together like this for much longer—” she trailed off still calm as could be.

“No. There has to be a way to get him out of the doll,” she whimpered. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, you say?” The woman cradled the doll. “My Pablo is only able to take the form of a doll in this plane, but his true soul is stuck in the Underworld.” Her misty eyes narrowed.

The way she held the doll like a child and described him as her Pablo. “Is he…your son?” Isabel cautiously asked.

“Mi hijo.” A tear dripped down her cheek and her voice became equal parts raspy and weepy, as if she wore down her vocal cords from crying. “Free Pablo from the Underworld and there will be no one to keep Daniel inside the doll.” As quickly as her face twisted with grief, her icy sheen of indifference returned. “Many before you have tried and perished.”

“Why did you pick me? Why do this to us?”

“You seem different,” she mused. “Perhaps you will succeed.”

“H-how am I different?”

“Your spirit has been through so much trauma. I could feel it from afar.” The woman tilted her head to the side and there was that bone-chilling smile of hers. “And yet, here you are still standing. Perhaps that resilience will get you through the Underworld.”

Isabel swallowed hard. She was so tired. She wasn’t sure how much more she could endure. How much longer she could resist the urge to give up and drown.

“It’s a fair exchange, no? Free my Pablo and earn your Daniel’s freedom.”

“He’s not my Daniel,” she whispered.

Sure, he was her baby brother, but Daniel was his own person, and Isabel wanted him to grow into someone happy, healthy, and independent. Someone who wouldn’t need to be so resilient.

But that wasn’t the point. Only a fool would try to argue with a malicious spirit. Isabel had no idea what was waiting in the Underworld, but she would much rather die than face losing her baby brother. She had more hope now than she had two hours ago. At least now she knew where he was. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful.” The woman abruptly stood.

“Wait. H-how do we do it? Get there, I mean. To the Underworld.” It sounded so ridiculous to say out loud, yet at the same time it made the veins under her flesh buzz with anxiety.

“We must perform a ritual in order to transport your soul.”

Ice chilled her spine. “My soul? But will it be able to return to my body?”

“Of course. If you survive, that is.” Still holding the doll, the woman walked past her, back into the hallway.

“Stop. Let’s do it right here,” Isabel said. “I’m ready.”

The woman softly chuckled. “Oh, you sweet child.” She paused to flash her a look that was somehow condescending and pitying all the same. “The ritual must be performed in the dark of night. Come by my shop after closing.” The woman opened the door, ignoring Isabel’s protestations and questions, except to give her a final warning. “Arrive prepared. We will be waiting.”

Isabel didn’t know how to prepare for the Underworld. All she could do was force down a sandwich and a little soup and try not to get too into her head.

Night couldn’t come soon enough. At around nine, she got in her car and drove through the torrential storm. The rain hadn’t let up all day. Visibility was low and she nearly skidded off the road, even with an abundance of caution. Thankfully, it seemed no one else wanted to drive through this. She certainly did not want to die. Not before she made it to the Underworld.

“I’m coming Daniel,” she whispered.

She parked and took a big breath before sprinting through the pouring rain. Thunder rumbled overhead and the nearby river roared. It felt like an omen to turn back, but Isabel had no other choice. She could only pray this wasn’t a terrible mistake.

By the time she made it to the door, even with her raincoat and hood, she was completely soaked. The woman waited for her with a smile. She beckoned her inside. “Buenas noches. You came.”

Of course I came. It took everything inside her not to snap, but her mother taught her the price of backtalk, and she had a feeling this spirit would surpass that tenfold.

The woman now wore a loose-fitting tunic, which was stark white against the store’s dim light. She also wore her hair down; it was surprisingly long, nearly touching her hips. Still smiling, she led Isabel deeper inside.

Rain beat against the sides of the building, and Isabel suppressed a shiver as they traversed the empty market. There were only a few lights on, shadows looming at the end of every aisle. The water dripping off her coat onto the floorboards sounded ominous and lonely. Everything felt dingier, more coated in grime than in the daylight. The emptiness somehow becoming larger than life. It reminded Isabel of when she would get sick as a child. She distinctly remembered laying in her bed between bouts of exhaustion, looking around her bedroom that suddenly seemed much wider and longer than it was supposed to be. That old, childish, feverish haze became reality.

The woman led her toward the back. The store was small, but this journey seemed to go on much longer than it should have. They passed the hanging animal piñatas that in the daylight were cute, yet Isabel swore now their beady, black eyes followed her. The wall of frozen food gave off an eerie glow and streaks of condensation dripped down the glass. Isabel hadn’t been sure what she expected coming here, or why such an ordinary place suddenly loomed with menace.

