Blue Cookies Marijuana Strain Information Weedmaps

I actually cut out a lot yet this is still on the long side, so be warned. Sorry in advance.
SECTION ONE: ASSETS AND DEBT
Retirement Balance: ~$4,740. $4,450 in a Roth IRA I opened when I turned 26. I just recently started contributing more to it regularly. I was previously focused on building my emergency savings up. My last job didn’t offer retirement until the very end of my time there, and there was no employer match. I contributed the bare minimum to my 401k; it has about $300 in it. With my current job, retirement match is factored into the salary.
Equity: $0. Not a home owner.
Savings account balance: $15,765. $1,150 in a Chase savings account, $13,519 in a HYSA, $1,046 in my Qapital account. Technically I use Qapital to save for taxes, but I know I won’t owe anywhere close to $1,000 since my 2020 freelancing was infrequent. I doubt it’ll even be up to $250.
Checking account balance: $2,227 (payday was today!)
Credit card debt: $0. I use my credit card like a debit card so I can rack up cash back. I pay it off every day.
Student loan debt: $21,417. I graduated in 2015 with a BA in French and English. Original debt was ~$33,000. Before the pandemic my interest was 4.5%. Interest is now 0%.
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SECTION TWO: INCOME PROGRESSION2015-2016 - $15/hr as a remote intern for a major website. This was my first paid position out of college. I learned a lot about web content and writing for online audiences. This was part-time at 25 hours a week.
2016 - $2,700/month as a Content Writer. I created scripts and training materials for various companies to train their employees. Started this job in March and was unexpectedly laid off in December. Sucked at the time but turns out it was a blessing in disguise...The work was soulless and I didn’t like it.
2017 - ~$850/month stipend as an Americorps VISTA. At the start of the year I got a Development position at a nonprofit I volunteered at, hoping to gain grant writing experience. I absolutely would NOT have done this had I not been living at home. I also collected an additional $400 a month in unemployment until July since I was technically a federal volunteer, not an employee, therefore still eligible for benefits.
2017 - $37,000/year as a Development Coordinator, primarily writing grants. The person in this position left and I was asked to step in. I didn’t get my ed stipend since I ended my VISTA year 5 months early.
2018 - $38,250/year - COL raise.
2019 - $43,000/year then $45,000. I was promoted to manager.
2020 - $47,000/year - COL raise.
2020 - $60,000/year. I had been job hunting hard when COVID hit and I subsequently became discouraged. I was desperate to leave my job...the people I worked with were wonderful but I felt like my growth was stifled, the amount of staff turnover was draining, and our pay was below market rate. I ended up finding my new job through my network. I was very excited to not work in fundraising anymore. The events of 2020 confirmed that I didn’t want to make a career out of coaxing rich white folks to relinquish a tiny amount of their wealth to support youth of color. My now-boss and I talked extensively over Zoom before I received my offer letter in July. It’s been a great learning opportunity, even though starting a new job remotely is strange and sometimes lonely. Having a cat helps :)
Main Job Monthly Take Home**:** $3,846. This is after $50 is deducted for Vision, Dental, Medical.
Side Gig Monthly Take Home: $100-$400. I write product guides for a website sometimes. These days I only take on work if I’m anticipating new expenses that month. This income is in addition to my 60k salary, since what I make from my side hustle varies. Last year I made $2,200, the year before it was over $5,000.
Other: ~$250/year in cash back from my credit card
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SECTION THREE: EXPENSES
Rent: $1,025 in a decently-sized studio that I share with my cat. Rent encompasses all utilities, including internet. This is dropping down to $975 starting April 1 - yay!
Renters Insurance: $5
Savings (monthly unless it says otherwise): ~$300 goes into a High Yield Savings Account. I automate $50 a week then throw in an extra $100 - $200, depending on the month.
I save $80 - $120 with the Qapital app. I got it before they started charging so my account is free.
Retirement contribution: $315- $415 into a Roth IRA. Maybe I should up payments so I can max it out, really torn between that or boosting student loan payments. I throw an extra hundred dollars in there some months.
Debt payments: All I have is federal student loan debt. Since starting my job in July I’ve been paying $500/month, throwing in extra when I have it. I’m going to increase this to $600/month starting in February. Would love to have it paid off by the time I’m 30, or during my 30th year. I’m not holding my breath for student loan forgiveness, but if it starts to seem like a real possibility then I’ll cut back on payments.
Donations: $300 to my mom and dad. I come from a working-class background and make more than both parents combined. My dad was unemployed for a while, and as I write this has become unemployed again. I worry a lot about my folks financially. In our culture it’s expected that we take care of our parents as they age, so there’s that component too.
Also $25 to a local nonprofit. $9 to a local theater company for which I’m a board member. Our board is very low-key and not a fundraising one.
Then usually ~$500 more throughout the year for various causes.
Electric: Included in rent.
Wifi/Cable/Landline: Included in rent.
Cellphone: $43
Subscriptions: ~$63. $18 for Patreon, $10.89 for Spotify Premium, $16.34 for HBOMax, $7.62 for Disney+, $9.71 for Netflix.
Pet expenses: I spend roughly $80 on food + probiotics and $20 on litter, which I buy in bulk. The monthly amount really fluctuates though. I’ve spent about $1,500 on my cat since I adopted her in October. Including getting basic stuff like a litter box, a cat tree, toys, food/water bowls, a carrier, etc. along with the adoption fee. I took her to the vet earlier last month and that was $450. She was vomiting frequently :(
Car payment / insurance: $0. Car free, baby.
Therapy: $100
Paid hobbies: $120 annually for my personal website.
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FINANCIAL BACKGROUND
Was there an expectation for you to attend higher education? Did you participate in any form of higher education? If yes, how did you pay for it?
Yes. I’m a child of immigrants and we place a high premium on education. Skipping college was never an option. Luckily, I’ve always done well in school and would have gone to college regardless. I think about grad school sometimes but there has to be a good ROI. Maybe one day. I borrowed 33k in student loans for undergrad, which isn’t that bad considering that I went to a private school that cost $200,000 over 4 years. I paid for the rest with work study, along with merit-based and need-based scholarships.
Growing up, what kind of conversations did you have about money? Did your parent/guardian(s) educate you about finances?
We didn’t discuss finances too often. I did get an allowance when I was younger and paid for the things I wanted (mostly books and CDs from my local Borders) by saving that money. My parents always had the mindset that credit cards can work as emergency funds...as an adult I strongly oppose that way of thinking. My parents accrued a lot of credit card debt and I never wanted that to be me. Which is why I only use my CC now as a debit card. I never put anything on there that I can’t pay off in full.
What was your first job and why did you get it?
I was in this program where teens get paid to participate in arts programs. I did theater for three years in HS, I think the stipend was ~$400 every two months. My first real job with wages was working retail the summer before college. I was making $8.25/hr. Both jobs were for spending money.
Did you worry about money growing up?
I didn’t worry necessarily, but I was aware that there were people with more than us. My mom was out of work for a few years due to some chronic pain and we had a Link card then. I had free/reduced lunch growing up and got fee waivers for all of my college apps. I was also aware of my privilege as an American citizen. My parents regularly sent money home to poorer family members. I learned early that it’s better to be working class here than it is over there.
Do you worry about money now?
Yes. I know I’m luckier than many. But I also have no generational wealth to inherit. Sometimes I feel really behind when I see people my age or younger with six figures in their retirement, $50,000 in stocks, or money passed down from family. I worry most about taking care of my parents in old age. I have an older brother so it’s a relief that we can at least share costs, when the time comes.
At what age did you become financially responsible for yourself and do you have a financial safety net?
I became 100% financially responsible when I moved out at age 25. Before then I was contributing $400/month towards rent. If I fell on really hard times I could probably move in with my folks, but otherwise I'm my own safety net.
Do you or have you ever received passive or inherited income? If yes, please explain.
My mom cashed out an $800 savings bond for spending money when I studied abroad in college, but otherwise nope.
Day 1 - Wednesday
morning
Another dreary January day. It’s been consistently snowing for the past two days and very overcast to boot. I spend some time lazing in bed until my Mom unexpectedly calls to ask me if I can print out her worker’s comp form to see if she'll qualify for any. She contracted COVID from her job a few weeks ago and, thankfully, is recovering. I tell her I don’t have a printer and hang up, slightly annoyed, after telling her I’ll print it from the library later. This was the 4th day in a row of her calling me and conversations with her can be hard to cut short (I’m not an asshole, honest).
I get up and feed my cat, E., her breakfast with a probiotic, take my gummy vitamins, and get ready for the day (brush teeth, moisturize face and hair, put on black skinny jeans and a navy and white speckled sweater with hoop earrings). I throw some sliced bananas, kale, frozen blueberries, honey, almond milk, and ginger into the blender for a smoothie. Once that’s poured into a glass I take a seat at my corner desk to begin my work day.
Afternoon
My foul mood lingers but I work through it. There’s a big deadline coming up soon so my days have been pretty full. E. climbs into my lap while I work and I give her some head rubs. I adopted her 4 months ago. There was a learning curve for me, as someone who grew up with 0 pets, but E.’s made it very worthwhile. She only recently began to "loaf" in my lap and I love it, even during inopportune moments like Zoom meetings.
Lunchtime! Today it’s tomato basil soup I made over the weekend with open-faced grilled cheese on french bread. The bread is getting stale but it’s almost finished anyhow, and slathering it with cheese and butter works wonders. I put out the kitty’s lunch, too. E. eats some of it then jumps into my bed, curling up for a midday nap. Wish I could do the same. Sigh.
I buckle down and get back to work, now doing somewhat-tedious data entry. After about an hour and a half I decide to walk to the library to print my mom’s forms. I order a Toasted White Hot Chocolate with almond milk from Starbucks ($4.60) so I have something warm to drink on my walk. I’m not a coffee drinker because of my caffeine sensitivity. Sometimes even a mug of black tea will make me lightheaded if I drink it too fast!
Evening
Work day is over. I outline my to-do list for tomorrow and cross off the things I accomplished today. My Dad is downstairs to pick up the forms I printed for my mom. After dropping off the forms I change into comfy clothes and assign myself a freelance assignment. I’m applying for a weekend writing workshop next month that will cost $300. I may not get in, but in case I do, I want to be prepared! The fun thing about my freelancing is that I get to choose the topics I want to write about. I select an assignment on skincare products.
Time to make breakfast for dinner: smashed fingerling potatoes with sauteed bell pepper, red onion, and broccoli topped with a fried egg and half an avocado. Seasoned with Lawry's and drizzled with sriracha. I get cozy on my loveseat to eat dinner. I also send an email to a man I've been corresponding with daily, D, for the last month and a half. We met out of the blue on an online forum - not Reddit - and have been enjoying each other's online company :) I'm not rushing to label anything, especially since he lives a state away. We're just seeing where things go for now.
For the rest of the evening I read my book while E. sleeps curled up next to me and Wendy Williams plays on TV. Then I get into my nighttime routine: smoke from my one hitter, put on some music and hop in the shower, where I also wash my face. Out the shower, I lotion up with shea butter and rub a gentle toner on my face. I make a mental note to re-up on weed soon. It's taxed to hell (welcome to Cook County. They tax everything here) but at least it's stimulating the local economy. I floss and brush my teeth before getting under the covers.
TOTAL: $4.60
Day 2 - Thursday
Morning
My body naturally wakes me up around 7:30. I remain in bed, mostly browsing Reddit on my phone, before committing to getting out of bed. I feed E. her breakfast and daily probiotic, take gummy vitamins and clean the last of my dishes from the night before. The sun pours through my south-facing windows and my heart sings - yesss, let there be light! I brush my teeth, moisturize my hair with coconut oil and moisturize my face. I pick out a black ribbed turtleneck and black high-waist jeans to wear, but ultimately decide to rock my loungewear until I have to leave my apartment.
I make a smoothie with the other avocado half from last night, frozen mango chunks, the last of my frozen blueberries, ginger, almond milk, and honey. I highly recommend avocados in smoothies. The creamy texture is to die for! I log into my work email and have a couple fires to put out. While I work, I polish off the rest of my Vitner’s Crunchy Kurls. IYKYK. I also reply to my email from D. this morning. Yesterday we were both in bad moods but this morning we’re doing better, mood wise. We talk about how rough our Januaries were - with my mom recovering from COVID and his dad in the hospital since the beginning of the year - and how we deserve a nice treat for getting through the month. We agree that lifetime supplies of books (for me) and movies (for him) would be fitting.
afternoon
My morning was full speed ahead but things are slowing down so I pause to read a Money Diary on here. I so admire this diarist’s conviction in language learning/maintenance! My French is dans la poubelle because I haven’t kept up in a long time. For a while I’d do Duolingo, watch French-language movies and shows on Netflix, and book trips to Francophone cities so I could practice speaking (last trip was Montreal in December 2018). When COVID blows over I want to go to Martinique. I remind myself to check out some French-language films soon. I’m open to any recommendations, especially media that focuses on Francophones outside of France, or those from immigrant communities :)
I return to my data entry task. Giving away grants is fun. Tracking dollar amounts and grantee info with excel formulas, less so. I finish up the last of my soup and grilled cheese sandwich and give E. her lunch. I put on the student loan episode of Patriot Act as I eat. I’d truly be wowed if student loan forgiveness actually came to fruition. It’s either somewhat likely or not likely at all, depending on who you ask.
