THINGS

WE SAW AT

MIDNIGHT

by Apollo Blake

~

AmazingBooks

For more from Apollo Blake,

including info about new

books, go to:

http://chaotic-array.blogspot.ca/

Copyright 2015 by Apollo

Blake. All rights reserved.

Summary: in Midnight City, a

small town with sinister

citizens, a group of teens attempt

to find love, luck, friendship,

and success amid a menagerie of

magical beings and monstrous

creatures, throughout an

anthology of exciting new short

stories.

~

This ebook is licensed for your

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book with another person,

please purchase an additional

copy for each person. Thank you

for respecting the work of this

author.

No part of this publication may

be reproduced, or stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without written

permission of the author. To

request permissions, or receive

info about review copies and

arcs, write to the author at

[e-mail]

ALSO BY

APOLLO BLAKE

~

The Lilac Jones Adventures

Night of the Dragon

Rise of the Underlings

Curse of the Sword

How I Broke Us

A Darkness So Divine

The Diamond Society (Jan

2016)

The Winter War (Jan 2016)

The Chain of Thorns (Feb 2016)

Other Titles

Souls of Salt & Seawater (Dec

2015)

Shadows (2016)

Writing As Oliver Urban

The Face of Love

For Josie,

For scary stories late at night

and eggs the next morning. For

teaching me to play video

games. For keeping my tattoo a

secret from my parents until the

end of the vacation. For always

acknowledging - and

encouraging - my oddness.

&

For Mom,

For Greek Gods and expensive

notebooks. For comfort and

comfort food. For being my

champion and my mentor. For

too-long shopping trips and

tacos on every birthday. For

teaching me to take a hit and get

up again.

~

These are the only reasons I am

here today.

Thank you for each and every

one of them.

CONTENTS

~

ALSO BY APOLLO BLAKE

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

INTRO

WELCOME TO MIDNIGHT

CITY

THE GOLDEN ECHO

A FINE DAY FOR DYING

JUST ANOTHER ORDINARY

MONDAY

CUSTOMER SATISFACTION

THE GIRL

I AM THE ROT

FOOLS

FORGET TODAY

EAT US ALIVE

NOSTALGIA

LOST

KISS THE SUN

INNER ANIMAL

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Intro

~

Thank you. Yes, you.

Whoever you are, wherever

you are. Whether you follow me
on Tumblr or Twitter, or found
me through my blog or a stupid
comment I made on Youtube. If
you stumbled across these
stories on some ebook sharing
site or found them in the Amazon

store and decided to strike out
and support a new author. How
you found my stories doesn’t
really matter to me. The fact that
you read them at all is so much
more special.

It is truly rare as an author to

be able to chase yourself off in
odd directions and write around
in circles like this something
special starts to form. More
often, we find ourselves stuck
working on stories we’ve
already planned or announced or
signed contracts for. I’m
incredibly grateful every day for
the fact that I’ve been lucky

enough as a writer to be able to
choose which stories I get to
tell, when I put them out, how,
and with which companies . . .
as little as ten years ago, this
was not possible for writers to
do. And it wouldn’t be possible
still if it weren’t for the readers
like you who breathe new life
into these stories we create. I
don’t take that for granted.

When I sat down to write

Things We Saw At Midnight my
goal was to bring to life a world
on the page that would work as a
thank you to my readers. A place
that would serve as a tribute to

all the strangeness, magic, and
odd creativity of the online
community I’ve been embraced
by. With Halloween coming up,
it made sense to go spooky, so I
tried to make it as scary, sexy,
sensitive, and funny as you all
deserve.

I’m so thankful to you all,

and I hope you enjoy the little
slice of Midnight City I’ve
served up for you. . .

Much love,

Apollo Blake.

WELCOME TO

MIDNIGHT CITY

~

People come from all over.

From Hollywood and the

Hamptons, from New York to
New Zealand. Like flies
swarming around a carcass,
drawn into the light of a heat
lamp. In the desert, under the hot
sun, under a billion blinking

stars, the city sleeps. Seductive.
Silent, and screaming all at
once.

It waits for them. It waits for

you.

We know you’re not normal.

None of us are, either.

Welcome to Midnight City.

It’s about to get weird . . .

-1-

The Golden Echo

~

This is where the golden

echo ends and the blinding dark
of reality starts. This screeching,
screaming choir of chaos and
identity. This rapture inside my
chest like the itch of my lungs
burning for air beneath the
surface of a frozen lake.

Except that’s stupid, because

there is no ice in Midnight City.
Not that things here don’t
change. You changed. I watched
it happen.

Watched as you wilted like a

flower torn from the soil too
early, withering and rotting from
the edges in, until all that was
left were dark-ringed eyes and
long, shaking fingers. Watched
while you turned pale as the
sunlight seemed to eat itself out
of you.

There is no ice in Midnight

City—but there weren’t any

ghosts like you once upon a
time, either, and now here you
are right in front of me. Do you
remember, somewhere deep
inside the darkness where you
hide, what we used to be? Who
we used to be?

I walked past Old Lady

Ellen’s place before I came here
today, to this place where we
used to lie in the dark, our arms
entwined as I leaned over you,
as I looked down into eyes so
full of light and life and laughter
and longing. And when I did, she
looked like she knew. She
looked like she knew exactly

what I was coming here to do.

And so I guess this thing

today, between me and you, is
whispered by shadows.

Do you see the world in red

through those new eyes of
yours? Wonder if you can sense
me here. Do you even know who
I am anymore? I don’t. Not
always, at least.

But hey—they always say

that being young fucks with your
sense of self-identity, don’t
they? Well it’s time to fuck with
someone else for a change. To
rip out all the poison and the

passion and the kiss of fire I still
feel when I flash back to our
bodies beneath the sheets in this
dark room that once belonged to
a boy but has become the den of
something so much more
sinister.

I am sick of everything

replaying inside my head, all of
my regrets on a constant loop.

What happened to you? Why

did it happen to you? Can you
ever be what you were before? I
guess I already know the answer
to that question is a no. I
wouldn’t be back here if I didn’t

know that. Because sometimes
living with nothing but your
happy memories is better than
trying to talk to the monster that
used to be your boyfriend.

And if you are still in there

somewhere, if you are still you
in any sense of the word—well,
I hope you understand. I hope
you understand that I loved you.
That I still love you. And that I
can’t do this anymore.

I hope you understand that I

would rather live with the
golden echo of us than whatever
it is walking around in your skin

pretending to be you. Because
more than anything, I know that
this is not you. Not you alone.
Not you in any way at all,
maybe. So I’m going in to end it.

I grip the knife tighter in my

hand and listen to the sounds of
scurrying and thudding coming
from what used to be your room.

No. That’s not you in there.

So I push the door open, and

I step inside the darkness of our
reality to claim the echo of what
we used to be all for myself.

-2-

A Fine Day For

dying

~

Old Lady Ellen knows when

you’re going to die.

She knows because the

shadows on the porch whisper
dates to her every day just after

eight o’clock am, while she sips
her tea on the porch.

You might be able to buy

your death date off of her for a
nice cuppa, if you can guess just
which blend she likes. But more
likely than not, you’re not the
type it’s right to tell—the
knowledge alone could make
you go insane—and Old Lady
Ellen will just smile and stay
silent and let you go on your
way. If she says something, it
might break you, and that would
be rude.

You’d be wrong if you

thought Old Lady Ellen always
knew things like this. The
shadows on the porch only
arrived after her husband had
that accident and ended up in the
grave.

You’d also be wrong if you

thought that Old Lady Ellen is
bitter. And besides, she doesn’t
always keep the death dates to
herself—not absolutely, at least.
She hints. She’ll bark out at
people as they pass by her
porch, “It’s a fine day for dying,
isn’t it?” And then she’ll say
something about avoiding Main
Street or eating green foods . . .

a tiny gift of a warning, which
you can take or leave as you
please—just like the biscuits she
puts out with tea every day.