She was sick with anticipation. It was almost impossible to wrap her mind around how entering the Underworld would work—let alone understanding what it was. Hell? Purgatory? Growing up, her family used to attend Mass frequently. Superstition and religion sometimes went hand in hand when it came to praying to the saints. But none of the services ever touched upon evil dolls or missions to rescue a soul. For her own sanity, she tried not to think too hard about it. All that mattered was getting in and out, but as she followed the woman to a lone, wooden door in the back of the store, fear filled her up. A wave crashing over her head. Everything inside her begged to turn around, to leave. Run.

But she couldn’t.

Not without Daniel safe and sound in her arms.

Something scurried past. Isabel yelped, her heart hammering at the sight of a rat. The woman knelt to pick up the creature. It wasn’t a rat, but instead the muñeco. “He wants you to hold him.”

Isabel had to resist the urge to recoil. Daniel was in there after all. She took the doll and cradled it gently in her arms.

“I’m getting you out of there, Daniel,” she whispered just for him to hear. “Wait a bit longer, okay?”

The woman used a rusted key to unlock the secret door and pulled it open with a loud creak. Isabel cautiously glanced back at the empty store before following the woman down a rickety set of stairs.

Isabel clutched the doll tighter, afraid if she dropped him, he would fall between the gaps in the stairs. It was so dark, she had to be extra careful not to miss a step. As they journeyed deeper, the storm outside became muffled, replaced by endless dripping. The smell of mildew and decay grew so overwhelming it almost knocked her over, but she kept going.

Soon, but not soon enough, the full basement came into view. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating the wooden beams and crumbling brick walls. There were several shelves full of decrepit books and jars of molding goo. Isabel didn’t see the water until she heard the splash and slosh as the woman stepped into it, all the way up to her knees. The water was so dark and cloudy she thought it was the floor.

The woman treaded through the stagnated flood as if the rot staining the bottom of her tunic didn’t bother her. She turned back, motioning Isabel onward.

Isabel pressed her lips together and stepped carefully. The water was warm and slimy and made her skin crawl. Doing everything she could not to slip on the slick, algae-covered bottom, she sloshed slowly until she joined the woman in the center of the room.

In the dim light, her face looked almost blue, her long, black hair obscuring some of her features.

“Now what?” Isabel asked, voice barely above a whisper.

But the spirit didn’t respond. Instead, her face twisted and her mouth opened wide as she let out a terrible cry.

Isabel flinched as the wailing woman continued her loud weeping. Isabel considered herself a sympathetic person. When others cried, she felt bad. Sometimes it even moved her to tears, but this crying did the exact opposite. It filled her with primal dread. The hairs on her arm stood on end, and it unsettled her to her very core.

“Aguas de luna,” the woman chanted between sobs, voice high-pitched and broken. “Les pido ahora.” Tears ran down her cheeks, but they were dark and grimy like the water they both stood in. “Enseña me la razón por que lloro por toda la eternidad.” The woman’s face began changing, morphing, becoming waterlogged and grotesque.

Isabel backed away, but flinched when the doll began to jerk around in her arm. “Wha—” she looked down. The doll’s eyes blinked, almost human. Its yarn lips snapped as its mouth stretched open wide. She dropped it in the murky waters.

“No, Daniel!”

Without thinking she reached into the sludge, frantically searching for the doll. A small hand shot out from the surface and snatched the back of her neck. The grip was ice cold and bruising. Before Isabel could react, she went under. Her eyes shot open. She screamed, ready to flail, to fight the water—or spirit—trying to drown her. But she wasn’t underwater, or even wet. Gasping for air, she sat up and took in her surroundings.

She sat in the dirt surrounded by very tall grass. Mist wisped around her. It was cold and she felt it in her bones. The sky was bleak and overcast, but there was a darkness in the air making the blades of grass and distant trees look drab, not quite desaturated. More like yellowing. Decaying. As if the golden sun was muted in shadow.

The Underworld.

It wasn’t what she expected at all. It didn’t feel so much hellish—eternal fiery damnation, the place where the worm does not die—as it felt desolate. Quiet. Pure silence. She couldn’t hear the breeze rustle through the trees, or the bird’s song. She couldn’t even hear herself breathe. However, she strained her ears and finally heard a distant rush of water. The grass in front of her shifted and a head poked out from the tall blades.

For a split second she thought it was Daniel, but no. It was a little boy, yes, but his dark hair wasn’t as thick and his cheeks weren’t as full. The boy crawled out from the grass, which reached his chest when he stood. His eyes—brown, inquisitive, and punctuated by dark circles—blinked at her. He couldn’t have been much older than Daniel.