Post-lunch, I’m craving cupcakes bad. Did I mention I have an unrelenting sweet tooth? I look up cupcakes near me and mentally bribe myself with a cupcake order if I get my work done.
evening
My cupcake craving has subsided. I'll see how I'm feeling tomorrow. I normally eat dinner around 7 or 8pm but opt for an early dinner today: my leftover Mongolian Beef and peapod tips in garlic sauce, yum. I ordered Chinese takeout on Sunday. While my rice cooks, I bundle up for a trip to Walgreens. When I'm there I get a big thing of Dawn dish soap, some antibacterial wipes that are on sale, a bag of roasted cashews, a Reese's Fast Break bar, and a small bag of Pirate's Booty ($16.83).
By the time I get back my rice is nearly finished. My sink has some dirty dishes, so I wash those before reheating the Mongolian beef and peapod tips on my stove top. I'm one of those weirdos without a microwave… don't miss it at all though. I dig into my leftovers and reply to a message from D. which is quite imaginative. In the sexual sense ;) D. has a very sensual way with words and as a writer of course I'm into it. I go back for seconds, finishing the rest of my takeout leftovers. After dinner and some more reddit browsing I do my evening shower routine. At 10:30 pm my upstairs neighbor is annoyingly doing jumping jacks (that’s what it sounds like) or something that makes it very hard to focus. Ugh.
TOTAL: $16.83
DAY 3 - Friday
MorningI fell asleep unexpectedly and woke up around 2am. This kind of thing happens a lot. I guess my cat has adapted too, she’s always bugging me for food in the early morning hours. I feed my cat, brush my teeth, crawl back into bed and fall asleep an hour or so later.
I’m up again at 7:30, laying in bed before officially getting up. My mom calls me and I remember I promised to order her a Lyft to work. Her workplace has the COVID vaccine and she’s going to get the first dosage. She mentions that some symptoms are coming back - like shortness of breath, which she didn’t even have the first time - even though she’s been on the mend for the past week and just got the go-ahead from her doctor to work again. After I order my mom the Lyft ($31.46 incl. tip) I indulge in my nasty habit of googling medical stuff. I find an article about a woman who ended up in the hospital unexpectedly, 5 MONTHS after getting symptoms. Cue cortisol levels going up. I also have a work meeting this morning that I’m nervous about, having never led it alone before.
I get out of bed, feed my cat her breakfast + probiotic, take gummy vitamins, and get dressed with a black turtleneck, black jeans, and small hoop earrings. I try to breathe and remind myself that all will be fine. I have a habit of catastrophizing and generally thinking in worst-case scenarios, if that wasn’t already obvious. My meeting ends up going perfectly fine though, and my mom texts me later to say she took the train home (my Dad needed the car for work this morning). She is feeling fine for now. Since I skipped my morning smoothie I make one now with pear, kale, frozen strawberries, almond milk and honey. Eh, I’ve had better. But it’s drinkable.
afternoon
My morning flew! I’m running low on food so for lunch, I throw some crinkle cut fries in the oven. Grab an avocado, red onion, and a roma tomato from the fridge to make a quick guac. I also make a side of sriracha mayo.
Today is payday. It’s my rent paycheck so I’m not as excited tho. While my fries are in the oven I move some money to my Roth IRA. I watch one of my favorite Youtubers, King of Reads, while I eat my lunch. He has an interesting take on Gamestop Gate and basically says, abolish all this stock market shit. I do think there are a lot of evils in American capitalism, which was literally built off the backs of s colonized peoples. Like is this system even for us?
After lunch I get back to work. I also do something I seldom do: order groceries off Instacart. The anxiety of the day has drained me and I don’t feel like lugging a bunch of groceries home. Plus, the store I order from is cheaper than the one closest to me. I get some jasmine rice, a family pack of Nongshim ramen, green onions, carrots, zucchini, sirloin steak, ginger root, yellow onions, chili paste, bell peppers, white mushrooms, yellow squash, bok choy, kombucha, bamboo skewers, grape tomatoes, a bottle of Apothic Red and some hazelnut cookies. Add $10 for tip ($74.48). I do walk to the local grocery store anyway to 1) get some fresh air while it’s still daylight and 2) pick up smoothie ingredients. From there I get a big bag of frozen mixed berries, frozen mango chunks, an avocado, three bananas, almond milk, coconut sparkling water, and a sweet Belgian waffle ($18.15).
Evening
I knock out the last of my work tasks just in time for teletherapy at 5:10. I love my therapist. Been seeing her for going on three years and she’s changed my life. We talk and I feel lighter, remembering the progress I’ve made since I first walked into her office crying in 2018. After we hang up I get an email receipt for the cost, which is accounted for in monthly expenses. I put away my instacart delivery and message a bit more with D. Even though we’re just emailing, I truly enjoy his company. He makes me feel incredibly attractive and soft.
Glass of red wine in one hand, I play with E. for 15 minutes. Despite her age (over 10) she’s spry and will bug the hell out of me to indulge her. I spend the rest of the evening on the couch decompressing with my wine. I do my nightly shower routine but skip the weed because I know it'll make me fall asleep ASAP. Then I fry up the rest of my breakfast for dinner ingredients (minus avocado and egg) and eat them with sriracha.
TOTAL: $124.09
DAY 4 - Saturday
morning
Oops. Fell asleep and woke up at an odd hour. Again. Go brush my teeth and floss. My kitty is very awake and bugging me for attention so I smoke, play with her a bit, and go back to sleep.
Wake up a few hours later. I hear the unmistakable retching of my cat throwing up. Maybe she went too long without food...I mop up the small puddle with paper towels and spray my rug liberally with Nature's Miracle. When I feed E. her breakfast + probiotic she keeps it all down. I take gummy vitamins and get back into bed. From my phone, I go to my local dispensary's website to place an order for pick up, ultimately choosing a strain I've had before that's on sale. I log into my checking account to transfer money to my mom (accounted for in monthly expenses).
Actually get out of bed for real around 9:45am. Scoop E.’s litter box and prepare to get some freelance work done. I make a mango, pear and avocado smoothie with almond milk and honey and sit down to work. Girls plays in the background. I never watched this show when it was popular and was surprised by how funny it is (albeit problematic for a number of reasons).
Afternoon
Snack break! I brew some black tea and have it with the hazelnut cookies I got yesterday. 90 minutes later, once I’m two-thirds through my assignment, I make actual lunch: ramen noodles spruced up with minced garlic and ginger, scallion whites, bok choy, and mushrooms. All topped with scallion greens. Easy and d e l i c i o u s. There’s another snowstorm, urgh. I’m walking to pick up my weed and from my window, it doesn’t look too bad right now. Preorder a Honey Citrus Mint from Starbucks for the long walk ($3.27) and bundle up. It’s an hour round trip but I love walking and don’t really work out so...I take my exercise where I can get it. Stop by the ATM to withdraw cash for flower ($70). On my way back from picking up I indulge in a carrot cake slice from a popular bakery in the area. ($8.13 incl. tip). Okay, I’m set on sweets for awhile. For now :)
Evening
I finally wrap up my freelance assignment and share it with my editor. Shower time. Take a hit from my one hitter and do my nightly routine. Once finished, I change my mind on dinner. I’d originally planned to make a quick "bibimbap" (air quotes because it's very much a knock off) and even steamed rice ahead of time, but carrot cake is sounding good right now. Carrot cake it is! I have some more hazelnut cookies for a well-balanced meal. Give the kitty her dinner and fall asleep with the TV on.
TOTAL: $81.40
DAY 5 - Sunday
Morning
Woke up at an odd hour again. (around 4 am). E. is being a butt once again so I feed her an early breakfast with her probiotic. Brush my teeth, floss, and go back to sleep for a few hours. Get up and out of bed for real around 9:30 and clean up a bit, doing one load of laundry and vacuuming my rug and floors. I finally cook and eat the bibimbap meant for yesterday (minus the egg). I have a virtual date with a college friend I haven’t spoken to in a while, so we spend a few hours catching up! My friendship with her is ever-evolving. She was someone I put on a pedestal for a long time, until she disappointed me when I really needed her and hurt me deeply. I’ve worked to let go of that resentment and remind myself that 1) she is very much human, 2) she is not a better person than I am and 3) I can’t expect everyone to have the same heart that I have. Tough but necessary lessons to learn.
Afternoon
I really should deep clean E’s litter box today but ehhhh, not feeling it. I clean my bathtub, bathroom sink and mirror instead and wipe down some surfaces. I also sip some red wine blended with frozen strawberries (10/10, would recommend!) and start meal prepping for later. I’m making suya - West African meat skewers - so I thinly slice my sirloin steak while it’s semi-frozen and refrigerate the rest to fully defrost. I also chop up more garlic, ginger, bok choy, mushrooms, and scallions for ramen later. I know I’m going to get high very soon and won’t want to do too much, so I’m doing what future high-me will thank me for. Light an oudh incense stick, reply to a message from D., and submit my $250 invoice for freelance work. Put food out for E.
The snow is still pouring in from yesterday. Maybe we’ll get those 10 inches of snow after all. I smoke a bit and cook the same ramen as yesterday but add a fried egg and some sesame oil. I inhale the whole thing and drink all the broth, either it's really this amazing or I'm just stoned. For dessert, I brew black tea and have it with the rest of my hazelnut cookies.
evening
Shower routine time! As much as I hate cleaning the bathtub, that first shower afterwards is the best. Wash my hair with Aussie Moist conditioner (I keep my hair very short and cut it myself) and moisturize with copious coconut oil. Listen to one of my favorite podcasts while in the shower, Say Your Mind with Kelechi Okafor. I love listening to her and her brother’s banter, it feels like I'm among friends.
I've been eating throughout the day so I'm not too hungry come dinner time. I have some crinkle cut fries with sriracha mayo and crack open a kombucha. Rewatch more old episodes of Girls. Why is Adam Driver so attractive to me, even if his character on the show is awful (they're all awful, really)?
TOTAL: $0
Day 6 - Monday
morning
Odd sleep hours strike again! I should mention that I also brush my teeth while I’m in the shower, lest you think I brush once a day only :) Take gummy vitamins and give my nagging E. her early morning meal after playing with her a bit. Scroll on Reddit until I fall back asleep.
Get up and start the day for real at 8:40. Clean a few dirty dishes from last night and give E. breakfast, round #2 with her probiotic. Brush my teeth moisturize my hair, and choose an oatmeal, knee-length knit dress to wear with small hoop earrings. I make a smoothie with a navel orange, some frozen strawberries, frozen banana that I almost forgot about, and almond milk. It’s February now. Happy Black History/Present/Future Month. February is actually one of my least favorite months but after the January I’ve had, I’m ready to move on swiftly. E. is fascinated by all the snowblowing that our neighbors do outside the window. Chicago hasn’t been hit this hard with snow in 5 years - 9 inches!
This is a very slow morning, work wise. Snack on cashews. Work on some excel data and open a tab for Girl Scout Cookies. It’s that seasonnnn. Note that there’s a four box minimum to get cookies. I’ll save my cookie order for next week.
afternoon
The sunlight is giving me life today. I’m getting my Vitamin D through the window, though a walk to the beach sounds lovely. After doing a bit more work, it’s lunch time. I steam some jasmine rice and fry carrots, zucchini, mushrooms, bok choy, and scallion whites in soy sauce and chili paste for my knockoff bibimbap. With an egg this time. Then I decide to bundle up and walk to the beach for additional vitamin D. I only live five minutes away :) . The sand and shoreline are all covered in snow but peaceful nonetheless. I've actually never been to the beach in the dead of winter before. God, I love Lake Michigan. Never understood the hype around oceans, especially because you can't drink the water. Have my phone check in with my boss. Message a bit with D. and round up my tasks for the day.
evening
D. encouraged me to follow my impulses and order the greasy pizza I’m craving right now. But I have food in the fridge. Sigh. Cut up my veggies and season them for veggie kabobs to go with the suya, which has marinated in a spice rub. Put the veggies and meat on skewer sticks and put it all in the oven. It comes out…okay-ish. The meat is a bit overdone and not as flavorful as I'd hoped. Not terrible for a first try, I suppose. Eat two veggie kabobs and two suya sticks. Fall down the Reddit rabbithole for way too damn long. Also check on my mom and how she's doing. She said she's okay now, taking things one day at a time. Feed the kitty her dinner. Do my nighttime routine (including brushing my teeth) and snuggle in bed to watch more Girls. Snack on graham crackers since I have no other sweets or candy handy.