But you won’t dream of

denying Old Lady Ellen’s advice
if you have half a brain. If you
have two eyes in your head to
see the gleam in her eyes and the
way the shadows move behind
her on her porch like twisted
tree limbs or the ripples in a
pond surface.

Oh, no. You should know

better than to ignore her
warnings. After all, Old Lady

Ellen knows when you’re going
to die.

-3-

Just Another

Ordinary Monday

~

It was actually just another

ordinary Monday until all the
fuss about a Griffin in the park
started up on Clover’s feed. She
sat at her computer desk,
scrolling down her newsfeed

and wondering if it was too late
to crawl back into bed . . .

“Do we have to cover this?”

she asked into the phone cradled
between her ear and shoulder.

Static burst on the other end.

“I’m already on my way,” her
boyfriend David said, his deep
voice cracking slightly over the
line. “Midnight City Madness
will eat this up.”

Clover sat back in her chair

and considered. If she did
manage to get a good story out of
it, this might be her in as a full-
time staff writer for the tiny

mystery gazette that ran in town.
She could launch an actual
career from there.

Or maybe it would be

another bust.

“What about that guy with

the swarm of bees where his
face should be who keeps
stealing lawn ornaments?” she
asked. “Or the old deer down by
the old train station with runes
carved into its antlers?”

“I’m telling you, babe, this

is the story you need. Everyone
down here is already buzzing
about the Griffin in the square.

Soon it’s gonna be all over
town. If you can write this up
before anyone else, you’ll be on
your way to the top of the ladder
at MCM.”

It was iffy, at best.

David always thought he’d

found the perfect story to launch
them to the top—her as a
reporter, himself as a
photographer—but for all the
attention any of their work had
gotten they might as well be
invisible, like the people old
lady Ellen talked to on her porch
all the time. They always

seemed like great ideas, too: a
local girl going into the woods
and coming out white-eyed and
mute; a storm of roses raining
down onto the strip-mall parking
lot; a mysterious figure hovering
high above the town water
tower.

But in the end they were all

busts. An older, more
experienced writer like Evelyn
Echoes would write an expose
on the evil depths of the yarn
section at the craft store, or the
dark entity incubating in the
janitor’s closet at the elementary
school, and Clover and David’s

piece would get pushed to the
back of the paper—if it got in at
all.

All the attention would go to

the bigger story, and they would
end up at the bottom of the
barrel again. This would be just
like every other time. And still .
. . .

“Fine.” She huffed. It was

definitely too early in the
morning for this. “I’ll be right
down. But I want coffee. And a
breakfast burrito.”

“Of course you do. I’m on

it.” He hung up.

Clover swiveled around to

stare at herself in the mirror on
her closet door. Her red hair
was a tangled mess, pale skin
worn out, and black circles
stood out under her eyes. What a
mess. She shook her head at her
reflection, closed her laptop,
and left the room to get ready for
the day.

It was going to be a long

one.

~

By the time she met David at

the park, Clover had twisted her
hair up into a messy bun,

crammed her notebook and a
ballpoint pen into her pocket,
and was dragging her twin sister
Poppy by the arm behind her.

“You’re ripping my arm out

of its socket.” Poppy told her
calmly.

Clover ignored her, keeping

a tight hold on her until she got
close enough to latch onto David
instead. She grabbed him by two
fistfuls of his jacket and pulled
him so close she could
practically taste his breath on
her lips.

“Please,” she said. “Tell me

you have coffee.”

David rolled his eyes. “In

my car, but I forgot your food.”

“Don’t care—I just need

caffeine.”

“Christ’s sake,” said Poppy.

“She’s barely holding herself
together. We ran out of instant at
the house this morning. I’ll grab
it for you, but then I’ve gotta jet
—early shift at Winston’s.” She
explained.

“Has the guy with a swarm

of bees where his face should be
come in again?” David asked as

she walked over to where his
used Malibu was parked on the
street.

“Same time every day!” she

called over her shoulder. “He’d
probably sign an autograph if
you wanted him to!”

David flipped her off and

turned to face Clover. She’d
watched the interaction between
her him and her twin with mild
interest—and she would
definitely ask Poppy some
follow-ups about the man with
the swarm of bees where his
face should be later on—but for

now the only thoughts she could
really focus on were that:

1) a giant griffin had

climbed up the monument
resembling Mayer Maxwell in
the center of the square and was
now screeching down at a
crowed of gathered onlookers,
and

2) in the absence of caffeine,

her right eyebrow had started to
twitch uncontrollably.

It wasn’t particularly

encouraging that she could
already see her rival reporter,
Evelyn Echoes, already standing

at the base of the monument,
staring up at the great big bird
creature with a look that was a
cross between annoyance and
amusement. Her dark skin shined
with sweat, and her black hair
flowed out behind her in kinky,
curly clouds, tied down at the
nape of her neck with a thick
band to keep them in place.

Evelyn Echoes wasn’t just

the best reporter in town—she
also the living echo of a storm
that broke local records around
a hundred years ago. You don’t
often get pouring rain with
thunder and lightening in the

middle of a Nevada July—when
you do, it’s sure to leave a mark.
The mark that storm left on
Midnight City was Evelyn,
waking in from the desert in
white robes, dust and dreams
flowing from her hands and her
head like rain still spilling from
the skies above.

Echoes was immortal,

impossibly professional, and the
best damn reporter in Midnight
City—and she knew it, too.

“Quit watching her, if she

sees you it will only make her
ego bigger.” David said from

her side as Poppy returned with
two paper cups clutched in her
hands. Finally!

Clover grabbed one of the

cups and downed the scalding
liquid in three seconds flat. Then
she did the same with the
second. Her mouth was instantly
on fire, but on the bright side,
she found it a bit easier to
process the shrieks of the griffin
as it swept a talon at the crowed
from above.

She stared at the creature for

a second, observing its sheer
size and the shine of its feathers

before she tossed her coffee cup
aside, righted her blouse, and
kissed her sister on the cheek.

“See ya, sucker. I’m off to

get my story.” She said, walking
away. She nudged David on the
shoulder so he knew to follow
her and then set off in the
direction of the monument.

“Love you too bitch!” Poppy

called out from behind her.
Evelyn’s head swiveled in their
direction.

Fantastic.

Clover could see the way

Evelyn’s eyes gleamed just like
those of the beast above them as
she stepped up onto the base of
the monument between Evelyn
and a local guy named Barry,
who was a clerk at the gas
station away, and also happened
to be an ancient and all-knowing
deity from an unknown
dimension. She nodded at Barry
as David squeezed in beside her,
and he gave a slight tilt of his
bald, blue-skinned head back to
her.

“Oh look! It’s our local

junior news corespondent,
Barry!” Evelyn cooed. “Clover,

I looove that bun on you! So,
how’s the high school paper
treating you?”

“I—”

She moved on before Clover

could even finish. “And if it
isn’t little my favorite little
shutterbug, David . . . uh . . . ?”

“Murad.” David supplied

helpfully.

“Of course,” Evelyn said.

“Such a beautiful Indian name.”

“It’s Arabic. I’m Pakistani.”

“Of course you are. So,

Clover! Here to get the big
scoop? Well I’m sorry to tell
you sweetheart, but it ain’t much
to see out here. Animal control’s
already on the way. Old Lady
Ellen called them after the
Griffin started pooping on
Mayor Maxwell’s head. Well,
heads.”

Clover looked up at the

telltale white stains on the
statue’s double skulls, and then
across the street to the right of
the square, at the dark shadows
swirling behind Old Lady Ellen
where she rocked on her porch

chair, steam rising from the
chipped, daisy-patterned mug
she clutched in her hands. Her
three beady black eyes met
Clover’s, and she winked at her.

Clover waved. Old Lady

Ellen used to babysit her.

“Well,” she said, turning

back to Evelyn, “I’m sure I can
find something here to write
about. Unless you’re afraid of
the competition?”