“Are you Pablo?” This was about to be much simpler than she expected. “Come on. I’m here to help you.” She reached to pick him up, but her hands went straight through him, causing him to ripple like water. “Wha—?” She drew back.

Pablo simply stared at her.

The woman mentioned freeing his soul. Maybe he was a spirit here and his soul was somewhere else. “Pablo—”

But he ignored her and scurried away.

“Wait a minute.” Isabel scrambled to her feet and chased after him down the dirt path. Just as she closed the gap between them, everything shifted.

Suddenly she was elsewhere. She took in what appeared to be a rural village. Small shacks lined a riverbank. Kids splashed around in the shallow waters where women washed clothes, and men loaded up supplies into an oxen-pulled cart. The scene reminded Isabel of faded photographs from her grandmother’s youth in Mexico.

Pablo appeared at her side. He pointed toward the kids playing on the river’s edge, fiddling with twigs and pebbles, while others were in the water, giggling and splashing around. In the center of it, a little boy clung to the edge of the bank, drawing in the mud with his finger.

He was identical to the boy next to her—Pablo. The realization made Isabel’s chest tighten. He was the same kid, yet his eyes glowed with so much life and vitality, unlike the spirit next to her.

“Is this memory yours?” she asked, though deep down she knew. He tipped his chin to acknowledge her, but didn’t talk. “Show me.”

The spirit led her to the nearest shack. Isabel followed. Inside, the dark was only lit by the bits of sunlight coming in through the gaps in the doorway and thatched ceiling. Burning herb and incense filled the air which barely masked the stench of death. She tried to cover her nose but the smells were overwhelming. It was a corpse.

“¡Mi hermano!” The woman threw herself over the still body, covered by blankets. Her brother.

Several mourners surrounded them, trying in vain to console her. Isabel couldn’t imagine what she would have done if she lost Daniel. It made her throat tighten.

The crying woman lifted her head. She was gorgeous even in the ravages of grief. Flowing, dark hair stuck to tear-stained cheeks. She was about Isabel’s age. Her bloodshot eyes upturned and cat-like, her quivering lips shaped like a heart. The longer Isabel stared, the more she realized that she had seen this woman somewhere before. An older version. The spirit from the shop who started all of this. Pablo’s mother. She fell to the floor as her wails grew louder, and everything shifted once more.

The other mourners vanished and the bed was suddenly empty. Voices spoke in quick, clipped Spanish. Isabel was only able to comprehend bits and pieces. An argument between a man and the woman. She was begging him for help now that her brother was gone. She and Pablo needed it, but the man coldly refused. She insisted they were family, but he loudly corrected her. It was her family. It was her problem.

At that moment, the fog lifted and Isabel could see the two quarrelers clearly. Wailing louder than ever, the woman lunged forward and grabbed the man’s ankle as he walked away, desperately clawing at him.

He was young, sharply dressed—a white, dress shirt with flowing, bishop sleeves and matching cravat, polished boots, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the ugly sneer curling his upper lip. This man looked as if he never carried or been responsible for anything much heavier than a silver spoon in his entire life.

“¡Él es tu hijo!” The spirit woman frantically begged him to reconsider, but he ignored her and shook his leg free. Pablo’s own father. “¡Te amo!” The spirit woman continued to declare her love with a heart-wrenching sob.

Isabel felt the desperate sincerity in those two words. But that didn’t stop him. He left without looking back, leaving the desperate woman to slam her fists on the floor and rip out her hair. She unleashed a scream that seemed to shake the world.

Isabel sank to her knees. She couldn’t help but think back to when her own father left them. He was never going to win a father-of-the-year award. Over time, he proved to be anything but dependable. He made Isabel and her mom do all the housework and always seemed to be attending business meetings that ran late. As Isabel grew older, she learned he was having affairs. Then there was the fighting. Her parents would spend hours screaming at each other, usually ending with her dad storming out of the house and her mom locking herself in the bathroom to cry. Everything became so much worse when her mother got pregnant with Daniel. It was a rough pregnancy. “Geriatric” and “dangerous” the doctors said. Her father grew more absent, and when he was around, he lashed out at the most minor inconveniences.

Isabel hoped she would finally get away from all the drama when she started university, but her mom called almost every night because she was so alone. Instead of studying and going out, Isabel felt a duty to stay in and listen to her mother weep. She still remembered how downright brutal the holidays that year were with her dad spending as much time as possible away from the house, her mom constantly calling him and leaving voicemails.