TOTAL: $0
Day 7 - Tuesday
morningMe and my fucked up sleep schedule. No judgment, plz. Wake up at an odd hour again, brush my teeth, feed the cat, smoke a bit, and go back asleep.
My mom calls me at 8 to tell me she might need me to call her a Lyft again - this is not a typical nor regular expense btw - because she has one of her work trainings and my Dad took the car for work. She asks if I still want to go to Nigeria this summer since she’s about to get tickets. IDK! I’m not comfortable traveling internationally...but my Nigerian passport also expires this year and it was a huge pain in the ass to get it in the first place. I enjoy visiting, though I always have a lot of personal shit to navigate while there. Being part of a diaspora is complicated.
Also wake up to a steamy message from D. Steamy enough for me to get myself off, truly the best way to start any morning. My period has started...fun. I was expecting it though. Feed E. her breakfast with a probiotic, take gummy vitamins, brush my teeth, moisturize hair, and get dressed in a grey turtleneck, black Adidas soccer pants, and gold hoop earrings. Blend frozen mango chunks, a small banana, greek yogurt and almond milk into a smoothie. I also brew a cup of lemon tea. Pop two ibuprofen and start my work day with a staff meeting.
afternoon
Light a candle and keep working! Ok, I actually break for a few YouTube videos, one from MelinaPendulum about the Sex And the City reboot. To sum it up: why do one?? What’s the point if Samantha isn’t even coming back? I put out E.’s lunch. I also steam some jasmine rice to eat with the suya and veggie kabobs from last night. Damn I wish I had some steak sauce. Oh well. Eat lunch and call a Lyft for my mom. ($25.99, incl. tip). Work with more Sex and the City in the background.
EveningThe work day has ended and I am desperately in need of snacks! I load $10 on my Starbucks app and then decide to not get anything. I planned to fuck up some hot chocolate but the way my cramps are fading and coming back, it’s best to stay away from a drink with 57 grams of sugar. Pick up some Lysol wipes, a bottle of club soda, Fig Newtons, Ritz Crackers to go with the block of cheese in my fridge, a Reese’s Fast Break bar, and some Haribo Happy Cola gummies. ($11.69)
Get home, pour a small glass of Apothic Red and play with E. for a little bit. Then go down another Reddit rabbithole before making my dinner - ramen, minus the egg. Still delicious! Message D. for a bit and do my shower routine. I did not read very much this week, maybe it’s a testament to me not liking my book that much? Hmmm....my neighbor starts his incredibly annoying exercise routine and I fall asleep waiting for it to stop.
TOTAL: $47.68
--
GRAND TOTAL = $274.60
Food + Drink = $133.37
Fun / Entertainment = $70
Home + Health = $13.78
Other = $57.45
All in all, this was an unsurprising week, especially since I’m already in the habit of tracking expenses daily. The two atypical things were the Lyft rides for my mom - an infrequent occurrence - and my weed purchase, which happens once monthly. I suppose I could have included that in my monthly expenses. Please don’t roast me for my sleep schedule! I know issa mess. Also, I feed my cat four times a day in case that’s unclear.
Edit: Any and every time I left my home I wore a mask and then washed my hands thoroughly upon return.

“When does an idea truly die?”
“When nobody believes in it anymore, right?”
“No, an idea can be rediscovered, reinvented, renewed.”
“So… when does it die?”
Another week, another shift, and a paycheck for those pesky pills. It’s not always smooth sailing with the side effects; I sometimes find myself seeing spots in my vision, cluster headaches that have me fighting the urge to knock myself out to stop the pain and even nightmares are common occurrences.
I’ve spent a lot more time thinking about Dr. Lynch’s last words than I’d care to admit, if you're not familiar, you can catch up here.
“How do you kill an idea?”
It was phrased like a philosophical debate query, but the undertones were so much more sinister. She said it in a room coated with viscera and a now comatose patient being taken back to her room.
She wanted me to truly consider how you kill something we consider an imaginary companion and make sure it stays dead.
The thing that scared me most about that interaction was her intense stare at the spot I was situated in, despite it being a mirror she couldn’t see through.
DD escorted me out and tried to give me some words of encouragement, but it was clear I needed more time to process everything I’d seen.
“You’ll be back though when they call again, right?” He persisted, his hands on my shoulders and a glint in his eye, hope bordering on desperation. “You can’t stop a journey once you’ve stepped onto the path, Virgil.”
I felt that sinking weight of resistance kicking in and my desire to give into it and say “no, I’m done” was close to bursting out of my mouth, but I could see that this was something he truly felt he needed me for and my curiosity was not yet spent. So, I took a moment and gripped the sides of my sleeves, a nervous habit I’d had since I was a child.
“So long as I can doodle and you give me the meds, I’ll keep coming back.” I sighed, his smile immediately putting me at ease.
He stood up to his full height and waved as I went out the entrance.
I reciprocated, trying my best to hide the fact I could once again see something in the centre window, bearing down on me and filling me with a dread that I still don’t fully understand.
Not a spectre or anything terrifying, but instead a single letter drawn into the condensation.
“T”
-
The next few nights were filled with a malaise of the world outside, a ton of doodles of Dr. Lynch in an exceedingly unflattering manner, and a few of the buildings outline and the areas I either knew of or had visited. There’s something comforting in being able to visualise an imposing structure like that, it brings familiarity and comfort to something that feels so otherworldly. I sketched out the gates, the eight large windows that littered the second floor, including the centre hallway window that overlooked the grounds. In the reception area I drew the greeter I later found out was named Marshall as a sleepy drunk, a large comical bubble ballooning from his nose as he slept at his desk, the main hallway just behind him. It took some sting away from that encounter, knowing I had a safe place to render him in a comical fashion.
In time, I’d sketch everyone I came to know at St. Martins and everywhere I’d traversed, for better or for worse.
Something that would ultimately save my life.
Seven days passed before I got a call from DD. He tried striking enthusiasm into the call with a Ghostbusters line, declaring “We’ve got one!” to my forced amusement. He apologised and said that, at the very least, it’d be an interesting experience given the nature of the patient.
I sighed and told him I’d be there when the spots in my vision faded, I could actually hear the worry on his face through the phone.
“Hey, don’t push yourself. If you need time, that’s more important. But, I think you’ll find this new patient to be most… interesting and challenging for a gifted stenographer and budding artist like you. If these notes are correct, his imaginary friend will be one worth doodling!” He paused as I mulled it over and followed with, “I’ll also give you my entire week’s supply of Twinkies if you come in.”
I mean, how can an individual resist such a scintillating offer? I grabbed my coat and set off for St. Martin’s in a cab, taking the time to idly doodle the clouds overhead as I mulled over the potential for intrigue alongside the crushing weight of Dr. Lynch’s stare.
She knew so much that I didn’t and I began to worry that bled over into my own life. When she looked at me, it felt like…
Before I could finish the thought, the cab slammed to a halt, and I was outside the gates, the foreboding structure once again bearing down on me, the clouds overhead almost imitating my caricature drawing, stern faces and wide grins flashing with lightning beneath the blackened surface.
Rushing indoors, I found DD sitting on the desk with a finger on his lips as he was sneaking up on a sleeping Marshall.
Transfixed, I watched as he took tentative steps from behind, outstretched his hands and a wide, childish grin on his face as he clapped his hands together and watched as Marshall snapped awake, stumbled back and out of his chair with a start.
“Wh-What the fuck?! You could’ve killed me!” Marshall bellowed from beneath the table, I couldn’t help but stifle a giggle as I walked closer, DD’s towering and lanky frame bending over to peer curiously at Marshall.
“Well, that makes it all the better I didn’t. You were reminded death is always close, and now you’re more appreciative of being alive. Honestly, you should thank me!” He chuckled and waved to me to follow him down the hall, adding a not-so-pleasant afterthought as he did so: “And stop sleeping on company time, next time it won’t just be a fright from me. Lynch will be in here.”
As I caught up, a grumbling Marshall still rubbing his head and staring daggers, DD didn’t stop to look behind me as he spoke.
“Keep that memory close, don’t forget that lesson; the vitalness of being anchored in the moment.” He shook his head and grabbed at his neck. “Sounds like a shitty fortune cookie, but I mean it. This job can and will take everything from you given enough time, so don’t lose sight of your value.”
“What value?” I asked as we turned into the connecting corridor, the smell of ammonia coating the lining of my throat and making me gag. DD outstretched his hand from his neck and pointed to the t-junction we were passing, a foreboding hallway lined with bustling nurses flitting between doors, pained screams and moans of agony or commanding words bouncing off the walls, the reverberation adding more impact to their sheer horror.
“The value of wellness.” DD replied solemnly as we continued on to the observation room, the ugly reality of mental incarceration sitting at the forefront of my mind just as much as the knowledge that I am powerless to help any of them.
-
Heading over to take my seat, I caught sight of Violet dashing around the small pharmacy station embedded in the wall diagonally opposite our chairs. She was fussing over something and occasionally swearing as I went to the counter to get my medication.
“Okay, so… Mr. Sweets needs his blood thinners, Old McPherson needs an extra 200mg on their medication as of today, Ms. Halpern needs stronger antipsychotics and goddamnit will you hold still?!” She stared daggers at the writhing burlap sack under her arm, desperate to wriggle free. Giving it a bonk on the head, it hissed, and the wriggling grew weaker. The sheer bizarreness of the scene had me reaching for my notepad on instinct and before I knew it, I was doodling while she turned to me with a mixture of bemusement and embarrassment.
“Hey, make sure you get my good side!” She remarked, snapping me out of my trance and sheepishly grinning as she saw the near-finished sketch; the top of her face blacked out with red eyes and an outstretched fist coming down on the bag, I’d added terrified eyes to the top of it and a single word floating around her foreboding image: “Death”.
“Ah, sorry… it’s a nervous habit. I tend to deal with things I struggle to understand better in the long run if I can draw them, I hope you don’t mind?” I felt the hot rush of shame flush my cheeks and memories of ridicule flooding back from younger days. Being different in Sturgeon is usually a welcome thing, but socially different doesn’t always reap benefits, mostly ignorance and hatred. To my relief, she simply smiled, dimples pressed in and a warmness to her gaze.
“Not at all, it’s flattering someone took the time to notice me, even if i’m 11 hours into the shift and feeling gross as all hell, especially with this special medicine in my arm that won’t. Stay. still!” She bellowed while knocking it again. Whatever the hell was in her arms, it wasn’t going to be any medicine I’d want.
“Oh… I don’t think you’re gross! I... uhh… I think you’re radiant, actually!” My mouth blurted it out before I’d thought it through. “Radiant”? Was I in a fucking low-budget romance movie or a 50-year-old man?
She giggled, and we stared for a moment before she turned with a spring in her step to the back, calling out, “I’ll go get your meds!”
“What’s the thing in the bag?” I asked, still unsure if I’d just made an ass of myself or struck a chord, desperate to move things forward either way. It was still making a ruckus while she ran the endless lining of shelves out of my sight.
“Oh, this? It’s a specific treatment for one of our inmates. They can’t have their blood taken with needles, so a stronger method was devised and approved by the board. It’s not something you or I would want or have done but… well, exceptions have to be made for our special wing.” She popped her head back round while wrangling the bag and a small cup for the pills, setting it down gingerly and placing two hands on the bag as she headed to the back door. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing what it is. Plus, if it went for those cute fingers of yours, how would you do your job or go for lunch with me?” She giggled and her goodbye echoed out as the door shut, my heart pounding at the mere mention of lunch.
As the intercom burst to life with the screaming and angry protests of our next patient, however, I was reminded of my role and those feelings ebbed away, anxiety taking their place.
Sitting down next to DD, who had a raised eyebrow and knowing grin, I grabbed my Steno and stretched out my fingers, looking up and out towards the room, which had now been renovated. Perhaps she was going to do this for every patient?
Black wallpaper, red carpeting, minimal furniture save for some innocuous items strewn about, two large black chairs with high rise backs, a large mahogany table stretching the length of the two chairs (some 25ft for those curious) and strange markings on the walls that with the bright fluorescent lighting were totally unreadable.
The young man being hauled in was no older than 25, bald and covered in tattoos that ran from his fingers to his scalp. Intricate drawings of delicate art interspersed with crude renditions of things that meant a lot to him; a detailed painting of betrayal that looked as if it had been taken from an art museum and placed on his bicep sat just above a barely etched drawing of a sailboat sinking and the phrase “WE ALL DROWN EVENTUALLY” scrawled below. He kicked and spat at the orderlies as they restrained him to the chair, binding his hands and feet before securing his forehead and neck to the long back so he couldn’t lash out.
Once they were done and Dr. Lynch walked in, she looked the man up and down with a sly grin before thanking the orderlies and taking her seat.
“It is Saturday 2:32pm here at St. Martin’s, I am Doctor Saoirse Lynch with Avery Virgil and David Daniels presiding and collating information. Today’s session is a continuation of our therapy with Mr. Silas Montgomery, aged 24. Silas was admitted to us 6 months ago following the red phase incident and has been reticent to progress, I am hoping now with the approval of the board to admit him to our fresh set of trials that he will show improvement. Let’s begin.” She clicked her pen three times while spinning it around in her hand and beginning to make notes. Something that even from my distance I could tell got Silas’ attention.