Evelyn actually laughed out

loud. “Oh, but of course not, my
young friend! Write about
whatever you want. On the

contrary—I don’t plan on
reporting this at all.” She waved
a hand up at the griffin where it
still glared at them. She said this
as if the magical being above
her was no more exciting than a
sale on secondhand shoes at the
bowling alley across town.

“What are you going to

report then?” just as Clover
spoke, Evelyn’s phone buzzed in
her hand, and her face split into
a grin that reminded Clover of
the sky spreading open before a
rare downpour.

“The comet that just hit the

hospital.” She said as she read
the screen, clearly pleased as
punch.

“What?” David sputtered.

Clover smacked him on the back
while he coughed, and looked to
Evelyn for an answer, but the
women who was nothing but the
memory of a storm was already
rushing away.

“Gotta jet!” she called back

as she raced into the street and
leapt into the sky.

Her feet left the ground, and

she was gone in a blink, like she
was part of the sky. A Sylph in

spirit and in structure.

Clover bit back a spike of

jealousy at the ability to become
one with the wind and turned
back to David, who had long-
since stopped choking. “Okay,”
she said. “We ditch the griffin,
beat that bitch to the hospital,
and strike gold on her story.
Let’s go!”

Barry reached out and

grabbed her as she turned to go,
and he didn’t have to speak to
say anything—he just showed
her, images flowing from his
mind to hers like information

streaming through a wire. She
saw a series of jagged cliffs, a
deep ravine with a river and a
twisting path at the bottom, a
narrow ledge, a gaping cave
mouth . . . .

A nest.

“The canyons!” she

exclaimed out loud, snatching
her hand back from him and
facing her boyfriend. She
wrapped her tiny hands around
the tanned skin of his wrists and
yanked him closer. “The
canyons!”

“Yes!” he shouted. “The

canyons! What about the
canyons?”

“Barry says the Griffin came

down from it’s nest because
something scared it off!
Something even bigger and
badder!”

David’s grin faded. “That

sounds . . . not fun.” He said a
little too decidedly.

Clover shrugged. “Guess

I’m going up alone. Hope I don’t
get picked up by an axe murder
while I’m walking down the
road with one thumb up, though .
. . I’m too pretty to have my face

cut off by a homicidal maniac.”

“No one,” said David, “is

too pretty to have their face cut
off by a homicidal maniac.”

“So are you driving, or am

I?”

With a sigh and a start,

David took off towards the car.
Clover clapped, shrieked loudly
enough to startle the griffin
itself, and then dove after her
boyfriend with one last wave at
Barry, Old Lady Ellen, and the
shadows that swallowed up all
the space behind her . . . .

~

The canyons started about a

mile and a half North of town,
deep ravines gouged into the
scorched, barren countryside,
forming tunnels of white and
orange rock that spread over the
desert like ripples on the surface
of calm water.

The canyon was where the

griffin kept its nest, in a cave
that was easily accessible via a
steep, narrow path that led down
and around the edge of the cliff
in a winding route. They had to
ditch the car and walk for fifteen

minutes just to get to it, and once
they were on it, they discovered
it was so narrow that they had to
squeeze one by one.

Although, Clover thought as

they went down, she had already
known it would be a tight fit.
Just like she’d known where it
would be and that it would lead
them right to the right cave. She
could still see everything Barry
had showed her in the vision
he’d given her. It had been
incredibly helpful of him, too.
Should she send him a fruit cake
for Christmas? Did ancient
deities from other worlds even

acknowledge Christmas?
Probably, she thought. Everyone
liked consumerism and
Christmas lights. Even in
Nevada. Especially in Nevada.

She ducked to avoid a chunk

of bedrock jutting out from the
side of the cliff-side, and then
she saw it. The cave stood out
like a gaping black mouth on the
side of the canyon wall, ready to
swallow them up whole and turn
them to nothing in the darkness.

Something horrible was

waiting inside. She knew that
much. She wasn’t sure she

wanted to know more.

Except that’s why we’re

here in the first place. She bit
her lip. “Let’s go slow.” She
said, and then, so she didn’t
seem like a coward, “There
could be drop-offs or something
. . . .”

“Right,” David said. He

stepped out onto the ledge
beside her. “Are you sure about
this?”

Clover stared into the mouth

of the cave, considering. She
felts like it was looking back at
her—not whatever was inside,

but the cave itself—peering into
her eyes and seeing just how
afraid she really was. She
couldn’t let it win. Not if she
wanted to out-report Evelyn and
get a staff position on an actual
paper instead of the rag that was
the Midnight City High School
Newspaper.

“Sure as I am ginger,” she

chirped. She was going for
cheerful, but her voice cracked
halfway through.

She regretted saying it

instantly as David shrugged and
stepped towards the cave. He

moved slowly, like a scared
mouse sure an owl was
watching it from above, sliding
his sneakers across the ledge
until he stood in the open mouth
of the cave.

“Huh,” he said, turning to

her. “It’s really cold inside.”

And that’s when the

darkness of the cave surged
forward behind him like a living
thing and pulled him into the
darkness.

“David!” Clover launched

herself after him into the dark so
fast she didn’t even have time to

think before she was flying into
the cold and the cobwebs,
running headfirst into the dark.
She tripped over a boulder and
went skidding across the cave
floor, shards of rock flying up
underneath her.

The stones bit into her shins,

scraped her jeans and sliced
open her legs, and she screeched
at the top of her lungs. “Fuck!”
She slammed her fist on the
ground to distract herself from
the pain, and shouted David’s
name again.

No answer.

And then: the screaming.

It was like nothing she’d

ever heard in her life—a sound
so terrible she knew she would
be able to hear it in perfect
clarity for years to come if she
ever got out of here. It would
haunt her for the rest of her life.

It was the sound of David

dying.

“David! David where are

you!”

There was another voice

screeching into the dark, then
—something inhuman and shrill.

The sound of breaking glass
come spilling out the mouth of a
living thing.

What the hell was in this

cave with them?

She should have stayed

home, should have sat around
online all day and done her
Chemistry homework and made
pasta with Poppy when she got
home from the pie house. Now
she was going to die in the dark,
listening to David shout and
scream and sob her name. She
crawled across the cave floor,
ignoring everything, focused

only on David.

“Not today,” she whispered

to herself in the dark. “Old Lady
Ellen would have fucking told
you if it was today. This is not
how you end, Clover Pike.”

She dug her fingers into the

dirt. Forced herself to her feet.

It was time to fight.

“Clover!”

She spun around. “David!”

she couldn’t see anything, but
she could stumble foreword in
the dark at the sound of his

voice. As long as she had sound,
she would be alright. She moved
forward until her foot caught on
a boulder and her ankle twisted
too far to the right.

She choked on her own cry

as she fell against the cave wall.
The impact sent a jolt through
her small frame and she forced
herself to breathe.

And then it was there.

She couldn’t explain how

she knew—just that something
deep inside her, a part of her that
was ancient and always afraid,
told her that she was being

watched.

In the darkness, she heard a

noise, soft and papery—fabric
moving, like dirty rags dragging
across the cave floor. And then
there was hot, rancid breath on
her face. It stank of
decomposition, rotting meat and
rancid eggs, like somewhere
deep inside it was rotting . . . .

Fingers ghosted across the

skin of her collarbone, just
above the collar of her shirt.
Nails long and sharp, pointed,
gliding over her skin as if they
were caressing her.

Oh god.

She held her breath and

squeezed her eyes shut. She
couldn’t hear David anymore,
couldn’t hear anything at all.

She moved back, and then—

Movement. Rock crumbled

behind her, and her eyes flew
open as she felt herself slip
further down the cave wall.
Something fell from the ceiling,
and the entire cave seemed to
shift and groan. Then, as if it had
only been waiting for the right
moment to make an entrance,
sunlight spilled in—a thick shaft

of light burst through the cave
roof directly in front of her. A
miracle blooming like a flower.
And suddenly she was alone
again. Half on the floor, in the
dim light of the cave. She was
alive.