Everything shattered when their dad left on Daniel’s first birthday. Isabel was studying for finals when her mom blew up her phone. Voicemails filled with incoherent sobbing. When Isabel called her back and heard the news, she hung up the phone and instantly broke down. Not because her dad left, but because her college career was done. Her mom and Daniel needed her now. Her mother was a mess, a shell of her former self. Forgetful and neglectful, barely able to take care of herself, let alone a one-year-old Daniel. Isabel hated her dad for leaving his family and cutting off all contact. Hated her mom for giving over to her grief. But most of all, she hated them both for bringing Daniel into a world where his parents weren’t able to love him unconditionally.

From the corner of her eye, Isabel saw Pablo leave the shack, and she followed.

“Amá, Amá,” Pablo cried.

Isabel joined him at the riverbank. Night fell and the working villagers were gone.

Except for Pablo and his mother.

She sat at the river’s edge, running her fingers through the water. Her face was emotionless and she didn’t react to Pablo tugging at her dress. A sick feeling formed in the pit of Isabel’s stomach and grew by the second.

Pablo grabbed his mother’s arm, pulling harder. She blinked, as if finally realizing he was there, and simply stared at him. Pablo looked up at her with a small whine. The woman suddenly gritted her teeth, her face twisting with rage. In a swift motion, she grabbed Pablo and plunged him into the river.

Isabel screamed.

Pablo cried out and thrashed, splashing around water, but his mother held him firmly under.

“Stop!” Isabel raced to the riverbank and dove into the current. It was shockingly cold, but that didn’t slow her down. “Stop it!”

She tried to yank Pablo free, but her hands went through him. His mother didn’t stop. She didn’t even see Isabel. It was only then she realized the water didn’t ripple or splash around her. It was as if she didn’t exist. She was a spirit within this memory and there was nothing she could do to stop this from playing out.

Pablo’s panicked flailing slowed. Isabel closed her eyes, stomach churning. How could a mother do this? How could someone hold so much grief they could drown their own child? Was that why the spirit woman chose Isabel and Daniel? Because they knew what it felt like to be abandoned? Because they knew a hurt so big and painful it blocked out every bit of light? Isabel wanted to succumb to the memory, but knew she had to face it.

When she finally dared open her eyes, she was no longer outside in the river, but inside a house. Her mother’s house. The one where she grew up. The floor was cluttered with Daniel’s toys and her mom’s blankets, unfolded towels, and clothes on the couch and coffee table that had been there for weeks. Boxes of belongings her dad left crowded the walkway. Isabel remembered when her mom vowed to toss everything he touched in the trash, but the rage faded into indifference. The TV was stuck on the “Are you still watching?” screen.

Her mom and Daniel were nowhere to be seen.

The front door lock clicked and opened. Isabel saw herself, a bit younger, step inside, but it may as well have been a stranger. She was a bit slimmer, her dark hair longer and pulled up into a ponytail, and while she looked tired, her eyebags weren’t so dark and puffy. She wore a white blouse and slacks.

“I’m home.” The other Isabel kicked off her shoes with a moody groan, but she walked with a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

This was her memory. Back when she waited tables most nights. In those days, all she wanted to do was collapse in bed after a long shift, but instead she had to cook dinner and clean up any messes her mother and Daniel made throughout the day.

Oh God. No. Not this. Isabel waited with dread, knowing what was coming.

The other Isabel searched the living room. Her mom was supposed to be on the couch clad in her robe watching TV like a zombie, with Daniel on the floor playing with his toys. “Daniel? Mom?”

She listened for signs of them, but the house was quiet. Except for water running from somewhere…the bathroom.

“Mom?” The other Isabel called again and wove around boxes of junk to get to the bathroom.

Isabel didn’t want to follow her memory-self, yet it was like her legs had a mind of their own. This was the thing she had to face. She was watching herself open the bathroom door and scream.

“DANIEL!”

She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to relive it, but she had to.

There he was, sitting in water that reached his chin and was starting to overflow. His dark eyes were wide with fear. He was four then, only a year younger than now, but he looked so much smaller. She and her mom always drilled it in him to never mess with the faucet or try to climb out of the tub by himself. Their mom used to get so mad about it. So, of course he was too scared to do anything.

“Isa!” he whimpered at the sight of the other Isabel, reaching for her to help.

“Oh my god, what happened?!” she shrieked and rushed over to him, pulling him out of the tub. He gripped at her shirt for dear life, tiny fingers and toes pruned up.

Isabel saw the way he trembled, still remembered how it felt. It always enraged her, imaging how long he was in the tub. How long was he crying for help? Isabel watched herself fumble to turn off the faucet and then grab a towel to dry him off.