“She’s very good at that, our good doctor.” DD interjected, leaning over as I waited for her to speak. “Finding those small idiosyncrasies that drive us insane and poking at them some more. It’s no wonder she yields such results…” He didn’t have a smile as he finished, lips pursed and hands under his chin. “Some people just don’t know when to quit…”
I looked back as she began speaking, her voice cold and calculated, as if she was observing a corpse, not a person.
“So, Mr. Montgomery… I see you’ve once again opted for resistance instead of cooperation. Tell me; what is it about our role here that fills you with such anger?”
Silas writhed and grunted, his dirty teeth bared at her as she finished speaking.
“The FUCK, do you think?! Why would I cooperate with my captors? You think I WANT to be here, bitch? No, what I WANT is to be at home with my wife and my little brother. You have any idea how fucking illegal this is? I was RECOMMENDED to you people, not incarcerated. Fuck you.” He tried spitting, but it barely reached a quarter of the way past the table before unceremoniously landing with an ugly splat. Lynch sighed and called out to us:
“Strike the spit from the record, please.” She put her notepad down and leaned forward, her slender frame bending like a coiled spring. “Alright, I’ll make you a deal. You tell me your side of the events that lead up to being incar- placed here and not only will I work to let you go home, but…” She got up and walked towards him. “I’ll even loosen the straps on your face and hands if you are honest with me. How’s that sound?”
She traced her hands around the top of the chair as Silas’ eyes grew wide and focused on something in the corner of the room.
“You… you mean it? I can go home if I tell you everything?” Bravado had already given way to panic in his voice and Lynch could smell it like blood in the water as she leaned around. Her head close to his shoulder as she unfastened the head straps.
“Of course! But I want you to remember something, Silas; Your temptation to sink your teeth into my neck, rip out my throat, strangle me or bash my skull in will only end in failure for you. No sooner than 15 seconds after your rampage starts, it will end with a tranquilizer to the neck and more ungodly experimentation than you can imagine. So heed me well, Mr. Montgomery: it does not do well to lie to me to get what you want.”
With that, the straps fell away as soon as they’d been added and the beast that’d been thrown into that chair not five minutes ago was now rubbing where his flesh had been bruised with eyes that I daresay looked like prey. Still, he didn’t attempt to attack as she sat down and picked up her notebook.
“I… I guess you want me to start at the beginning, huh? Well…” He leaned forward and ran his hands across his head. “My wife Miesha, she’s said for a while that it ain’t healthy to have a period of your life you don’t remember much of. That I needed therapy to find out what I was blockin’ out. I’d been having problems communicating with her for months, feudin’ over the smallest fuckin’ things. I lied to her and told her that it was a bunch of abuse from my childhood… parents’ died young and I’d been carin’ for my little brother Neil ever since, that I just had a lot of anger she’d never seen until we started livin’ together because… well, you learn about someone in a whole other dimension when you’re with ‘em every day.” His legs shook and the fingers on his scalp began digging into his skin. “But I lied to her, Doc. It wasn’t anything like that. An old friend had magically come back into my life, the kind of friend that… that you don’t notice what’s wrong with ‘em until you’re much older.”
Lynch spun the pen around and clicked it four times before asking her next question.
“I see… well, you’ve mentioned something similar before, so let’s cut to brass tacks: Tell me about Mo.”
The moment that word left her lips, Silas’ eyes darted to the same spot in the corner, a shape shifting in the corner, the light barely touching its form as it wriggles and twitches. Silas, in turn, digs his nails into his scalp deeper, rocking back and forth as he breathed heavily.
“Mo is… special. He started hangin’ out with me not long after mom & dad kicked the bucket. I must’ve been 15 or 16 at the time.. He felt like an old buddy I’d lost touch with in elementary school that just reappeared, like I’d known him my whole life.” He chuckled, hands shaking and eyes still occasionally popping up only to dart to the corner before looking back down at the ground. “He’d get in my ear, whisper things… things that nobody else seemed to hear. Sounded like a fuckin’ buzzing inside my head, it don’t stop. It never stops. Just gets louder and more understandable when Mocassin would speak.”
He rocked back and forth even harder, mumbling to himself as Dr Lynch clicked the pen; this time five times before writing down some notes and glancing at the same corner, seemingly unperturbed.
“What sort of things did he tell you to do, Silas? What did he look like?” As before, this seemed to be the only part of the interview where she allowed any humanity to seep into her tone. The curiosity and excitement weren’t warm or welcoming; they were borderline cruel.
The shape stepped out from the corner and I was shocked to see nothing more than a normal man. Black sneakers, blue jeans with a gold buckle belt, open flannel shirt and a band tee underneath, his skin littered with tattoos like Silas, a large mess of hair sculpted on his head. Eyes fixated on Silas and small, pursed lips. Nothing remotely out of the ordinary.
He just looked… normal.
He pointed to something in the room, trying to get Silas’ attention, but after a brief glance, Silas continued talking and focused on Lynch.
“Mocassin would tell me in his own way to do shit around the house; burn something, break a chair when I was angry, maybe drink a little more than I needed to. As I got older and life became busier, I started resisting against his wishes and did my best to get on with things. Raising Neil came first and I told myself I had to hold it together for his sake. Meeting Miesha quieted him even more, to the point where I stopped seein’ him entirely. But, then I lost my job and… well, with more time to think, he came back…” Silas’ eyes sank into his sockets with misery. Moccasin reached for a . “I couldn’t ignore the buzzin’ anymore. When he suggested I do something, I felt like I could barely resist. Things were said, punches were thrown, it… got ugly.”
Lynch shifted in her seat and cocked her head to the side a tad. Could she hear it?
“What do you do when the requests for darker things get too much?” DD asked, whispering as if Lynch would hear him. “When an idea is SO strong, ignoring it isn’t an option anymore?”
I blinked, my eyes slightly sore from straining at the scene below. “You talk to someone? You… you try to find better ideas to focus on if it’s a dangerous idea?”
He looked at me with a sad smile and patted my shoulder.
“Mm, if only it were that simple.”
Lynch clicked her pen six times and looked up at Silas while writing, unnerving in her piercing stare.
“What happened the night of your discovery, Silas? The night you refer to as “the red phase” where everything fell apart.”
Silas sat up and tried to regain his composure, knee tapping incessantly as he watched Mocassin grab an ornament on the floor and test its weight with a few light throws in his hand, as if deciding whether it was worth breaking. His wide eyes looked down and back at Silas a couple of times before Silas continued.
“Well, I dunno if EVERYTHING fell apart. We just… we had a disagreement on what to do. Miesha recommended I voluntarily check myself into the hospital and seek therapy for the anger issues. I tell her it’s not about anger, it’s Mocassin and his fuckin’ buzzing. She gets mad and tells me that imaginary friends aren’t cute or healthy at my age...” He rocks again as his voice quivers. “And that’s when the buzzing got so fuckin’ strong that I.. I saw red… literally.”
Dr. Lynch smiled and asked something I wasn’t expecting.
“Why hasn’t your family come to visit, Silas?”
My ears began ringing with the same buzzing, like tinnitus but amplified, and I clutched at my ears on instinct, desperate to drive my fingers in and root it out. It was incessant, painful and almost… paralyzing. DD grabbed my hand from pushing into my ear further and with a stern look on his face, shaking his head.
“It wants you to fight back. It feeds on it. Just continue typing.” His voice cut through the buzzing like a sonic boom and set me at ease.
I obeyed and looked back at Lynch who was standing, needle in hand and once again sauntering over to Silas’ chair, his feet still bound.
“Do you remember the first thing you did when we found you, Silas?” Her voice oozed confidence, fingers tracing the leather gently as the other hand gripped the plunger. Silas shook his head, straining to look round for her.
Right as the needle went into his neck and Lynch pushed down on the plunger, Mocassin twitched in place as she did so.
“You said you felt sick and vomited over the floor, mumbling about not turning off the lights. When we looked in there, we found a veritable banquet and red paint strewn over the walls, all saying the same thing…”
She walked to the far wall and the weak groans emanating from Silas erupted into angry pleas as she flicked off the lights.
The moment she did, my stomach lurched, and I felt bile rise into the back of my throat. I dropped the steno and my toes curled in fear.
In fluorescent lighting were the words “FEED. MOCASSIN.” over and over. Every inch of the walls and ceiling were covered in it. Every “M” was capitalised to an almost ridiculous point.
More frightful, however, were the words Lynch came out with next.
“He got in your ear, whispered through the buzzing that your anger was like a hunger that needed to be fed… you took that literally and Mocassin decided you needed help to feed him… didn’t he?” She kneeled down in front of Silas and stared up at the terrified man’s expression as his eyes looked everywhere but at her. “So you just did as he wanted. You killed, cooked and ate your wife and little brother. Piece by piece.” Lynch turned her head to the spot between the chairs and looked directly at Mocassin.
My eyes followed hers, and I nearly yelped in shock, terror gripping my body and shaking involuntarily.
Moccasin was pointing directly at me with the widest, most maniacal grin I had ever seen. It stretched from beneath his eyes and drooped down to the bottom of his jawline, not a single tooth in sight, just a gaping maw. The smile kept growing as their skin became taught, red and bubbling. Their stare didn’t leave me once, as if they were targeting ME. What felt like hours was almost certainly seconds.
“I gave you what you wanted. I told you that you could go home and now you remember the truth… you’re here. No more Mocassin, no more bad thoughts. Just… the silence of the void.” She stroked his hair, but his eyes were glazed over and the realisation of his actions had clearly not hit him. She gently directed his chin to the spot where Mocassin stood, bubbling and buzzing to the point that I thought my ears would burst. One word escaped her lips before it happened:
“Watch.”
And just like that, Moccasin’s body exploded in a sea of red viscera, much like the first. That fucking stare and wide grin burned into my brain. The lights came back on and a silent, albeit shaking, Silas was coaxed out.
“First patient of the day has proved successful, but trials are inconsistent and we must find a way to coax out the I.F without killing it. Studies shall now continue with the next patient.” She sighed and clicked on the lights, shaking her head at the cleaning crew by the doorway.
“Wh-What? Next patient? Am I not done for the day?” I asked DD, my hands still shaking and the buzzing still faintly audible in my ears, as if warning me that something was still staring at me from the shadows.
“Tell Avery that they’d better buckle up for their first double-duty, this next patient is a doozy. Patient was found roaming the streets some months ago, covered in abrasions, burns, cuts and close to death. We don’t yet understand how he was able to survive given his condition and further tests are being conducted. But we have evidence to believe he was more closely aligned with his I.F than anyone else so far, claiming he was a charismatic TV host that plagued their friends… someone who had truly crossed over. Patient’s name is Mathis Woljiech, age unknown but estimated to be late 20s.”
A dishevelled man was wheeled in, strapped to a steel moveable gurney, body covered in bandages and burns, wild hair not hiding the wide, bloodshot eyes that scanned the room and seemed to revel in the violence.
As Lynch explained the imaginary friend, however, I felt a fresh chill run down my spine and a headache threatened to rear its ugly head. The sensation of being prey locked in a cage with a fearsome predator overwhelming me to the point of blurred vision.
“Patient claims his imaginary friend is real and he can call upon him whenever he wants, says he was a host of a fictional show called "Beneath The Static", I suppose we’ll put his realness to the test.” A smile curled on the corners of her lips, that excitement of a new discovery overtaking her professionalism for just a moment, something more insidious.
“I’m excited to meet JJ Watson, Mathias. Shall we begin?”

It doesn’t snow in Old Russia this time of the year. Go-9 doesn’t know why, but he also has never understood geography or hemispheres or anything like that. The Hunter could make it from one side of the patrol zone to the other blindfolded (knows it like the back of his hand, he’d brag), but if you asked him why the Steppes surrounding Shaw Han’s basecamp of concrete and rusted metal is always so hot and so dry, even this late in December, Go-9 truly could not even begin to tell you why. He might mumble something flippant better left in mumbles or just absentmindedly fiddle with his newest knife, but that’s all the answer you’d get from him before he’d quietly wander away to investigate a radar ping or a patrol beacon. A Hunter’s job is to scout and patrol and find the places humanity lost their way to, he might even say if he were feeling especially proud and defensive. Leave figuring out things like weather patterns and climate tracking and the whims of spheres and globes to the Warlocks who have to go through all his field reports, he might add with a grumble if he had just lost to Old-3 in the Crucible.
Today, Go-9 has not lost to anyone in the Crucible, let alone to Old-3 in a long time. In fact, he’s been here, on a ridge, all day, just watching as Guardians transmat into the landing zone above Shaw Han’s outpost. They jump down, hand off a shiny blue box of cookies (some more aggressively than others), and then they’re back in their jumpships before Shaw Han can so much as start to say ‘thanks.’