To her right there was a

flurry of movement as something
tall and slender and dark
streaked down a now-
illuminated tunnel further down
the cave, away from the light.
And, running towards her in the
opposite direction down the
tunnel that ran parallel to it, was
David.

Bloody, covered in sweat

and dust and with thick tear
trails still shining on his face—
he let out a strangled half-cry,
half-grunt noise when he saw
her, but he didn’t stop running:
he wrapped a single hand
around her upper arm and
dragged her out of the cave.
Rocks sliced into her legs as she
stumbled, but she didn’t
complain. She just shoved
herself even faster, and they
burst from the cave like a couple
of wild animals, collapsing onto
the sunlit ledge and choking on
their own coughs and cries.

“It bit me, it bit my throat! I

could feel it’s fucking teeth
inside of my neck—” and then
she was clawing her way onto
her feet and dragging him, still
bleeding, up the steep path to the
clifftop. He needed help, and
she couldn’t check him out if that
thing could fly out and grab them
again at any second.

It was a slow, heavy, hard

trip, and she thought that at any
minute they were about to fall to
their deaths.

But they didn’t. They made

their way up and around and

back into the desert. David
collapsed in the sand, and
Clover fell over him, hands
already drawing her phone out
of her pocket. The screen was
busted.

“No!” she tossed the useless

thing away into the sand.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll just do
this myself, right? No big deal.”
She tore her shirt over her head
and pressed it against his neck.
“Hold that there.” She advised
him. He was passing out quickly.

Whatever it was hadn’t hit

his jugular—he was alive, at

least. For now.

She shoved herself under his

arms and dragged him up, letting
him lean on her back like a
human cape, arm around her
neck, head on her shoulder. She
led him back to the car,
reminding him to keep pressure
on his neck.

“Looks like we’ll get to see

that comet that hit the hospital
after all, huh?” she asked as she
shoved him into the passenger
side. She practically slid over
the hood to reach her own door
and propel herself in to start the

engine. As the car growled to
life beneath her, David mumbled
something.

“Huh?” she asked, putting it

in drive.

David mumbled again. “Just

. . . another ordinary Monday . . .
in Midnight City . . . huh?”

Clover actually burst out

laughing, even though she kind
of wanted to cry. Well hell, she
thought. We almost died, I will
probably have nightmares for
years to come, and we still don’t
have an actual story.

But yeah, all in all, it was

just another ordinary Monday in
Midnight City.

-4-

Customer

Satisfaction

~

I’ve only seen the man with

a swarm of bees where his face
should be once: he came in and
ordered a slice of apple pie.

I haven’t been working at

the diner long. Haven’t been
working long at all, for that
matter. It isn’t glamorous busting
tables to save cash on the side
for a used car. Clover just walks
everywhere—or gets Mom or
Dad or David to drive her. I’d
rather drive myself. But that
means working at least five days
a week at Winston’s, and at
Winston’s, it’s all about
customer satisfaction.

Or at least that’s what the

owner Winston used to say when
he prepped us every morning—
now he doesn’t say anything at
all. He just slides scraps of

paper out from under his office
door with ancient runes and
blueprints for torture machine
scribbled on them.

I think it means he wants us

to keep up the good work. Or for
me to keep up the good work,
specifically, since my coworker
Clive just spends all of his time
leeching the customer wifi.
Because good work keeps
customers satisfied. And when it
comes to customers themselves?
Well . . . you learn not to judge.

Toad with three heads

comes in? Serve her up a slice

of pineapple pie and compliment
her warts. Screaming phantom of
a long-dead city official wants a
milkshake in the corner booth?
Bring it as fast as you can.

A man with a swarm of bees

where his face should be?

No problemo.

You learn not to judge.

Learn to keep your mouth shut.

So when he comes in again

tonight just after six, I don’t
think much of it. I have a math
test on Wednesday and my
teacher is a tool, and I’m

thinking of running for class
president, since my only
competition is a doll named
Cynthia with dark symbols
embellished on her forehead and
the humming of a swarm of
locusts echoing out from the
hollow center of her chest. Not
to mention that the milkshake
machine is broken, and Clive is
at it again.

Clive is a really pretty

southern Paiute boy with amber-
toned skin and silky black hair
he that pulls back from his face,
and he spends most of his time
sitting at the counter on his

phone.

It’s not that Clive is lazy—

it’s just that he doesn’t have
home internet, and he’s obsessed
with photography—so whenever
he comes in he spends most of
his time browsing the web on
his cracked old phone. I try to
cut him some slack so he doesn’t
quit on me, though, since he’s the
only one who knows how to
make the pecan pie, and I can’t
afford to lose him.

“Hey,” I snap at him. He’s

sitting at the counter next to me
with his phone lit up in his lap

like usual. “Can you at least take
it in the kitchen if you’re not
going to work? Watch the pies I
have in.”

“Can’t, Poppy.” He drawls,

not looking away from his
Instagram feed. “There’s some
super gross juice or something
leaking out from under
Winston’s office door.”

“Again?”

“Least it’s not acidic this

time,” he tells me, and swivels
around on his stool. I find it sort
of sad that I actually do count
that as a blessing.

Before I can go deal with it

I’ve got bees buzzing all over in
front of me. The man with the
swarm of bees where his face
should be is standing there, his
spicy cologne filling the air
while he points with one finger
at the apple pie sitting behind
the glass display section of the
counter with a white-gloved
hand.

“One slice of classic apple

coming right up,” I tell him.
“That’s three-ninety-nine,
please.”

He hands me his cash and I

ring him up, slide back his
change and watch he takes it
silently—well, as silent as you
can be when your face is a
swath of living, buzzing insects.
He goes to the same booth he sat
in last time—the chipped one
near the door with the naughty
graffiti in it. I scoop up a slice
of pie and slip it onto a plate to
bring to him.

At his table, he sits stock

still while I set his plate and
fork down in front of him. Then
he gives me a thumbs up.

I smile, nod, and wipe my

forehead on the back of my hand
as I walk away. Back behind the
counter, I feel Clive’s eyes on
me.

“What?” I ask.

“Don’t it freak you out? That

his face is a bunch of bees?”

I think about it for a second,

then shrug. “Well,” I say. “At
least they ain’t wasps.”

-5-

The Girl

~

The girl is not what she

appears to be. She looks like she
always has. Smells like she
always has. Has the same light
brown mole right in the middle
of her chin that’s always been
there.

But she is not the same girl.

She—if it even is a she,

anymore—is something else.
Something that quivers beneath
skin and shifts out of the corner
of your eye, so fast you look
around to see she hasn’t even
moved at all. You don’t know
where your real daughter went,
but you know that this is not her.

“Mommy,” she hums. “Will

you check under the bed for
monsters?”

You ignore the rot in her

voice and kneel to look into the
narrow space beneath the bed.

The darkness is thick and empty,
and at the same time, full of
writhing, watching shadows.
You swallow and sit back up.

The girl who is not what she

appears to be smiles at you. She
knows that you know.

“There’s nothing there at all,

sweetheart.” You force out. Her
grin remains in place as she
slides beneath the covers. You
turn to go.

“Mommy? I love you.” You

look back in time to see her
close her eyes, but you know
she’s still watching you.

Slowly, you turn away again

and force one foot in front of the
other until you’re outside of the
room with the door shut behind
you. On the other side, in the
darkness, the girl waits. You do
not know where she came from.
You do not know what she
wants.

But you know that the girl is

not what she appears to be.

-6-

I Am The Rot

~

I am the rot.

I am the green flesh at the

edge of a fatal wound, I am a
writhing mass of maggots
plunging deeper into a corpse. I
am the harbinger of the true end.

I am the keeper of silence,

and I own all things, eventually .
. . I even own you.

I am the rot.

-7-

Fools

~

We are the fools who suffer

for you—you know, the ones
living inside of your basement
crawlspace? We are always
waiting. Always listening.

Always calling to you . . . .