“Mom!” she shouted and set Daniel on the toilet seat. “Why weren’t you watching Daniel? He could’ve—” She swallowed and her face briefly twisted, she remembered wanting to scream at the top of her lungs, but only keeping it together so as not to further scare her little brother. “—gotten hurt!”

No response.

“Mom?” she called, then called again, still drying Daniel off. Then she picked him up and carried him into the hall. “MOM! THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” She barged into her bedroom and gasped. “Oh God…”

“Mama sleeping?” Daniel asked, voice soft and scratchy.

Isabel lingered at the door behind her past self, unsure if she wanted to go through, knowing she was about to see her mom laying limp in her half-made bed after taking almost an entire bottle of her antidepressants. She also knew the spirit wouldn’t let her choose.

It still chilled her to think how different that night could have been. How she almost stopped to fill up her gas tank instead of going straight home. How such a simple choice could have led to the death of Daniel and her mother. This was why her mom lost Daniel and entered into inpatient treatment, and what kickstarted Isabel’s hellish battle.

Isabel finally made it inside the bedroom. It was the one place she refused to clean, and it was as messy as she remembered. Dirty clothes all over the floor and trash bags from her mom’s halfhearted attempt to put things in order. The ceiling fan, vanity, and pictures of Isabel and Daniel on the walls were coated in dust.

“Mami, Mami.” Daniel poked at his unresponsive mother as the other Isabel pulled out her phone to call 911. She had no idea how one phone call would change everything forever.

Then everything shifted once again.

“¡MI HIJO!” The spirit woman’s cry followed.

Isabel was in the outskirts of that tiny village where Pablo was just drowned by his grieving mother. The moon turned the river surface silver. The woman wailed, guttural and panicked as she pulled up Pablo’s still, little body. Regret and grief shook her. She screamed long and painfully, dropping him back into the water. For a terrible second, Isabel couldn’t stop herself from imagining her own mother sobbing at the bathtub over Daniel, just like this. She pushed those thoughts away.

The woman clawed at her face and dripping hair. Then, after another moment, she plunged into the water, and Isabel understood what she was seeing. La Llorona. The legend of a weeping woman who drowned her own children in a fit of rage after her husband’s betrayal. Isabel heard the story over the years, mostly from her grandma, warning her to behave or else La Llorona would steal her away. Instead, La Llorona took Daniel.

“How am I supposed to set him free?” Isabel shouted, but she was alone in the dead of night. When she reached her hand beneath the water, it came away dry.

Then she staggered back on the riverbank as a corpse floated to the surface, her long, dark hair flowing along with her white dress, like a mourning veil on a wedding day. Isabel tried to grab the edge of her dress, but she fell into darkness.

Everything shifted and Isabel was back in the strange, silent field. Pablo was in the distance, standing in a rust-red river.

“Pablo?” With every step the temperature dropped and the wind picked up. Isabel almost slipped, and after she caught herself, she looked down in surprise: the path changed into stone and slick ice. Jagged obsidian replaced the tall blades of grass.

Her face and arms began to sting, like she was walking through a hailstorm, and when she looked down, she gasped. Splinters of obsidian shredded her skin. The wind was cutting into her literally. Isabel wanted to fall, to let herself become undone by this storm. This was why no one survived.

Isabel thought of Daniel. Of Pablo. Of the cycle of grief that consumed some women. She couldn’t let herself be counted among the damned. She broke into a run. Blood dribbled from all her cuts. She shielded her face as she sprinted faster. Slipped and skidded on the ice. Caught her balance. If she fell, the shards would tear her to ribbons. The freezing air burned her torn-up skin.

She had been through worse.

Growing up with a father who didn’t love her. Watching her caring mom become a shell of her former self. Dropping out of university, throwing away her personal life to take care of her mother and Daniel. Seeing the uncertainty and turmoil Daniel had to go through. Dealing with her mom’s neglect and having to pick up the pieces. If she could survive that, she could survive this. She had to.

Isabel barreled forward, the red river was within arm’s reach. Pablo was waiting for her, glowing bright and angelic. That had to be his soul.

It was almost over.

Just a bit more and she would have Daniel back.

She dove into the rusty waters without hesitation. This time it wasn’t shockingly cold, but warm, viscous, and much deeper than expected. The smell of iron filled her nostrils, her mouth. She coughed it out. This wasn’t water.

It was blood.

For a split second, panic gripped her and she almost sank under again, but she managed to tread in place. Barely. That was when she noticed several small figures floating around her, all of them face down. Dolls. Just like the muñeco that started this nightmare. Little boys and little girls, each doll different from the other in small ways—the color of their hats, their yarn hair, their clothes. Unlike the doll that trapped Daniel, these dolls’ eyes and smiles were sewn shut.