While Go is not trying to be discrete about staking out Shaw Han’s goings-on, everyone from here to the Reef is very aware that Shaw Han has a… reputation for not doing perimeter properly (to say nothing of the rumours that floated around him before he had even taken off his helmet). The Vanguard Operative of Old Russia might not even know Go is up here, for all Go knows. His metal throat hums in the simulacrum of a held breath at the thought. Who hasn’t seen those reports: the only strike team in a quarantined patrol zone -- the most well-known patrol zone on earth -- gets cornered by a Hive Wizard, loses two Guardians, and ends up handing off the clean-up to a new Light fresh from their first breath to finish the mission. The only survivor of the original fireteam? The Hunter who rushed his perimeter scans.
Go-9’s held breath hisses out of him and his snarling, golden helmet like steam. A Guardian’s fireteam is their family, Go-9 thinks. As much as Old-3 might have rattled Go-9’s sense of pride with his pompous gloating after a Rumble, he knew he could count on the Warlock to drop a rift when he needed it, just like the Warlock had known he could trust Go to do what Hunters do best: go first, go far, and come back so everyone else knows where to go next. You make sure you know where to throw your knife before the three green eyes of the first Acolyte even turns the corner. You map out where you’re popping your Golden Gun so Old has the Light he needs for his Nova Bomb when your fireteam makes contact with the strike target. You don’t let your family get true deathed alone because you got sloppy and lost track of them. That’s not the job.
Crunch.
Go-9 unclenches his fist and the crumpled cookie box in his glove leaks Blueberry Crumble bits onto the sundrenched earth beneath him before they get lost in the dust of it. A stiff wind blows and Go-9 watches the cookie remnants tumble away over the ridge’s edge.
Shaw Han laughs. Go-9 nearly jumps out of his armour when he turns and finds his mark standing right in front of him wiping a tear from his eye and getting the last chuckle out of his throat. Knew he was better than the reports, Go-9 thinks. Quieter and quicker, at least.
While Go-9 has had an eye on Shaw Han for a while (and again: who didn’t, given the rumours), this is the first time the Exo has had a chance to really look at the Vanguard Operative. Shaw Han cuts a not-entirely-unhandsome silhouette in the Old Russia sun. He carries himself like steel with those dragon bones wrapped around his shoulder and he has a good set of teeth in that smile. His armour looks bog-standard in spite of the paint job except for his boots: greaves that swoop with elegant curves and end with well-pronounced points; Awoken craftsmanship and flourish caked in the dirt and grit of the Cosmodrome.
Then Go notices it all at once like gear teeth catching and startling awake: how often Shaw shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the quick glance Shaw keeps shooting over his shoulder, the way Shaw’s hand hovers up to his earpiece with every fresh scan over the horizon. Innocuous, nothing gestures, sure, but Go-9 knows them well because he makes the same ones on patrols that have gone longer than Vanguard protocol endorses. You’ve got no one watching your back for long enough and every shadow will look like a death threat, so you can imagine what it’s like with the way the sun in Old Russia isn’t shy about shining. That’s why Go’s recently taken a friend’s advice about meditation and breathing exercises (to his own skepticism and to the practice’s annoying success). Staying cool is half the battle when it comes to survival and if a slow breath and a count to ten can help keep a long patrol from becoming his last patrol, then Go-9’s been on his longest patrol yet.
Shaw Han grins unaware and wordlessly offers a hand to take the ruined cookie box. Go-9 concedes the sweets without complaint, distracted, and the Vanguard Operative pulls out the most intact cookie there might be in the box to Go-9’s luck. “If you’ve got time for baking, things must be going pretty well for you in the Tower,” Shaw Han laughs. He takes a bite of the least-destroyed dessert. “How’d you know I love blueberries?”
Go-9 wants to tell Shaw that he didn’t, but Eva Levante did. He wants to say ‘don’t mention it’ or something similarly detached and unaffected -- maybe something just above all this Dawning song and dance like the sky isn’t falling and filling with Darkness -- and a not-small part of Go-9 also wants to call Shaw Han a disgrace of a Hunter for letting his fireteam get themselves killed and he wants to say that as loud as his metal voice can manage, but Go-9 is too hung up on Shaw Han’s laugh. It’s not that Shaw’s laugh sounds hollow or fake, but his eyes aren’t laughing with the rest of his face. They seem like they’re focused on something in the distance that neither of the Hunters can see. Go-9 knows this patrol zone frontwards and backwards, though, so Go-9 knows what Shaw is looking for isn’t out there.
First thought, best thought, Go-9 decides as he returns to the conversation stalling awkwardly in front of him. “Eva Levante suggested them. Happy Dawning.”
“Happy Dawning.” That laugh again: earnest, still, but distant. He really means it even if he doesn’t feel it. “Have to say: thought it might be nice to be a little less active duty when I took this position, but the actual best perk of the job is being on Eva’s cookie list. I’ll have to thank her next time I see her. At this rate, I’ll have more cookies than I can ever eat alone.” The laughter withers in Shaw Han’s throat as that last word hangs there between them -- suspended in something like air, but too heavy. Shaw Han keeps smiling, but whatever is in the air weighs heavy at the edges of his smile, too. Go-9 can see the twitch and strain in his lips like rope silently praying to unravel while knowing that the whole ship goes down with it if it does, so it doesn’t. Instead, after a moment too long, Shaw Han speaks up. He changes the subject with a flash of smiling, ever-friendly teeth. “That a Trophy Hunter on your back?”
Go-9 starts to say something, thinking to press against the edge of what Shaw Han is trying to talk around, but decides against it. He loops the rifle off his back and offers it cradled like a sword that had hung by horse hair only a moment before. Shaw Han takes it happily with an impressed whistle while juggling it and the cookie box humorously. He wedges the box under his armpit, finally, before inspecting the rifle in full. “Always been a fan of these. Red Legion refurb, but you gotta respect a gun you’ve been taken out by. Can’t tell you how many times I only hear the crack of one of these after my ghost brings me back.” He looks down the scope and makes a quiet comment about its alignment, mentions he has tools in the back if Go-9 wants a quick tune-up, but neither of them really hears what the other is saying until Shaw Han pops out the magazine and Go-9 can see his counting turn to puzzlement. “You modified the modified Headhunter? Added a backup mag to make room for one more bullet? From three bullets to four?”
Go-9 chuckles at this. “Yeah; the Cabal didn’t get it right the first time, and, with enough fractaline, I only barely got it right the second time. Couldn’t even tell you how many second times it took me to get the one you’re holding.” Shaw Han grins, nods, then laughs in understanding. It is still that laugh, though, and a heat in Go-9’s chest blossoms. An edge sharpens into his voice. Something in Go-9 quietly snaps. He adds, underneath Shaw’s laugh, “Besides: sometimes all it takes is one more shot.”
Silence, again, but knowing, now. Go-9 doesn’t know if he should’ve said that last part, but he did. He regrets it (he definitely regrets it), but it’s a Hunter’s job to go forward, not keep looking back, so he continues. He reminds himself he did not come here to hurt Shaw Han, but he still presses. “You ever been to the Dreaming City?”
Shaw Han bristles at the question. He shifts from one foot to another. He looks over his shoulder and back. He puts the broken cookie he was about to finish back into its broken box. He says shortly, “Always wanted to go; haven’t had the chance.”
Go-9 nods, knowing the answer to his next question like he knew the answer to his last. The electricity buzzing through his brain begs him to stop as much as it needs him to press harder because this is a matter of survival, one way or another. He knows how long Shaw Han has been in Old Russia. He knows Shaw Han’s never been to the Dreaming City the same way he knows Shaw Han hasn’t been back to the Tower since he’s been stationed out here. He knows how long Shaw Han’s been alone like everyone else in the system does. “Then how’d you get those?” Go-9 points to Shaw’s boots.
Shaw Han’s face darkens. His voice shrinks enough to fit in a box of cookies crushed in the hands of a stranger or a magazine only big enough for one bullet more or like dogs in the face of wolves, but he does not waver. His voice is small, but Shaw Han answers. “Maeve gave them to me last Dawning,” he begins like an old yarn unspooling. “Said she couldn’t have her fireteam looking like they just rolled fresh out of the grave, so she brought them back after a raid. She was like that: always laughing at my gear, but, like a good knife, you can always be sure of steel, no matter how dusty it looks, so I’d rather take care of what I have than bet my life on something I don’t know anything about. Regardless, dusty or not, I always had her back.” He grimaces but recollects himself as the next words take shape and bloom into his mouth. “Made an exception for these because, well...” He trails off, forgetting himself and smiling for the recollection, though not with the one he's been laughing with until now: this smile is small, sad, warm; this smile is his.
Go-9’s tone cools, but is still hard. He knew what he knew before, but he thinks he understands better now. He knows this conversation like he’s seen it in his mirror. He knows what he has to say next. He points to Shaw Han’s boots again. “Seems like she was good to have on a fireteam.”
So, too, does Shaw Han’s voice soften, but his voice is not hard. Shaw Han’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but louder and more true than any laugh he’s laughed today. He nods, his smile refusing to shake loose. “She was even better to have as a friend.” He hands the Trophy Hunter back to Go-9. Go-9 accepts it without comment. “Her Light… it was just so… so…”
“Bright,” Go-9 finishes.
Relief. “Exactly.”
“Warlocks, am I right?”
Shaw Han laughs like his smile. “They just have such a way with the Light.”
“Your words; not mine. Couldn’t catch me saying that within earshot of one of those know-it-alls, especially the one I used to run with.”
Shaw Han nods solemnly. He catches himself in mid-shoulder check and just stares off the cliff the two Hunters are standing on instead. He almost asks the question to the fall rather than the Hunter standing there in front of him. “How’d you lose them?”
Go-9 shrugs. “Dunno. One day he was just gone. Roster says he hasn’t been seen in two years.”
A story as old as space travel, and a story everyone wishes would get old. “Sorry to hear.”
Go-9 flips a knife into his hands and takes a deep breath. He lets out the electric hum nice and measured, just like he’s practiced, as he turns the knife over a few times while trying to focus on the way its edge catches the light. “Nothing to apologize for; you know how it is: Hunter’s supposed to find the path and then lead others through it. Should’ve been me out there, but I wasn’t. Didn’t do the job and my fireteam paid for it.”
Shaw Han rises at this. “Now, hold on...”
So, too, does Go-9. “I made a mistake and I lost a friend.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If I had found the path, I might’ve been able to walk it with him, let alone find him.”
“You’re talking about finding the same path in all of space. Space travel’s not that simple...”
“It’s not simple and it’s not fair, but that’s the job: we find the path; we find what’s lost.”
“Sure,” Shaw starts, “but that’s not fair to you --”
“Glad to hear you say it.”
Shaw Han stops. He blinks. His eyes dart to the distance behind Go again on reflex and, again, find nothing.
In time, Shaw’s vision swims back to the Hunter’s angry-looking casque. Go-9 flicks his knife away into a sleeve. “You think you’re the only Hunter in the system that’s screwed up? Buddy, everyone just knows your name and your name’s not even Crow. Congratulations for that, but if you’re gonna be fair with me and my screw up, you better be fair with you and yours. You aren’t the past. You aren’t your mistakes. Every Guardian alive is proof.”
Shaw Han shuts his eyes tight and lets out a long, slow sigh.”If I had just finished those scans -- if I just didn’t let those Hive get the drop on us --”
“And if I had just been right where my Warlock was,” Go-9 snaps. “But I wasn’t and now he could be anywhere or he could be nowhere or he could be who knows where else. There was no way for me to know that the last time he dropped a Nova Bomb on me in the Crucible would be the last time I saw him ever. And just like that? There was no way for you to know that the one day you slacked would be the worst day of your life so far. Any Hunter who says they’ve never done what you did? Pretends they’ve never said they knew Old Russia well enough they could rush it, nice and quick, just this once? They’re lying, and they don’t know anything about the job and how it tricks you: makes you confuse complacence for confidence; sings of pride instead of practice; makes a shadow of yourself look like home. Those Hunters -- they don’t know that they don’t know, and that’s even worse. And you? Something tells me you know that better than anyone right now, and that makes you a good Hunter, as far as I’m concerned.”
Shaw Han shifts from one foot to another, but he does not look away from Go. He keeps his eyes fixed on those golden and pointed teeth on Go-9’s helmet that sparkle in the Old Russia sun like campfires.
“All that said: you know what I know?” Go stops, catches his breath, feels himself getting worked up, so he remembers the words his friend used to say, too. “Sun always rises. All I can do is be there to meet it. All I can do is keep my eyes up to see it, even when I think today’s the day it won’t. All I can do is watch for the light and hope, one day, it might be my Warlock’s, and you know what?” Go-9 shoves his rifle back into Shaw’s hands. The crumpled cookie box tumbles to the ground askew and unmissed. “My Warlock had an eye for longbores like this one. Why don’t you tell me about yours? Might be out of season for the Festival of the Lost, but it sounds to me like you and her had a lot to talk about in terms of gear. Sounds like you had a lot you didn’t get to say.”