Every noise in the night,

every echo in the back of your
mind that you want to run away
from. We are the noises coming
from down the hall, the ones
waiting in the wee hours. We
call you to us, but you never
come. And yet, here we are,
again and again and again,
beckoning, and biding our time.

We call you to us, even

though we know you won’t
come. But someday . . .
someday, you might . . . .

And until then, we are the

fools who suffer for you.

-8-

Forget Today

~

“It’s gone.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gone!”

“I gave it to that guy. God,

why are spazzing?”

“You gave it to the . . . oh . .

. oh no. No, no no no.”

“Bitch what is wrong?”

I can’t fucking deal with this

today. I looks at the empty case
still open beside me. Look at
Gwen standing above me, one
hand on her hip, other holding up
her still-smoking cigar. She’s
always smoking those disgusting
fucking cigars.

“When did you give it to

him, Gwen?”

She blinks. “Bout four hours

ago? Five? He came by and

grabbed it, said it was lucky
timing.”

“Lucky timing? Gwen!

Nobody knows about this but
you and me!”

“I know,” she says. She

takes a drag, hacks. When she’s
done coughing she goes, “But he
knew. That’s how I knew you
told him. You two fuckin’ or
something?”

I get up. Go to the mirror.

Shove inky black strands behind
my ears and dab at the sweat
beading on my tan skin with the
sleeves of my shirt.

The timepiece is gone.

Small thing, really. I found it

on the doorstep last week. More
like it found me if I’m being
honest. Had a tiny note with my
name written on it in cursive
scrawl the shame shade as my
hair.

Helen Oshiro, — love X.

It was a simple analog clock

set into a tiny oval of gold,
wound on a thin matching chain.
It had an old, clunky clasp, and
all of it was slightly tarnished,
but it was still beautiful.

When I picked it up, it

showed me things. Glorious
things.

Gold and grit, the sand

blowing at me in the breeze,
wind pulling at the hem of my
dress. An old dress—but new in
the time of the dream—like
something from a historical
movie . . . and a man. A
handsome man, with dark hair
and dark eyes and a hot touch.
A chalice. Wine? The ring on
his hand, an old sapphire that
gleamed in the low light. But
then it was bright, and I was
alone and a different man was

walking towards me through the
haze of the sun. Dark skinned
and brown-eyed. Sturdy.

“You gotta run, Helen.” He

told me.

I wanted to ask him why,

but I wasn’t in control of my
own mouth. Instead I told him,
“He can’t take what he wants
from me, Thomas. I have a plan.
You just keep yourself safe.
Don’t do anything stupid
tonight.”

“Tonight?” His eyebrows

scrunched together, then his
eyes widened in realization. He

opened his mouth—

And the vision ended. I was

slammed back into reality,
standing in the same spot on the
front step, swaying and half-
delirious. But they kept coming,
kept showing me things from
another time, another place
under the hot sun, in the waste of
the desert, all scrubland and hot
sand.

Gwen saw it happen, too.

Saw my eyes go entirely white
while we sat at the kitchen table
the next morning as another one
of the visions took me.

Afterwards I told her not to tell
anyone, to just keep her mouth
shut while I figured out what
they were trying to tell me. I
should never have roomed with
her. Theodora even said so; a
week before the day we moved
in. We were sitting on the ratty
old couch in the back room of a
frat house on the campus. It was
rush week so all the best parties
were at MCU, and we were
sitting beside that freaky doll,
Cynthia.

I had mild objections to a

high school girl attending the
same party where I’d just seen

the blue God from the Maxwell
Square gas station snorting lines
off of Old Lady Ellen’s
granddaughter’s ass. But it was
kind of hard to hear over the
sound of the locusts inside her
chest, and I was grateful for the
noise pollution, so I didn’t say
anything. Gwen was across the
room, and I didn’t want her to
hear what we were saying.

“You really don’t like her?”

Theo looked at me

sideways. Her dark skin was
dusted with gold glitter across
her cheeks, and her round hazel

eyes were lit up with energy.
“Are you kidding me?” she
looked across the room to where
Gwen was leaning on the
windowsill smoking one of her
cigars, calling down to the boys
on the lawn. “She’s white trash
in pretty packaging.”

“She’s just really laid back.

She’s fun.”

“But not the brightest. Do

whatever you want, I’m just
saying, don’t expect it to last.”

I frowned. “You really think

it won’t work out?”

“I think she’ll start to annoy

you.”

After that I started tickling

her, which turned to kissing her,
which somehow led us to doing
bong rips in the kitchen with a
girl named Tina, who spent the
entire time chanting about blood
and bones on the desert floor.
Now I wish I could go back to
that night and slap myself,
because Theo was right.

Looking at Gwen, all I want

to do is shake her by the
shoulders. I close my eyes and
try not to scream. “He must be

the one who left it here.”

“So you didn’t know him?”

“Nope.”

She pales. “Oh.”

I turn away, kick the empty

wooden case I kept the
timepiece in back beneath the
bed. Why would he want to take
it back if he left it in the first
place? Am I supposed to find it?
Find him?

“So what do we do now?”

Gwen asks. She puts her cigar
out on the door frame. We’re not

getting our safety deposit back.

“We do nothing. I have to go

to Theo’s anyway.” I grab my
phone off the desk and stride
past her. “If he comes back, kick
him in the balls and slam the
door in his face.”

“You don’t want to get the

clock back?” Gwen follows me
into the living room and drops
onto the couch. “Don’t you need
to know what the visions
mean?”

I think of the sharp lines of

my name on the note. I think of
the things the timepiece showed

me. The way it felt in my hands,
cold gold and round edges, the
same as the visions it fed me. I
think of the way I was starting to
love it. I think of the way it’s too
beautiful to be anything but a
trap.

“No.” I say. “I don’t need to

know. I need to forget.”

And I walk out the door.

-9-

Eat Us Alive

~

I have butterfly marks. Red

and blue splotches all across the
backs of my pale hands, marking
the flesh like tattoos. The
markings move sometimes.

I’m sixteen, but I feel like

something timeless.

I guess it’s because

everyone is always looking at
me like they expect me to be a
piece of art, but I’m really just a
girl. Disappointment piles on as
heavily as the years do. I spend
most of my time sneaking off to
be alone, so it’s not out of the
ordinary for me to go the old
ruins out on the edge of town.

But it is out of the ordinary

for me to find someone else
here.

I don’t think that many

people know about the ruins. I
only come here because the

Indian girl who used to live next
door took me here before she
moved to Minneapolis with her
parents. She said she found it
because she saw the sands
shifting at just the right time
while she was walking one day.

History pulsing in the

shadows like a beating heart
here. The daylight filters in
through the cracks in the stone
roof, and half of the wide hall
has sunken into the sand, but
still, you can see traces of
elegance in the old temple.

Or at least, I think it’s a

temple. There’s a statue in the
center of the room—some sort
of woman, half-swallowed by
the sand, her sculpted face
serene and still. I’ve never seen
anyone else here, and I come at
least once a week to be alone.

Yet here the girl is in front

of me. She’s turned away, facing
the wall, watching the sunbeams
shift in the hot air. Her hair is
the shame pale blonde as mine,
and we’ve got the same light
skin. I can smell her perfume
from here, something sweet, like
liquid sugar seeping into the air.
I choke on it.

“Hey,” I say.

She turns around. And the

whole world stops.

She’s wearing my face.

“Margo.” She says. Nothing

else.

I stand and stare. Am I

dreaming? Am I insane?

She steps forward and,

before I can think to try and stop
her, she runs her fingers over my
cheek. Her nails are a lot
sharper than mine. “Darling,”
she says in a singsong copy of

my own voice. “I’ve been
waiting here for you for so
long.”

“Waiting? For me?”

“ I have something to show

you,” she purrs. She takes my
hands and pulls it gently in her
direction. Her hand is cold.
“Come with me?”

Our eyes meet, and

somehow I know she’s asking
for my permission. That if I tear
my hand free and walk away,
she might let me go. She pulls on
my hand again, and I feel
something shudder deep inside

me.