Were these the other victims? The other children corrupted by Pablo’s anger? There was no way in hell she would let Daniel be amongst them. Isabel swam through the bloody river, struggling to stay afloat. She wasn’t a strong swimmer, learning through experience at the community pool during the hot summers. Her cousin Lola taught her how to float on her back and tread. Now, the most she could do was an awkward combo of a breaststroke and a doggy paddle, but she made it work.

Every part of her wanted to hate Pablo for what he did to Daniel, but she couldn’t deny the sympathy she felt. How terrifying and devastating it was to get drowned by his own mother, the one person who was supposed to love and protect him no matter what. Isabel felt the same. She was angry, too.

Isabel saw movement from the corner of her eye.

A doll.

No, several of them. They swam straight toward her, surprisingly fast despite the thickness of the blood. She tried to move faster, but her arms and legs grew tired. The hoard of dolls closed in on her, their mouths ripping open at the seams.

One grabbed her ankle. Another her arm.

She tried to fight them off and stay afloat.

Why are you fighting? A voice sounded. Not quite a whisper, but not exactly a thought in her head either. You’re so tired. Do you truly want to keep fighting?

You never asked for any of this.

Don’t you ever wonder what your life would look like if this…burden…wasn’t forced onto you?

Daniel’s face flashed in her mind. No. He wasn’t a burden.

But he is, you admitted it yourself.

No.

More and more dolls grabbed her, pulling her down. With each one, a new voice entered her mind, urging her to give in. Her head plunged under.

And suddenly she landed on something soft. She sat up, finding herself no longer underwater, but on a long, plush couch. To her right was a floor-to-ceiling window. The night sky and city skyline greeted her. Buildings glowed like jewels dipped in starlight. Mesmerizing. She was barely able to tear her gaze away and take in the rest of her surroundings. This was an apartment. One much larger and fancier than where she lived now. It had a spacious living room with a modern, cream sofa, and it ended in a sprawling, luxurious kitchen. A glass of wine sat on the coffee table in front of her. Instinctually, she grabbed it. One sip told her this was much more expensive than the prosecco she and Lola would buy. To the left, next to the flat screen TV, was a full-length mirror with a marble stand. She couldn’t help but gawk at her reflection. She wore a black, sheath dress, her hair curled, and her overgrown bangs framed her face perfectly. For the first time in years, she wore a full face of makeup. She touched her cheek to make sure the reflection did the same.

Once upon a time, the dream was to find a good paying office job in the city. All she wanted was to make enough to afford an adventurous city lifestyle and maybe travel during her time off. Comfort. Security. Discovery. Strange things for a high school senior to want, but didn’t people long for things they never knew?

It slipped away through no fault of her own. Only, it hadn’t, had it? It was right here. She had it here. She could stay here.

There was a knock at the door and excitement filled her veins. She knew, instinctively, that she had plans—ones she was looking forward to.

“Coming,” she called and hurried for the door, looking forward to seeing—her friends? Her boyfriend? Why couldn’t she remember? But as she reached for the knob, the taste of blood filled her mouth.

It wasn’t real.

This life wasn’t real.

Suddenly she saw crimson and the rust taste on her tongue became overwhelming. She couldn’t breathe.

This was true drowning. The tsunami she always feared. She always felt as if she were barely treading water. Fought against the urge to let it happen. A dark part of her always thought it seemed tantalizingly peaceful. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she would be back in the city, living the life she lost.

But no.

She didn’t want that life. Because that life didn’t have Daniel in it.

Focusing on the distant lights above, she fought against the dolls pressing her under the surface of the river. Maybe it was dissociation, but she let her mind wander to the past where she stood in front of a yellow house in a subdivision where every lawn was perfectly trimmed in all its uniform, suburban glory. It was a far cry from the neighborhood she grew up in, full of tiny, sagging homes, unkempt lawns, and sidewalks no one wanted to be on after dark. Heart pounding and hands shaking, she rang the doorbell. A moment later, the door flew open, and there was Daniel happy and cheerful, hugging her leg.

She thought back to this day often—her first time visiting Daniel in foster care during the custody battle.

It was perhaps the first time she saw him truly happy; cheeks full and rosy, wearing a clean pair of clothes. She dwelled on the way he giggled when he took her hand and showed his bunk bed in the bedroom he shared with another little boy. That day Isabel squished onto his bottom bunk, patiently watching the games he played on the tablet. The memory was tangible this time. She wanted to take it all in. How squishy and warm Daniel felt in her arms. His smell—faintly like strawberry gummi bears and graham crackers. She wanted to commit his sweet, little bursts of laughter to memory. But she was much too anxious to fully embrace the moment. All she was able to think about was the future. It kept crossing her mind this could be her last time seeing him.