The breath that escapes Shaw Han leaves him like it’s been hiding in his chest for too long -- like he’d been holding it before this conversation had ever started. He looks from the rifle, to Go, back to the rifle (and not once over his shoulder), before he gives the Trophy Hunter a thoughtful bounce to get a better feel for its weight. He takes an appraising look through the scope again, and shakes his head with a defeated grin that unfurls itself into a smile that's as much his as the others, perhaps a little lacking in luster, but his all the same. Shaw’s smile finds its way into his words. “I was always telling her to keep that scope on hers calibrated, y’know, but she never cared about upkeep or tune ups; she was always just moving on to the next new thing. You should’ve seen her face when she got her Beloved…”

Part 3
That afternoon as the blue sky fumed with puffy white clouds that veiled the sun, Uncle Barney took me out to the pier at the back of the cabin and taught me how to operate the boat.
Just in case, he said, exactly the same thing that Dad had said to me.
We didn't dare venture out into the lake for a practical lesson, for obvious reasons, so I had to make do with the theoretical knowledge of running the boat. Uncle Barney didn't seem to like that, cursed under his breath and said he wished we had more time. I said I wished we didn't have to do this at all. Certainly not in preparation for a Djinn-induced emergency.
After he was satisfied that he'd taught me everything he could under the circumstances, he let me leave and began doing some maintenance work on the boat. I entered the cabin through the sliding glass doors and found Dad sitting on a cane chair in the living room, right next to a window adjacent to the front door. A book was propped up on his lap, ignored, as he drew the curtains off to the side, just a bit, using the little gap to peer outside.
"Looking for Mom?" I asked.
He jumped, the book falling from his lap. "What?" He asked, his eyes large like those of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "No... No. Just checking the fence. Nothing else."
"You shouldn't let the Djinn mess with your head." I said. "That's what you told me, remember?"
" I really wasn't…" He trailed off. He could see I didn't believe him and so didn't bother defending that weak lie.
Mom is not coming back, Dad. Not matter how much we might want that to happen.
I didn't say that, of course. Didn't have to. The heavy sadness that filled his eyes was evidence enough of that fact that he understood that the wraith outside had just been a pale, and decidedly malicious imitation of the real thing. But even a cold, false light can give hope to a man lost in the darkness.
I gave him a reassuring smile and went upstairs to my room.
*
My phone had been blinking nonstop since the morning with birthday wishes from my friends and those who pretended to be my friends. I didn't have the heart to reply to any of them. It all seemed so distant, like the girl getting the messages wasn't me, but some stranger on another planet. Scrolling through those messages, the perfunctory "Happy Birthday ;)" texts on group chats that looked like they were simply copied from the ones preceding them made my heart feel heavy. Sluggish. They were going about their lives without an inkling of what I was going through. I wish I could be like them. Carefree, ignorant of the things that lurk in the shadows.
I dozed off looking at Mom's Facebook profile, last night's exhaustion and the sound of Uncle Barney clattering around in the boat gently lulling me to a short and restless sleep.
I jolted awake, some forgotten nightmare hurling me back to conscious. Blinking my dry eyes open, I checked my phone and saw that only about 10 minutes had passed since I was last alert enough to check the time. An unnerving silence had descended on my surroundings. I frowned. That's odd. Had Uncle Barney already finished working on the boat? From what he had told me, it would take at least half an hour to get it done.
Did something happen while I was napping?
I jumped out of bed and ran to the window overlooking the lake, breathing a sigh of relief when I spotted Uncle Barney. He was next to the boat, crouching on the wooden slats of the pier and staring down at the lake, his nose almost touching its clear surface which shimmered and rippled under his breath.
What? Did he drop something in the water?
I waited for him to move. To do something. To plunge his hand into the water, to begin grasping for whatever it was that he was looking for. Nothing. He just stayed there on his hands and knees like a dazed gargoyle.
Something was wrong, I could feel it.
"Uncle Barney?" I croaked, fear robbing my voice of its usual strength.
No response. I could hear the water gently sloshing against the wooden beams supporting the pier but nothing else. Uncle Barney was motionless, as if he was frozen to that spot. I cleared my throat and prepared to call out his name once again.
A loud splash cut me off as Uncle Barney was yanked towards the water by something invisible. His head sank into the depths of the lake, and that's when his body finally started to move again.
He was fighting to break free from whatever was trying to drown him. His limbs shook and flailed and writhed as he desperately tried to pull himself out. But it was useless. Whatever was pulling him down was far too powerful. And instead of breaking free, he began to be dragged towards the bottom of the lake, his neck and shoulders sinking into the water even as he slipped his fingers between the thin gap between two wooden slats to try and stop his descent.
It was when his feet went up in the air because of gravity that I finally snapped out of the shock that I was in.
"Dad!" I shouted as I darted out of my room and began running downstairs after quickly shooting a glance at my father's room and confirming that he wasn't there. Maybe he was still down in the living room. My bare feet pounded on the steps as I stomped my way down.
"Dad!" I yelled again. He wasn't there in the living room either. Where was he?
"Dad!"
I could see Uncle Barney through the sliding glass doors. Everything from his waist up was now in the water. And my father was nowhere to be seen, or heard. I thought about calling for him again.
No time. Uncle Barney was going to die. I hastily crossed the room and reached the sliding glass doors, before hesitating.
What if this is not real? What if the Djinn was making me see all this? What if Uncle Barney isn't really out there, and what if I hadn't actually called out for Dad? My fingers reached for the comfort of the Talisman. Maybe I should just walk away.
I shook my head. I couldn't take that chance. What if my assumption was wrong? What if all this was real? I could not lose another family member. I would not be able to take it again.
I slid the doors open with such force they slammed off to the side, the glass panes rattling in their frames. Uncle Barney's struggles were growing weaker and weaker, his body was becoming slack. I was fast running out of time.
I ran out, crossed the solid hardwood of the porch which soon gave way to the slats of the pier that pinched the flesh of my feet. Uncle Barney's frantic splashing had made the entire area wet and I had to be careful to make sure I didn't slip and go tumbling into a watery grave beside him.
As I reached Uncle Barney's now lifeless body, I fell down to my knees and grabbed his legs, just as they began to be dragged into the water. The meagre muscles in my spindly arms stretched to the point of snapping as I tried to pull him up. He was so heavy it felt like a ship's anchor had been tied around his neck. My face burned with the strain and exhaustion as I tried to pull him back up. I could feel my butt sliding across the slats. Too heavy. Too damn heavy. I wasn't strong enough. And my hands were slipping on his soaked jeans.
I reached forward and grabbed him by the leather belt wrapped around his waist, the effort causing him to slip further in, but letting me get a better grip on him. I then tucked my ankles in the gap between the slats and braced them against the edge of the pier. The new position swung things in my favour as Uncle Barney's descent came to a sudden halt. I pulled. And pulled and pulled and pulled until it felt like my arms were going to pop off.
But Uncle Barney moved. I was beginning to drag him out. Little by little, like a rope being yanked out of a well, I began pulling him up. His waist, his back, his shoulders, I pulled them all out inch by inch. Relief rippled through me as his head popped out, his thinning hair now a tangled mess of matted locks that were sticking to his scalp.
I turned him on his back and checked for any signs of breathing, whimpering when I found none.
C'mon Ciara. It's not over yet.
I placed my hands on his chest, one on top of the other, and began pressing down on his squishy shirt with what little strength I had left.
C'mon. C'mon. C'mon.
His chest sank under the pressure I applied on his body, but he didn't move.
Please. Not like this.
I went through the entire process of CPR, as well as I remembered it, hoping it would be enough. But I wasn't sure. Maybe my hands were too weak to properly compress his chest, maybe my lungs weren't strong enough, maybe my technique was too improper. Too amateurish and riddled with errors.
Please work. Please work.
Tears stung my eyes. But I didn't give up.
Uncle Barney finally rewarded my efforts with a gurgling cough that rattled his chest. Foamy water gushed out of his mouth and trailed off to the side as his eyes shot open. My own exhausted lungs sucked in air in spastic gasps even as a terrible fit of hacking cough shook Uncle Barney's body.
Black dots of exhaustion and relief began to blot out my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a series of silent sobs. I had done it. I had saved him.
"Thank…. Thank you." Uncle Barney whispered, his voice hoarse and heavy, like his throat was ripping it out from the murky depths of an ocean.
"What happened?" I asked. "What were you doing?"
He coughed. It was deep, emerged from his chest with a long rumble. "I - I heard her voice. Emily's. I was checking the motor to see whether water was being properly discharged from it or not, and I heard her. Calling out to me."
He shook his head and propped himself up on his elbows. "I knew it wasn't real. Couldn't be. She's not here, right? But the pull was so damn strong. Just couldn't resist. Had to see where it was coming from. Her voice."
"I climbed out of the boat and strained my ears to listen. And there it was again. But it was distant. And yet muted. You know what I mean? Like it was coming from underwater. But it couldn't be. That's just impossible. I bent my head and looked down. And my knees nearly gave out when I saw her in the water. She was pale. So damn pale. Bloated, like a corpse. Scared the shit out of me."
He wiped water off his brow with trembling hands. "She was smiling at me. A cold, vicious little grin stretched on cracked, blood red lips. She spread her arms out, as if she was beckoning me to join her in the water. I found myself moving towards her, even though I didn't want to. It was like I wasn't in control of my body anymore. As my face neared the water, her hands shot out, wrapped around my neck and began pulling me under. My face splashed through the water and that's when I realised what was happening. I tried to fight, but she was too strong. It was like her arms were made out of iron."
He took a deep breath. "You - you saved me, Ciara. I would have died if it wasn't for you. Thank you."
I hugged him, drenched clothes and all.
"I am supposed to be the one protecting you, little tigress." He said. "Not the other way around."
"It's okay…"
…
"CIARA!"
My heart skipped a beat as Dad's panicked yell rang out from somewhere inside the cabin.
"Freddy." Uncle Barney said. "Where is he?"
"CIARA!"
"I don't know." I replied. "I tried to find him as I was coming to help you, but he wasn't there anywhere in the cabin."
Loud footsteps boomed like gunshots on the stairs inside the cabin. I scrambled for the house as Uncle Barney staggered on to his feet. "Go tell him you're fine," he yelled, "before he does anything stupid."
I burst into the cabin, anxiety turning my brain into mush. My eyes rocketed towards the front door as Dad threw it open and dashed out.
"DAD!" I screamed, but he paid my voice no mind. I ran after him, snaking around the furniture and bolting out the cabin. Dad was already jumping over the fence, trying to make his way into the woods.
"CIARA!" He screamed. "Come back!"
As I exited the cabin, I saw why Dad was in such a hurry. He was chasing after me. Or the Djinn's mirage that looked exactly like me, who had now entered the forest. Dad though it was me. That the Djinn had somehow fooled me into leaving the house.
My heart sank in my chest. The Djinn was going to kill him.
Bastard!
No. No. No. I wasn't going to let that happen. I wasn't letting him take anyone else from me. I had saved Uncle Barney. And now I was going to save my father.
My hands wrapped around the barbed wire. I pulled it apart, to create just enough space for me to slip out.
Part 5
M

The younger of our brilliant, honors-division daughters returned from her university at Christmastime with a big, red, raw blister on the palm of her right band. In the solicitous manner of fathers, I demanded to know what had happened to her. She muttered something about some man.
“What?” I cried. “A man did this to you? A man has tortured my little child?”
She turned away in shame. “It wasn’t a man. It was Pac-Man,” she choked out. Then she turned to me with desperation in her voice. “You must help me. Whatever you do, give me no money. No matter how I beg and plead. Pay my bills at college directly. End my checking account. Warn your friends that I might hit them up.”
“What are you talking about?” I screamed. So she poured out the terrible tale of her humiliation. It seems that on the Friday night before Christmas vacation she and several friends, sober students all, had gone to a video arcade. Our daughter has been to Europe, Disneyland, Gettysburg and the Riverfront Stadium. She speaks Russian. Nonetheless, she was ill prepared for the real world, the lights that dazzle and the sounds that beckon. She innocently slipped a quarter into the Pac-Man slot, curled her fingers around the controls, held the bright red ball of the joy stick firmly against her palm, and there she remained -- hour upon hour, quarter after quarter, desperately trying to keep her Pac-Man out of the voracious jaws of four different-colored and deceptively cute-looking monsters; trying to make him eat up the dots on the “table” and down the bunches of fruit which occasionally appeared; and sporadically trying to make him turn the monsters into frightened blue turn-tails by eating “energizing dots” -- all of this in an attempt to build up points for the owner of the increasingly blistered hand.