I feel a pull at the center of

my chest, trying to tear me back
through the door, out of the
temple and back into town. I’m
filled with a desperate longing
to let my feet carry me out into
the light and never look back.

When I look down at our

hands entwined, I see we’re not
exact copies: her hands are
sharper, longer, bones jutting out
into sharp points beneath her
washed-out flesh. And she
doesn’t have my birthmarks. The
scarlet and cobalt stains that

paint my hands are absent on
hers. When I look into her eyes,
I see something like thirst. Like
a longing of her own she’s trying
to suppress. I want to run,
because I know somewhere
outside the light of this fire
suddenly burning between us
she’s hiding something in the
darkness that she wants to drag
me into.

“Where?” I ask. She frowns.

“Somewhere else.

Somewhere beneath the sand.”

I force my teeth not to

clatter. The cold of her hand is

seeping beneath my own skin,
and I feel like I’m cupping ice
cubes in my palm and letting
them melt. I start to go numb.

“Beneath the sand?”

She smiles. “Oh, yes.

Beneath our own feet. Down
into my den.”

She has a den. Like a snake.

“I don’t know.” I say. I tug

my hand away. She tugs it back.

I sniff, and suddenly I want

to retch—he smell of her
perfume has been replaced by

something like sewage and
rotting flesh. I found a dead
raccoon under our porch once,
and when I tried to pull it out
with the rake, its body came
apart under the pointed edge of
the tool. It must have been down
there a long time, decomposing.
Maggots spilled out of the body
along with a mess of red and
pink flesh, and the stench it
raised is like the one I smell
now.

“Ugh! What the hell is that?”

I gag as it starts to seep down
my throat. I pull my arm again,
and she lets it go to grip my

shoulders instead.

As she leans in close, the

smell starts to get stronger. “It’s
my mask,” she says mournfully.
“So much pretty flesh, but I can
only keep it on for so long. It’s
starting to spoil. If you come
down to my den you can see the
real me, can see how pretty my
bones are. How pale . . . .”

“What? Let go of me!” Her

fingers tighten on my arms and I
cry out in pain as the sharp nails
dig into my skin.

I reach out to shove her and

feel something give beneath my

hands, and suddenly her chest is
caving in on itself. Beneath her
simple white tank top, a mirror
of mine, her torso twists inward,
and blood starts to seep through
the fabric. She hisses as the stain
starts to spread.

“Oh my god!” I have to get

out of here.

“Come with me!” Her voice

sounds nothing like mine now.
It’s deep and scratchy and it
echoes in my mind even after
she stops speaking, like a record
on repeat. “I need you!”

“Why?”

“Come and see.”

I can’t stop retching, and I

want to hurl, but she’s holding
me so close. I can barely feel my
arms anymore, and my head is
swimming. “Tell me why!”

“So I can make your pretty

marks my own,” she whispers in
my ear. “So I can eat you up like
the others and add you to my
collection. So I can be free.”
She peers around me at the wide
open exit, at the sunlight
straining across the desert. “I
used to be free. Used to, but they
never come anymore. But you

came.”

I clench my teeth. “I don’t

want to come to your den.”

“I would be doing you a

favor!” she says, like she
doesn’t even hear me. “Make it
quick, make it easy. Make it feel
good. Or like nothing at all, if
that’s what you want.

“I’ll show you!” she says.

“Show you how easy it is! In
and out, just like that! Then you
can come down and stay . . . .”

Show me. I look down at the

sand beneath my feet, the tiny

grains spilling over each other.
Her feet have sunken an inch
into the sand already. I can feel
the open door behind me like
eyes on my back. All I need is
three seconds. She’s sliding her
cold hands up and down my
arms, and I see my birthmarks
starting to fade beneath her
hands, the color seeping out bit
by bit. She’s practically
vibrating beside me, and the
stench is still filling up the entire
world.

“Okay.” I say. “Show me.”

She laughs, smiles so hard

the skin starts to strain and split
at the edges of her mouth, tearing
like dry paper. Dark blood starts
to dribble down her chin, and
she runs her tongue over one of
the wounds. I can see myself
reflected in her eyes, and I know
she wants to keep me there.

Without a word, she starts to

sink into the ground. The sand
absorbs her until she’s nothing
but a face framed in the grains,
and then even that is gone. The
second she disappears entirely
my heart stops.

The second after that, I’m

running.

I spin around and as I bolt at

the door, the fact that every
single second is a chance for her
to come tearing back up blares
through my mind. I charge at the
open archway and the sunlight
on the other side.

I’m almost there when the

sand shifts beneath me and she
bursts from below the ground in
an explosion of sand and
reaching hands. Her fingers
wrap around my ankle and I
topple onto the ground, dust
filling my mouth.

Her nails cut into my skin,

and she starts to crawl over me,
dragging herself up out of the
sand. I roll around underneath
her and slam a fistful of sand
into her face. Her nose cracks
sharply under my hand and
almost instantly her blood starts
to spill into my mouth. I choke
on the thickness of it, the grit,
and turn my head to the side to
spit it out. Then I punch her in
the head as hard as I can.

She falls to the side, and I

scramble out from under her on
my back. I roll onto my stomach
and shove myself up and

forward. She moves behind me,
and I feel her reach for me. Her
fingers scrap the back of my
neck—and then I’m falling out
into the sunlight, the heat hitting
me all at once. I stumble and fall
onto my knees, coughing so hard
I almost puke as her sour blood
dribbles from my mouth.

There’s a sound behind me

like a low growl, and I look
back at her. She’s standing in the
shadows on the other side of the
arch, and she doesn’t look like
me anymore. She looks like the
sculpture, half buried in the sand
and the shadows behind her. She

meets my eyes and I can almost
feel her hunger for me.

And then she turns and

walks back into the shadows
until I can’t see her anymore at
all. Gone.

I stand up and run.

~

I have butterfly marks. Red

and blue splotches on the back
of my hands like spilled oil
pants spreading across a canvas.
I almost lost them. I almost lost
a lot more.

I don’t go to the temple

anymore. I don’t go anywhere
alone. And I don’t like to look in
the mirror now. Not if I can help
it.

There’s something I can’t

unsee in my own eyes, a thirst
that isn’t mine, a reminder of
things that I want to forget but
can’t. Things that hide in the
darkness down beneath the sand.
Things that are empty and rotting
inside. Things that don’t see the
light.

I still hear her at night,

whispering to me from the open

air of the desert. Her voice
comes from all around and from
inside my own head. I know
she’s still waiting for me out in
the desert, wearing my face and
waiting for the day she can drag
me down into her den.

Sometimes evil is a mirror

image. And once we look it in
the eyes? It can eat us alive.

-10-

Nostalgia

~

Nostalgia wears his favorite

face today, and Robert hates her
for it. She’s an exact replica of
his late mother this morning. She
walks behind dust and veils and
vanishing mirrors, a study in
mothballs and murdered
memories.

He sits at the kitchen table to

eat his breakfast, and she sits
next to him.

“Leave me alone!” he tells

her. “I’ve got nothing left to give
you.”

“No,” she says without

speaking at all. “There is always
more to give me. You are all the
same, you want to keep to
yourself what you know you
can’t. But I always find them
—the ones who skitter away. I
pluck them up and swallow them
down and then I know—I know
so many beautiful, dark things . .

. .” she sighs and sinks into her
chair. “And I know something
new today,” she says.

“No.” Robert tells her. He

scoops up a spoonful of his Fruit
Loops and looks away.

“When you were five,” she

starts.

“Shut up!”

“When you were five, you

owned a rabbit. He was small
and white and swift, and you
named him Snow for the color of
his coat.”

“You’re wrong. That’s not

real.” He grips his spoon too
tightly, sees his knuckles go
white around the silverware.
“None of this happened,” he
insists. But she knows the truth.
She always knows the truth. She
knows it better than he does, and
that’s the entire point.