If the judge didn’t rule in her favor, Daniel would end up in the system and then what? This foster family seemed nice, but she read too many terrifying stories to be certain. How would she be able to live with herself?

She thought it again. How would she be able to live with herself if she lost him?

She tapped into a reserve of strength, and with a burst of energy, broke free from the dolls and pushed toward the surface. She thought back to going to the hospital and meeting Daniel for the first time and let that fuel her. He was all reddish, face scrunched up and eyes barely open, with a shock of black hair on his head. He was a crier too. As her mom slept, Isabel rocked Daniel to sleep, whispering, “I’m going to be there for you…always.” And that was a promise. Isabel always wanted siblings, but never expected to get a baby brother in her early twenties. No one had. But Daniel was a miracle, plain and simple. Isabel had no inkling of what would transpire between her parents and the catastrophic consequences it would have on her family, but it didn’t matter. A promise was a promise.

She pushed and kicked against the river of blood, again, and again.

She still recalled sobbing in relief when the judge rendered his verdict. The stress, paperwork, and lawyers paid off and she couldn’t have been happier. It had to be one of the best moments of her life.

It also made everything that came before it all the sweeter. Not giving in to the tsunami. Working tirelessly to get her degree and making her own life from nothing. Even though things hadn’t turned out the way she planned, it was still a beautiful life she made for herself. She was strong. She was powerful.

Black spots dotted her vision. Her head swam and her chest heaved, full of fire. She reached for the surface, but it was still far away. Too far away. She wasn’t going to make it.

But Daniel—

Her vision shifted again, now she unlocked the door of her apartment. Isabel stepped inside, setting her purse and laptop bag on the shoe bench and tossing her keys aside. She headed for the kitchen. “I’m home.”

There sitting at the table was a boy, hunched over a notebook. He looked up with a lopsided grin, revealing braces, and in an instant, Isabel recognized his dark eyes framed by even darker eyelashes. Daniel. But he was bigger, no longer the little five-year-old. Now he had to be at least ten. He still had his baby pudge and round cheeks, but his black hair was cropped much shorter. “Finally!”

“I know,” Isabel said. “Traffic.”

This was no memory, or a dream of an impossible outcome. It was a vision of the future. She was sure of it.

Isabel wanted to cry, yet her body moved without her, walking to the sink to wash her hands.

“I finished my homework, so can I play my game?” Daniel asked.

“Sure,” Isabel said. “But first you have to tell me about your day. How did you do on your math test?”

Daniel loudly groaned and leaned back in his seat, but Isabel caught his sneaky, little smile. “I got a 95—best grade out of all my friends.”

“That’s great. Good job, kiddo.” Somehow Isabel knew she spent her evenings helping him with his homework, using flashcards to drill fractions into his head until he understood. A surge of pride and awe warmed her.

This was the happy future she wanted more than anything. Seeing Daniel growing up and adjusting to life. Having the childhood he deserved. It wouldn’t be easy. Isabel could feel an ache in her feet and her eyes felt heavy, likely from a long day of work. Clearly, she was working her ass off to make ends meet, but when wasn’t she doing all that? Having Daniel with her would make all the blood, sweat, and tears worth it.

This future was possible. She would make it possible, she thought, and reached again to swim against the current.

But when she came up for air, blood filled her mouth. That didn’t matter. Not with Pablo only a few feet away. She waded through the waters of thick, slippery blood, sloshing around her and dripping off her body. He stood at the riverbank with his back to her. It was as if he didn’t expect her to make it. So many before her failed.

“Pablo!” Panting, she almost tripped over herself as she raced toward him. Without hesitation, she grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face her.

But it wasn’t Pablo. His cheeks were rounder and long eyelashes framed his dark eyes. It was Daniel.

Choking back a sob, she hugged him tight. “Thank God, I found you!”

He was eerily still, cold. Had he forgotten her already? She would have to figure that out later. First, they needed to escape. Isabel returned to the river. Not used to swimming with Daniel in her arms, she sank under fast, frantically kicking her legs to keep their heads above water.

Everything was dark, the water ice cold. Not blood. Water. A deep, grey sky floated above, with wisps of dawn’s pink and orange glow poking through. She heard cars in the distance.

Disoriented, it took a second to realize they were in the shallow river behind the shop. They were back in reality. She hoped. She dragged Daniel onto the grass and assessed his injuries. When she was sure there was nothing external, and he was breathing, she gently shook him. “Daniel. Daniel! Please wake up…”

Slowly, he blinked, the dead stare in his face fading. He peered around with a small gasp. Then his lips quivered and he burst into sobs.