Before the night was over she had spent all the money she had with her, tried to cash checks, borrowed all the cash her friends had, begged money from strangers, and finally been dragged back to her room, screaming and sobbing, “Just one more quarter. One more. I’ve got it now. I’ve figured it out. I can beat ‘em this time.” Her friends closed their ears. They had all been through it. In fact, they returned to their dorm and formed the first campus chapter of PA (Pac-Man Anonymous)
I was shocked, chagrined, shamed and humiliated. Christmas cookies and peanut brittle lost their allure for a child of Joe Cool, the Ice Man, known to his colleagues as “Dr. Death” because of the level of his excitement at church committee meetings; she had sold her subzero birthright for a heated romp through a video maze.
As the days slogged on in the after-Christmas slush, I knew not what to do. My child was a junkie, and I could not understand or identify with her experience. I could not comprehend how anyone, especially a child of mine, could just lose control that way.
Then one day I was walking through a local shopping center, passing by the gaping mouth of its video arcade, where an oily looking man sat on a stool, an evil smile curling the corners of his serpentine mouth, as he suggestively jingled the quarters in his little leather apron. I glanced quickly around. Seeing no one I knew, I slipped into the arcade and was suddenly surrounded by dozens of moving, lighted, gonging, clanging video machines. They all seemed not only to be watching me as I hurried through the narrow corridors separating them, but to beckon me as well. “Hey, Big Boy, want to go to heaven for a quarter?” “Hey, Honey, you lookin’ for action?” “Hey, Mister, slip me a quarter and we can really have a good time!”
I came to the one marked “Pac-Man” and read the instructions on how to play. I did not understand them. They reminded me of IRS instructions on how to prepare an alternate Schedule C for a 1040-A. Either you are born understanding such things or you are not. The game was already in motion, showing the uninitiated what could happen, and introducing novice players not only to the names of the characters but also to their nicknames. Since I did not understand those either, in my mind they became Hinkey, Dinkey, Parley and Vous, and so they have remained.
Deciding that the only way to comprehend the instructions was to play, I slipped a quarter into the slot. Four little monsters appeared in a cage in the middle of the maze, while Pac-Man appeared toward the bottom of it, eating the dots that populated every half-inch of every corridor of the table. I guided him along, seeing the score rise as the dots were consumed. Suddenly I realized the monsters were uncaged, and converging on Pac-Man! I twisted the joy stick desperately, but they were coming at him from all sides. Coming at him? They were coming at me! I was there in that maze, fighting for survival, a survival that was not to be. As they caught me and I melted down to nothing, a short, sad, awful funeral dirge played.
But wait! The monsters returned to their cage, the consumer dots remained digested and Pac-Man reappeared. I was reborn, still in control. I was in the maze again but I was also outside it, looking on, the aptly named joy stick still in my hand. Cherries appeared near at hand -- a chance for an easy 200 points, and the chase was on once more. This time I understood. I could do it!
I did not do it, of course. My successive Pac-Men ate more dots and avoided the monsters a little longer, but the end for each one was the playing of the same sad little song. When three had gone that way, the board flashed the awful words, “Game Over.” Without thinking, I reached, into my pocket for a second quarter.
With my second game I discovered that there were four big dots which, when consumed, energized Pac-Man, changing him into a monster. The real monsters turned blue and ran at the terrifying sight of the turning worm, the righteous avenger, the passive one becoming aggressive, the meek inheriting the maze. While the monsters were blue I could chomp them with the jaws of Pac-Man and get 200 points each. But, alas, they remain blue only momentarily. Just as I was about to catch Hinkey he began to flash back into his old color. I turned, but too late, and the sad song played for me once more.
When my quarters were finally gone, I started to run to the man at the door. He had quarters while I had only useless dollars. I must make a monetary exchange.
Then I realized . . . It was happening to me, too. Just as my “chomper” (in the argot of the game) had been consumed by the monsters, I had been consumed by Pac-Man. And my tale is not singular. If truth be told, many an otherwise upright citizen slips into many a video arcade with a sweaty palm full of quarters and a surreptitious glance over his shoulder.
Why is this so? Of all the video games, why has Pac-Man captured the imagination, and the quarters, of so many? Because it is based on the Christian understanding of life, that’s why. Pac-Man is a phenomenon of the industrialized countries not just because it is part of the advanced technology of electronics, but because those are the countries most thoroughly saturated with the Christian story. Pac-Man is based on the biblical narrative, its story the same one Jesus told in a different way. Pac-Man is existence, captured in the bleeps and blips of the electronic board. It is, in short, life.
The little white dots that Pac-Man gobbles up are days, the regular chronology of existence. You get points for downing them -- not many points, not big points, but you get something just for going through the maze. With the control stick you can go any direction you wish, though of course you have no choice but to stay within the confines of the maze itself.
John S. Dunne says that there are three strangers that invade our lives: the world, mortality and sexuality. I would add aging as a fourth. Perhaps these are the monsters that pursue our hero, Pac-Man.
When these variously colored monsters appear at the center of the maze, you do not automatically and immediately know that they are monsters. The instructions may tell you they are, others may have warned you about them, but they look so innocent, so benign, so cute. They even have nicknames, for Pete’s sake! Demons -- I mean monsters -- do not have nicknames. It is, interesting to note that Pac-Man and the monsters are very similar in appearance and chomping ability, and are all rather lovable. Of course, demons always disguise themselves to look lovable, to look as much like their prey as possible.
Despite their resemblance to one another, each monster is different from the others in behavior. They move at different speeds and follow different patterns through the maze. If you cannot distinguish between them as the game progresses, you are much more likely to get caught. Naturally, with four monsters and only one Pac-Man, the odds are hardly even. The patterns of the monsters are bound to converge on Pac-Man sooner or later, and it is usually sooner. At such times, Pac-Man’s only salvation is in one of the four energy dots that transfigure him into a superman and make the monsters run for their lives.
Monsters, however, do not scare for very long. Those religious experiences of life, those times when we are so spiritually supercharged that demons quake at the sight, do not last very long, and the monsters know it. Soon they begin to flash, meaning they are going to turn back to their usual colors. Normalcy will soon return, and Pac-Man had better get back to eating as many dots as possible, to run up the score before the monsters come again. It is worth noting that the longer the game goes on, the faster the monsters move, and the shorter their blue periods are. It is just like what happens as one advances in the spiritual life.
Occasionally as Pac-Man makes his way, cherries appear in the maze, and if you are good enough to get into the advanced stages of the game, other types of fruit also show up. If your Pac-Man can eat them, you get big bonus points. The problem is that you never know when or where they will appear, and they usually lure Pac-Man away from the safety of the energy dots, out to where the monsters are freewheeling through the alleys. You might call the fruits opportunity, or you might call them temptation.
If Pac-Man manages to outwit the monsters long enough to eat all the dots in the maze, there is a short intermission and even a little show in which all the characters cavort about harmlessly. It is a plateau, a short rest, before another maze appears, and life goes on. It would be interesting to compare the various mazes to Erik Erikson’s stages of growth or James Fowler’s stages of faith, though I haven’t been able to do so because I am stuck in the beginning mazes. It is clear, however, that the successive mazes of Pac-Man in some way bear witness to life as it moves from one stage to another.
I suspect that Pac-Man was developed by those in the Wesleyan tradition. Some sort of “prevenient grace” predisposes humans with quarters to enter into the maze and “to go on to perfection.” But there is a Hebraic strain, too. An adaptation of the game is a switch to silence its electronic sounds allowing the player to “Be still, and know
The clincher, however, that relates Pac-Man to life is the price one pays. The unadept pay a high price in quarters; the adept require less money, but pay in time and concentration and Pac-Man elbow!
Why does Pac-Man appeal? Because it mirrors the patterns of reality. Like life, it presents us with days of frustration and moments of salvation; it includes pursuit by demons and rebirth for another try; it makes us attempt to survive through maze after maze. It includes the hope that pulls one on, and the sad song at the end when one finally steps away and another takes one’s place at the controls. Pac-Man is the story of life as we hear it in the Judeo-Christian tradition; it is the most thoroughly theological of all the video games.
When the Century pays me for this article, I would like the money in quarters.

December’s a pretty festive time in Atlantic Dale. Like the rest of the country, we love this time of year: an excuse to deck out the house in pretty lights and consume copious amounts of spiked eggnog and blow our paychecks on fun little presents no one will ever use. You know, the classics. But our town has traditions of a different kind too.
It’s been one year since the infamous “Drunken Santa” incident, when a department store Santa down at the strip mall puked all over a kid’s lap and then fainted in his chair. Instead of getting the kid trauma therapy or implementing stricter protocols at the mall, our town did what it does and threw a slew of “holiday spirits” parties, which involved hanging around in Santa hats and getting totally shitfaced. Sometimes, on Saturday nights, you can hear the distant sounds of drunken singing – plus loud bangs as the partygoers shoot up Christmas ornaments with their handguns. It’s always a fun time.
So for us, December is a time to celebrate. All the bullshit from the rest of the year can’t hold a candle to the spirit of the season.
* * * * *
It’s been a few months now since I lost my husband, Mike. By which I mean he won the goddamn lottery and skipped town to go party with bikini babes in the Bahamas. I guess “ex-husband” is more accurate since I was in the process of divorcing his ass before he left. All the girls at the salon told me to hang in there since he was a rich man now, but come on. No amount of money was worth keeping that lazy son of a bitch around.
I guess I should be mad that he decided to dump his dogs on me while he’s away, but I really can’t, because (if I’m being honest) I’ve always loved those two more than him. Matheson and Growly are like the sons I never had, except better because they’re not hormonal teenagers. Matheson is a sleepy basset hound who likes to curl up by the window and sunbathe. Growly is the cutest little corgi with the ditsiest attention span I’ve ever seen. They’re always happy to see me when I get home, which is nice after a day of listening to Karens bitch about their neighbors and husbands and everything under the sun while I bleach their hair. I wonder if there’s any way to claim the dogs in the divorce.
It isn’t easy living on my own, especially with all the gossipy rednecks whispering about my marital woes when they think I’m not listening. God forbid a woman’s allowed to be single these days. Sometimes I spend the morning staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tell myself, you’re better than them, Ruby. And it’s true. I’ve got a rocking mom bod and I went to community college. I bet most of the hicks around here think Steinbeck is a talk show host or something.
Anyway, I’m way too cool for them, and especially for a loser like Mike. The only local who doesn’t make me want to tear my hair out is the town sheriff, Libby Lombardi. That’s mostly because she’s a lesbian and she’s used to taking shit from stupid people. I respect that. I met a lot of lesbians at community college and honestly, they know how to have a good time. That’s why I was stoked when Libby invited me to her “holiday spirits” party down at the Swinging Boulder.
It was a themed dress-up event, but the only Christmas outfit I had was an old t-shirt of Mike’s with a picture of a smirking Grinch and the quaint caption MY HEART’S NOT THE ONLY THING GROWING THREE SIZES. Crass as expected, but I figured Libby and the girls would get a laugh out of it. I threw it on and grabbed some cheapo Christmas beads from the closet to complete the picture.
The dogs were invited too, but Growly had gotten into my lunch bag and gobbled up the rest of my grapes, so the poor pup had to spend the night at the vet until he stopped puking. I’d be more worried if he hadn’t pulled a stunt like this three times already. As for Matheson, I figured I’d run with the Grinch theme and dress him up like the dog Max from the movie. It was obvious from the morose look in his eyes that he didn’t care for the plastic antlers or the big red clown nose, but he sucked it up anyway. Matheson was good like that.
The Swinging Boulder was a little ways out of town, situated right at the edge of the touristy part of the Everglades. The lesbian bar shared a parking lot with a rinky-dink motel called (you can’t make this shit up) the Beaver Street Inn. Both buildings were draped in strings of red and green lights, and so were the pair of palm trees arching over the entrance to the bar. I pulled into the lot and dragged a reluctant Matheson out of the car. Christmas music floated out of the open doorway: Eartha Kitt trying to seduce her “Santa Baby.”
I led Matheson inside and was greeted with a cheer by Sheriff Lombardi, who was clearly a few drinks in already. She tugged on a despondent Matheson’s cheeks and told him what a cute boy he was, yes he was. Libby’s wife, Jamie Guterman, came over to drag the sheriff away with an apologetic smile. The couple wore matching red tops with bits of white fluff lining the sleeves and HOW’S THIS FOR GAY APPAREL? written in sparkly cursive on the front.
I took the cup of spiked eggnog Jamie slipped to me and wandered around the bar. The place was cute, if a bit cramped. Strings of garland and mistletoe stretched from wall to wall, paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, mounds of fake snow surrounded the table full of appetizers. All the other tables had been pushed aside to create a makeshift dance floor. Women of all ages and body types swayed and chatted and sipped from their frosty glasses. Everyone wore little felt antlers or Santa hats or silly Christmas shirts. The bartender was a sturdy woman in a blond ponytail and a drooping Santa hat of her own, and she didn’t smile once as she poured out each drink.
I didn’t really know anyone except Libby, and she was currently being propped up by Jamie in the corner, sloshing beer onto her top. Matheson trudged along by my side as I drifted around the room, wondering who to talk to. I was usually good in crowds, but everyone here seemed like best friends already, and butting into their conversations felt like a surefire way to make things awkward. Maybe I needed a little more booze in me before getting sociable.