“Yes, it did,” she says. “And

your father came home one day,
and he caught Snow, and he
cooked him up, and he forced
you to—”

“Shut up!” he stands so

quickly he sends his bowl flying,

milk and rainbow bits spraying
everywhere.

She watches him, for just a

moment, her face poised like the
perfect question, a scale that
could tip towards torment or
pardon at her own whim. And
then, slowly, so slowly he can
barely see it, she smiles . . . .

“That’s alright,” she says. “I

can come back later. After all,
there’s always time to
remember.”

She moves from the room

like a swath of fabric fluttering
in the wind, out of the kitchen

and down the dark hall, until she
dissipates like smoke in the still
air.

Robert sits and stares at the

mess he’s made, and he waits
for her to come back.

-11-

Lost

~

You know what happens to

the ones who get lost like you.
You know what they whisper
about behind closed doors in
town, about the ones in the
ravine and the things they do to
those who wander.

You know better than to

stop. You know better than to
beg, too.

So you walk.

Your feet hurt, and you can’t

remember if you’ve passed this
rock before, and you can’t be
sure if those skittering sounds
are the tree branches scraping
against the rock walls, or if it’s
the sound of their claws,
creeping across the cracked dirt
in the darkness behind you.

You aren’t about to risk it to

find out, either. Instead you keep
moving. You don’t stop. You

don’t think.

And you definitely don’t

admit that you’re lost. Not yet at
least. But when you do?

When you do, they’ll be

ready for you.

They’re always ready for

the lost.

-12-

Kiss The Sun

~

You know you’re supposed

to be thinking about letting him
down and leaving right now, but
all you can really focus on is
how good he tastes. His hands
tighten on your body, squeeze
your sides, pull you closer down
onto him.

For a guy who says he’s just

experimenting, he sure does love
the way you feel on top of him.

The first night you met you

thought that Aaron didn’t even
notice that you were flirting.
You’ve flirted on straight boys
before and paid for it with
punches to the head, or dirty
looks at least. But sometimes
they don’t even realize it’s
happening—can’t quite wrap
their head around it even when
it’s practically spelled out in
front of them. But exactly five
minutes after you slid out of the
party and into the yard for some

air, Aaron was sneaking out
after you and shoving you
against the wall without a word,
his fire melting into you the
minute your lips met.

You’re not supposed to fall

for closet cases. That’s the
golden fucking rule. And you
didn’t just break it: you ran over
it in your mom’s shitty old
Chevy and then dumped its
corpse off the edge of a fucking
canyon. You couldn’t help
yourself.

Or hold on to any sense of

sanity when his rough lips are

gliding across your skin, when
he holds you and whispers your
name like a prayer in the dark,
like it’s the only thing that keeps
him going.

You came here to show him

everything he has to lose. Tease
him and leave him hanging, get
out before he got his hands on
you—but now you don’t want to
leave. You don’t even care that
on Monday at school he’s going
to look at you like you don’t
know each other. That he’ll sit
on the other side of the cafeteria
with his friends and act like you
don’t even exist, even though

you’re the only thing in his head
and you both know it.

Whatever. Fuck it. You can

do it tomorrow as long as it
means you get to spend tonight
like this. When you kiss the sun,
you get burned—but sometimes
the light is all you have, even
when it’s so bright it blinds you.

So instead of doing what

you’re supposed to, you do
exactly what you’re not; you
press yourself even closer to
him, taste the salt on his lips,
moan into his mouth when he
bites your lip. Whisper, “I love

you.”

He goes still, and then he’s

sitting up, pushing you so you
slide onto the couch next to him.
Shame floods you, then anger.
He won’t even look you in the
fucking eye.

He stands up and walks

across the room. “I need some
air,” he says. He grabs his
cigarette case and lighter from
the end table and then he’s
stepping outside the screen door
of the cabin, and he’s gone. Well
fuck.

You get up and go down the

narrow hall between the
bedroom and the exterior wall to
the tiny kitchen. The overhead
bulb is blown out, so you see by
the dim glow of the oven light as
you grab a mug from beside the
sink and turn on the tap. You
should have left when you had
the chance. But you had to be a
fucking idiot and tell him you
loved him.

What the fuck is wrong with

you? Glutton for punishment,
you think as you turn off the tap
and down the water. Your phone
is on the kitchen table. Maybe
you should call Keva and ask to

meet up somewhere. She can
probably score the two of you
some free drinks if you catch her
early enough. Aaron sure as hell
isn’t going to be up for another
round tonight, and you’d rather
not sit in silence with him and
the elephant in the room. You’re
just reaching for your phone
when he starts screaming from
outside.

There a sound like a body

hitting the ground, and then
silence. Five seconds later,
when you’re halfway down the
hall, he explodes through the
screen door and slams it behind

him. He shoves the real door
closed, too, and locks it.

Something big hits it from

the other side.

“What happened?” You’re

beside him instantly. His side is
drenched in blood, and through
the torn material of his
undershirt you can see two rows
of massive bite marks beneath
his ribs. “Aaron what the hell is
out there?”

“I don’t know!” he leans

against the door, breathing
heavy. You listen, but there’s
nothing outside now. Not a

sound. “I was walking, smoking,
and I heard this noise—like
someone walking behind me. I
turned around to see who was
there, and then there was just
this thing. It lifted me right off
the fucking ground, Alex.”

“Let me see!” you shove his

hand away from the wound and
fold his shirt up over it so you
can get a closer look.

He’s bleeding bad, and the

bite marks look deep. What on
earth has teeth like these? You
prob at the edges of the wound,
and he cries out sharply. He

arches up beneath your fingers
and slams back down.

“Fuck! God, Alex, I think it

had venom or something.
Something feels really wrong—
it’s fucking stinging inside me!”
He cries out again and grabs
onto the edge of the sofa as his
body jerks in pain.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m

getting you water and
bandages.”

“Under the bathroom sink.”

You turn around and bolt

back down the hall. In the

bathroom your hands shake as
you kneel on the cold tiles, whip
open the cabinet beneath the
sink, and start rooting through all
the little boxes and bottles down
there. Come on, you think,
bandages, where are you?
You’ve just found the box when
the light flickers out overhead
and plunges you into near-total
darkness.

“Dammit!” you drop the

bandages. There’s a thud from
somewhere down the hall, then
silence. “Aaron?”

No answer.

You stand up and shove the

door open. There’s a sound like
something being dragged, and
then nothing. The oven light has
gone out too.

A ball of dread drops into

the pit of your stomach, but you
try to ignore it. You step out of
the bathroom and pad, barefoot,
to the start of the hallway. Aaron
is standing in the dark at the
other end. He doesn’t say
anything.

“Babe?” you say. He’s

nothing but an outline in the
darkness, a shadow cast by the

moonlight shining through the
living room windows behind
him.

His head starts to twist in a

way it shouldn’t.

Your heart drops out of your

chest as he moves his skull
around in a rough circle. Not
even halfway through, there’s a
sound like a crack deep inside
of him as his skull snaps, and
then he begins to scream. To
shriek.

The sound is like nothing

you’ve ever heard.

Like nothing even human.

He charges at you from the

end of the hall and plows into
your side so fast you have no
time to run, no time to think
about what’s happening. Your
head slams against the floor and
you see stars for a second. The
fall knocks him off of you and
Aaron—if this is even Aaron
anymore—slams against the
wall. For a second you’re too
stunned to move, but then you
scramble backwards with
strength you didn’t know you
had until your back hits the
coffee table.

Aaron recovers from the fall

and lunges at you, but you roll
out of the way and dive headfirst
into the bathroom, slam the door
behind you just as he knocks into
it, and it shakes in its frame. You
brace yourself against it from the
other side and shove the lock
home, trapping him outside.

You breathe.

It’s dark in here, and cold,

and you don’t know if you’re
strong enough to even move
from your spot in front of the
door. There’s a scurrying noise
on the other side, and then

silence.