“Oh Daniel, it’s okay.” She scooped him into her arms, blinking back her own tears. “You’re safe now. I promise.”

Holding him tightly and not wanting to let go ever again, she trudged up the hill to the parking lot, where her lone car still sat. Her keys were somehow still in her pocket. She buckled Daniel into the car seat—he usually fought her, crying he was too big for it, but today he gave in. Isabel grabbed a blanket from the trunk and wrapped it around him snuggly. Immediately, his eyes fluttered closed. Overcome with love and gratitude, Isabel pressed her forehead to his and let a few tears escape. Then she straightened up, grabbed her phone from where she left it in the glove compartment, and called Lola.

“Isa?” Her voice was groggy, but Isabel appreciated her cousin for picking up at an ungodly hour.

“I found him,” Isabel choked. “I found Daniel.”

To the authorities and local news station, it was a freak incident in which a five-year-old boy snuck out of his home and was found days later wandering near the river.

But Isabel knew the truth.

And she had a feeling Daniel did too, though his innocent five-year-old mind couldn’t fully comprehend how close he came to disappearing from this world. He complained about nightmares, about going underwater. At night, she let him sleep in the bed with her. For both of their peace of mind. Despite everything, he searched all over the apartment for the doll, whining it was gone. Isabel simply told him he must have lost it. She wasn’t sure if the doll even existed anymore. Surely his soul was rescued and returned to La Llorona, or else Daniel wouldn’t have returned to her.

Days before returning to work, Isabel treated Daniel to hot dogs at the park. They played Underdog on the swing. They rolled around in the grass. Isabel swung on the tiny jungle gym, struggling so much to get through the child-sized structure that Daniel ended up squealing in fits of laughter until it was time to leave. She held his hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. The park was across the bridge, which meant they passed the eerie, little mercado where everything started.

Isabel hadn’t heard from the woman—La Llorona—since that night. Not that she wanted to.

As they passed the shop, a current ran down her spine. Through the window, she saw the old woman, looking much brighter as she crouched down and spoke to a little boy. Pablo. It was a surreal sight and if Isabel didn’t know better, she would think they were a wholesome, little family.

This was the woman’s second chance. Hopefully she wouldn’t squander it. Isabel wondered if her own mother ever fantasized about having a second chance to raise Daniel. She was both devastated when CPS took him away and then furious when she discovered Isabel’s plan to fight for custody with no intention of letting her anywhere near Daniel unsupervised. Not until she was one hundred percent sober.

Isabel glanced at Daniel to make sure he was still there even though she obviously felt his hand in hers. She was going to be paranoid for a while. Last night, she woke up to make sure he was still there at least three times.

In the shop, Pablo grinned from ear to ear as he helped his mother shelve the same ugly, little dolls she saw in the Underworld. La Llorona watched Pablo, a glimmer in her eyes. Sorrow. Regret. Pride. Love. It was all entangled.

“Doll! Pablo doll!” Daniel gasped and almost broke free from Isabel’s grip.

“No!” She hoisted him into her arms. “No. No doll.”

“Wait, wait!” Daniel protested.

But Isabel kept walking. Daniel burst into a crying fit. With a soft sigh, she rubbed his back in soothing circles. After getting him back, she promised herself she would be much more patient with him. Even when things were overwhelming, she would never take him for granted ever again.

“I’ll get you something even better than a doll. I promise.”

Daniel sniffled, his lower lip, jutting out. “Fish sticks?”

Isabel laughed. “I’ll tell cousin Lola to get you fish sticks when she watches you tomorrow, okay?”

With a small smile, Daniel nodded. “Okay, Isa.”

“But for now, let’s get ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” Daniel cheered and hugged her neck.

Despite the challenges that lay ahead, Isabel had a feeling everything would be okay. Surviving the Underworld did that to a person. For the first time in a very long time, she wasn’t scared of drowning or frantically treading water. No, now she floated, calm and carefree. She had no clue where the tide was taking her, but that didn’t matter. She was done with fear.

About the author

Amber Clement is the author of Fortune’s Kiss. She’s a dreamer and gamer who lives in Northwest Indiana with a Pomchi who loves to sploot. When she's not writing, she may be spotted exploring the city in search of new inspiration. Her favorite stories are full of glitter, determined girls, and captivating villains. You can find her on Instagram at @author_amber_c and learn more about her writing at www.amberclement.com Her writing is represented by Shelly Romero at Azantian Literary Agency.