You feel the back of your

aching head and your hand
comes away wet. When you try
to move to the sink to splash
some water on your face you trip
over the box of bandages you
left on the floor and fall against
the edge of the sink, knocking the
breath out of yourself. You slide
onto the floor.

Fuck. Think, you idiot!

What do you do? You look up at
the window, a thin rectangle in
the darkness. It’s too high for
you to reach. And what if the

thing that bit Aaron is still out
there?

Aaron . . . what the hell

happened to him? I think it had
venom or something, he said.
And then.

It wouldn’t be the first time

something like this had
happened. Last month after
David Murad got bit by that
thing in one of the caves down in
the canyons, he got real sick for
a week and went into a catatonic
state. Everyone thought he’d stay
in it forever for a while—but
then one morning he just

snapped out of it, went right
back to normal. No one goes up
to that cave anymore, though.

And this? This is something

else entirely. You hear the sound
of his neck snapping in your
head again and gag. Aaron isn’t
coming back. Not like David
did. Not ever.

You bite your fist as a sob

wracks through your frame and
resist the urge to scream. You
need a way out. Or help.

You hear your phone ringing,

and it’s like a heavenly choir has
descended into the dark to lift

you out of this nightmare. Your
phone! You can call for help!
Except that it’s out there, on the
kitchen table. With him.

Is he in the kitchen, or has he

gone back down the hallway? Is
he waiting for you right outside
the door?

You look at the thin slice of

wood keeping you safe from that
thing and wonder if you can
make it to the table and back in
time before he can get to you.
You look back to the window,
but you’re not getting any
smaller. It’s not an option.

You can still feel your head

bleeding, the wet heat pooling
down your neck, and everything
feels so heavy. You wish it
wasn’t so dark. Wish you could
see the sunlight. But you had
your chance at the sun, and you
blew it: you kissed him too hard,
burned each other out, and sent
him away to get bitten by a
monster. Now the light of your
mistakes is burning too bright.

You have one option. Either

you get the phone and you get
help, or you get dragged into the
dark by the thing sitting out there
in your boyfriend’s body. But

you can’t just sit here and bleed
to death.

It’s time to look into the

light, even if it blinds you.

You stand up. Open the door.

And step out.

-13-

Inner Animal

~

I wake up in the middle of

the night sometimes, and I do
things I don’t remember.

On the first morning of

summer I woke up with blood
crusted beneath my fingernails
and the dust of the desert

staining my feet. Blisters broke
open on my soles, and my mouth
was scorched like the bed of a
pond gone dry in a heat wave.
Where had I been? Who had I
seen?

And more importantly:

which holy hell had I descended
into and returned from?

It wasn’t the first time I

walked alone at night, but it was
the first time I worried I’d hurt
someone while I did it. That
didn’t stop it from happening
again.

And that morning, in the

kitchen, over eggs and bacon
and bruises forming on my arms,
my mother smiled at me like she
knew something I didn’t.

Maybe she did. Didn’t

change anything . . . .

~

Except now, standing in the

sun and the sand and the searing
light, I think maybe it could
have, if I’d asked her about it
then. Before it was too late
—before the nights where I went
out under the stars and
committed all those beautiful
sins—if she knew something

about what I had done, and she
told me, maybe I could have
stopped myself from turning into
this.

Instead, she stands beside

me now like the echo of a place
I know only from a dream. Like
something I might think I made
up entirely, if it weren’t for the
fact that she was right next to me
in front of the open holes, staring
down into the eyes of the devil
like she loves what she sees.

I stare down at the things

that crawl and shift and sink into
the darkness, at everything I’ve

done, every last one I’ve opened
up and sunk my teeth into.

She notices my expression,

and rubs my back soothingly.
“Don’t worry Sweetie,” she
says. “We all have an inner
animal. It just comes out
sometimes.”

“I suppose so.” I whisper,

more to myself than to her. She
beams.

“You cover these up, and I’ll

be waiting inside.” Her voice is
nothing but the memory of a
whisper, something turned old
and empty in the stale air. And

then she’s gone.

I cast one look at the evil

things in the holes before me, at
everything I am now written out
in red—and then I grab up the
shovel and start spooning dirt
over them. I don’t think the
woman living inside my house is
my mother anymore. But I’m not
myself anymore either, and I
can’t let anyone see what I’ve
become.

I wake up in the middle of

the night sometimes, and I do
things I can’t remember. But it’s
okay. After all: don’t we all

have an inner animal that needs
to come out sometimes?

Acknowledgments

~

The first person I need to

thank is Josie. I know this book
is partly dedicated to her, but I
would not know how to tell a
decent scary story without her
and the many nights she spent
sitting up with my brother and I,
trying to freak us out over tales
of ghosts and goblins.

Big thanks are also in store

for my brother Brandon, and my
cousin, Amelia. These two have
told me scary stories, tricked me
into thinking ghosts were
chasing after me, and, on one
occasion, ditched me in the back
of a haunted house to run
screaming for our parents
because of a supposed ghost
lurking in the kitchen when we
went to get snacks. Thanks,
Brandon. Brother of the year.
But seriously—some of my most
frightening experiences have
been with these two. Thanks for
all the screams, bitches.

I’ve had many amazing

English teachers over the years,
but as always, Angie Cameron
and Lisa Stout deserve all the
extra thanks. Your input,
guidance, and good-humor have
made all the difference in my
words and my work. Thank you.

K.M. Montemayor and

Heather Crews are each a
blessing. Thank you for blurbs,
sharing bookish interests, and
being genuinely awesome
authors.

The story The Girl would

not exist without my younger

cousin Bradley and his general
aura of creepiness; this is the
seven year-old who can be
found watching Nightmare on
Elm Street alone in the dark at
1am. My paranoia over his
obviously evil nature inspired
the infant impostor.

Pieces like I Am The Rot

were born by my experiences
writing songs and poetry, which
I would not have done without
the encouragement of my best
friend Kuma, who is all things
great and good in this world—
and who probably won’t read
this, because she hates all things

horror. A gaping personality
flaw, but one I can forgive her
for, since she’s just that
awesome. (And because I will
convince her to watch the
Scream franchise with me
someday, one way or another. .
.)

My aunt Michelle deserves

all the awards for a million
things, including cooking me
dinner and buying me smoke
while I wrote this book—but
most importantly of all, she’s the
one who regularly screams my
name at the top of her lungs for
no reason when I least expect it,

just to see the look on my face.
Thanks for teaching me the true
meaning or terror, auntie.

This book was written for

my online friends, readers, and
supporters, and none have been
more supportive than
Magdalena, Anna
(sufficientlyqueer), Jessica,
Kady, Blue (pussyllanimou-s),
Rachel (uni-bot3000), Lindsay,
Leann (virgoismyjam), Maheen
(d-nt-stop-b3lieving), and,
pretentiousnitwit.

Everyone on Goodreads,

from Wart to Nenia to Natalie to

Erica—I appreciate all of you in
your book nerd glory.

And finally, thank you.

Thank you for picking up this
book. Thank you for turning
these pages. Thank you for
letting me be your wordsmith.

You make all the magic

happen.

ABOUT THE

AUTHOR

~

Apollo Blake is the

Pseudonym of Oliver Urban—a
Canadian author, artist, blogger,
and advocate who lives and
studies in New Brunswick.
Urban is the author of The Lilac
Jones Adventures, Things We
Saw At midnight, and the
upcoming Souls of Salt &

Seawater. He’s also the founder
of Diverse Tomes—a group
dedicated to discussing and
encouraging diversity in teen-
oriented media.

Oliver is always early, he

double-knots his shoelaces,
drinks too much Red Bull for his
own good, and he has a coffee
addiction he can’t kick. He
draws on every piece of paper
he can get his hands on (even
when he’s not supposed to) and
you can usually find him on the
couch with a trashy paranormal
romance and a cat on his lap.

For info about arcs and

review copies, or to request an
interview, blurb, or blog feature,
you can contact him at:
[e-mail] or
shoot him an ask on his official
blog at
http://apolloblake.tumblr.com/
to get a speedier response.