I downed my eggnog in one gulp, and that was when I saw the guy standing by the appetizers. I don’t know how the hell I’d missed him before. He must have been six and a half feet tall, skinny as a palm tree, with a red fedora propped on his head and a peppermint stick jutting from his mouth like a cigar. He wore the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen. It was covered in baubles and lights and ridiculous white tufts and said HAPY HOLIDAYS (yes, without the “P”) in blocky green letters. The fabric was more maroon than red and looked way too puffy and hot for the Florida climate. He tugged on the collar, sweat beading on his forehead, as he looked nervously around the room.
I wasn’t so desperate that I would flirt with the only man in a room full of lesbians, but the poor guy looked as out of place as I felt, and I figured it would be easier to talk to him than anyone else. I lugged Matheson over and planted myself by the stranger’s side. He didn’t seem to notice me at all, so I cleared my throat.
“Hey,” I said, straining to be heard over the music. “I’m Ruby.”
The guy jumped like a bomb had gone off next to him. His absurd fedora nearly flew off his head. He looked down at me, straightening his hat, and his tension seemed to ease somewhat – although his shoulders did grow stiff when he noticed Matheson lounging by my feet.
“Oh, um, hi,” he said. His voice was raspy, like a chainsmoker’s, but it cracked on the last syllable. “I’m, uh, Detective Smith.” He stared at Matheson like the dog might sprout actual antlers and fly away like one of Santa’s reindeer.
I knelt down and removed his leash. “Go ahead and take a nap or something, buddy,” I said. Matheson gave me that puppy-dog look of his, then wandered off into the corner and curled up in a ball underneath the appetizer table. Smith looked visibly relieved.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m just. Well. I’m not the best with dogs.”
I could believe it. The guy looked like he might have a nervous breakdown if a car backfired down the block.
“What brings you here?” I asked him.
He seemed distracted, his eyes surveying the room from beneath the brim of his festive fedora. “Krampus,” he said. He nibbled at the end of his peppermint stick.
“Don’t think I know her,” I replied.
Smith turned to me, eyes wide. “Oh no, Krampus didn’t invite me!” he said, as if that was the part that had tripped me up. He lowered his face and leaned down to whisper secretively in my ear. “I’m here hunting him. Krampus is a Christmas demon, like the anti-Claus. I received a tipoff that he was coming to this town to claim the souls of naughty children.”
“Really, now,” I said. I should have left him to be crazy by himself, but he was honestly the most entertaining part of this party, so why not humor the guy? “What’s this Krampus look like?”
“He’s big and hairy and horned, like a goat,” Smith replied. He made little horn shapes on the top of his fedora. “Sometimes he wears a suit like Santa Claus to trick the kids into trusting him. He’s good at that, you know, putting on disguises. He tricks you into thinking he’s a holiday reveler until he stuffs you in his sack for his seasonal sacrifice.”
I tried to look shocked. “Oh no!” I said. “Well, good thing there’s no kids at this party. Just a bunch of drunken lesbians.”
Smith’s brow furrowed in concern. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I don’t get. My intel was very specific. They told me for sure that Krampus would be here tonight.”
I glanced around the room. “Maybe you should mingle with the guests, get them talking,” I said. “One of them could be Krampus in disguise.”
“Oh, I can’t,” he said hastily. “I have to guard the nectar.”
“Excuse me?”
He pointed at a punch bowl full of clear, bubbly liquid that looked like knockoff brand Sprite. I leaned down and gave the stuff a whiff. It smelled like someone had taken a bunch of wintergreen candies and melted them down into a sweet, sugary, carbonated mess.
“This is soda,” I observed.
Smith went on the defensive. “Well,” he said, “yes, technically, it is soda. I couldn’t make an infusion of birch nectar myself so I had to import some birch beer from this home brewery in Vermont. Krampus likes the taste of birch, you know,” he explained. “He’s drawn to it. I figured, if any of the guests go for the stuff, I’ll know they’re Krampus in disguise.”
“Seems foolproof,” I said, trying to rub the cloying scent out of my nose. “Can’t imagine any human being drinking that shit.”
“Exactly!” Smith exclaimed, missing my sarcasm. He settled back, satisfied, a little smile on his face. I stared at him and tried to imagine what was going on in that wild brain of his.
“I like your shirt,” I said, if only to say something at all. Smith looked down and tugged on the bottom of his sweater, like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.
“Oh,” he said. “Thanks. Yours is nice too.” He squinted intently at my shirt. If he’d been any other guy, I would have assumed he was checking out my rack, but somehow I didn’t see Smith as that kind of type.
“I don’t get it though,” he said. “What does that mean?”
I glanced down at the smirking Grinch and that stupid line about “growing three sizes.”
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I replied.
“No, I really don’t get it,” he said.
While I tried to figure out how to explain a dick joke to a grown man, the music overhead switched from Burl Ives to the tinkling opening chimes of “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Smith immediately stiffened. His eyes grew wide and scared.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s her.”
“Who, Mariah?” I asked.
“I have to stop this song,” he said in a strangled voice. “Everyone here is in terrible danger!”
“I mean, yeah, it’s overplayed as hell,” I replied. “But I don’t see how a Mariah Carey song is anything to –”
“She’s a siren!” Smith yelped. “Her voice will drive you mad and reduce your brain to mush!” He nearly swallowed his peppermint stick as he hurled himself away from the table, pushing his way through the crowd. He looked back at me only once, clutching his fedora to his head, and shouted, “Watch the nectar!” Then he slipped down a side hallway and was gone.
“Sure thing, buddy,” I muttered.
I thought about wandering away to mingle with some of the other guests, but Matheson was snoring away under the table and I figured I shouldn’t leave him alone. I tipped my glass and tried to slurp up the last drops of eggnog. When I lowered it, there was yet another stranger standing in front of me. Emphasis on “strange.” They were six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing what looked like a police officer costume that was just a bit too small for them. There was a floppy brown wig on their head and dots of stubble on their cheeks that were clearly drawn on with magic marker.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
“Good evening, citizen,” they said in a gruff, obviously fake Southern accent. “I was wondering if you happened to see a suspicious character pass through these parts. He’s very skinny, usually smoking, jumpy, about yea high.” They held their hand six inches above their head. “We worked together on a case awhile back. I was hoping to chat with him.”
I gave them a cursory once-over. “And who’s asking?”
“Sorry,” they said. They extended a very smooth, very bulky hand. “I’m constable Mike Hannity. Nice to meetcha.”
I just about dropped my empty glass on the floor. It takes a lot to disarm me, but the stranger had done the equivalent of detonating a smoke bomb in my face. Who the hell was this clown? They might have been a man, they might have been a woman, they might have been neither, but one thing they weren’t was my shitty ex-husband.
“Huh,” I said. “That’s funny. I’m Ruby Herringbone, but I used to be a Hannity. At least until my ex struck it rich and ditched me to go party in the tropics.”
The stranger’s eyes widened. “Ah,” they said. Our conversation drifted into silence. I stared them down, while they plucked at the sleeve of their ridiculously tight cop outfit. Finally they brushed past me and poured themself a cup of Smith’s imported birch beer. They took a deep sip, then smacked their lips.
“Mmm,” they said. “Good stuff.”
I was spared from finding a new talking point by a sudden blip of static from overhead; Smith, it seemed, had succeeded in silencing the deadly “siren song.” The stranger calling themself Mike placed down their cup and glanced up at the speakers.
“Sorry to bother you,” they said. Then they tucked in their shoulders and bumped their way through the crowd, disappearing down the same side hallway Smith had taken earlier.
This was officially the weirdest party I’d ever been to, and I wasn’t even drunk yet. I debated leaving Matheson alone for a sec to grab some vodka from the bar. But when I looked over at the unsmiling bartender, she was gone, her counter totally bare. Bathroom break, I figured. I sighed and poured a little of Smith’s birch beer into my eggnog glass. The stuff really did taste like liquid wintergreen. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but damn, did I wish it had a kick to it.
That was when the night took yet another turn. All the power in the building died suddenly, plunging us into darkness and causing half the guests to cry out in alarm. (Someone cried out, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” It might have been me.) There was only a sliver of moonlight to see by. I felt my way toward the corner where Matheson was sleeping, only to jostle the end of the table and drop my glass for real this time. It hit the ground with a thud, making someone scream a little, and rolled off into the darkness.
There was another sound below the murmurs of the partygoers: a low, throaty growling, like a wild animal. It took me a second to realize the growl was coming from Matheson. I’d never heard the little guy get so guttural before. I finally managed to kneel down and scoop him up in my arms, but he struggled, trying to break away.
“What’s gotten into you, boy?” I asked.
Then he started to bark: harsh, threatening. I looked up to see what had freaked him out, only to see a bulky silhouette standing in the door to the side hall. Their face was hidden in the shadows, but it looked like they were wearing a ratty Santa suit and carrying a burlap sack over their shoulder. They shifted slightly, letting the moonlight fall over their forehead, and I saw what looked like a pair of curved horns sprouting from a hairy temple.
I froze.
Matheson suddenly squirmed out of my grip and charged at the figure in the doorway, barking like a dog twice his size. I scrambled to my feet and tried to hurry after him. But he was booking it, his little legs scampering across the wooden floor. The shadowy figure vanished from the door frame, and Matheson ran after him, his paws retreating into the distance with a clickety-clack sound.
“Shit,” I breathed. I got to my feet and hurried after him, only to collide with a lanky figure who’d just emerged from the side hallway. Both of us let out an almost comical oof of breath and fell back on our asses. The figure’s hat slipped off his head and rolled into the darkness, and I realized I’d run straight into Detective Smith.
“Ow,” he mumbled. “I swallowed my mint stick.”
I fumbled for the edge of the doorway and pulled myself up. Matheson’s scampering paws had gone silent, and I didn’t like to think about how lost he might get in the halls of this place – and who he might have gotten lost with. I tried to inch past the Detective, only to find myself once again blocked by his impossibly lanky frame. He had swayed into my path without seeming to realize it.
“Will you move?” I snapped. “My dog just ran off with some fucker in a Santa suit and I’d like to get him back.”
Smith stopped swaying. “Krampus?” he whispered. “You saw him?”
“I saw somebody,” I said, but the memory of those horns in the moonlight made me pause. I didn’t believe Smith’s crackpot story about the anti-Claus for a second. But it sure was strange how a stranger matching that description had showed up at the party, just like Smith had been expecting…
“Hang on,” I said. “You’re a detective, right?”
Smith tugged nervously at the collar of his sweater. I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I had a feeling he was sweating. “Um, yeah,” he replied.
“So you’ve got a gun, then.”
“I, uh. Well. Yes,” he said. “I’m supposed to use it to take down Krampus.”
“Great,” I said. “You’re coming with me and bringing your gun, and you’re going to get my dog back.”
“Wait,” he stammered. “Shouldn’t we get the sheriff…?”
“Libby’s drunk off her ass and I’m not looking for her in the dark anyway,” I said. I grabbed his arm and dragged him, protesting weakly, into the deeper darkness of the side hallway. “Man up and get your shit together. We have a dog to rescue.”
Smith reluctantly stopped struggling, so I let go of his arm and yanked my phone out of my pocket. The stupid battery was in the red zone but it would at least give me a flashlight for another few minutes. I swung the light around the side hallway. It looked like we had ducked into the “Employees Only” part of the building, because the cheap holiday décor had been replaced by gray walls with faded OSHA posters. I made my hasty way around the corner, while the reluctant Smith trailed behind me.
“Stay close and keep your gun out,” I ordered. “This guy could be hiding anywhere.”
The detective made a grumbling sound, but he withdrew his gun from where it had been tucked into the seat of his pants. Mike used to wear his pistol like that, and I always told him he would shoot his asshole off if he wasn’t careful. The weirdo pretending to be my ex swam back into my mind. I wondered if he’d been telling the truth, at least somewhat. Did Mike and this detective know each other somehow? If so, I had a hard time believing that Mister Tall and Awkward here showing up at this party was a coincidence.
Any thoughts about grilling him for answers faded when I turned the second corner. The hall ended in a still-glowing EXIT sign and a wide-open door, which led straight out into the parking lot. I could make out a delivery truck and the string of Christmas lights above the motel entrance, but no sign of Matheson or the guy in the Krampus suit.
Santa suit, I corrected myself. Don’t let this kook get to you.
“Where did they go?” Smith asked quietly.
“Look,” I said, pointing. The Beaver Street Inn had strewn a bunch of fluffy fake snow around the lobby doors, and two lines of footprints let straight up to the entrance. One set was long and wide and looked like it belonged to a pair of boots. The other was an unmistakable set of dog prints.
I strode out the open door and headed for the motel lobby, ignoring Smith’s nervous protests from behind me. Compared to the darkness we’d just come from, the inn’s festive lights were practically blinding. It looked like whoever had cut the power had only done so in the Swinging Boulder. Was someone trying to create chaos, to draw us out? Maybe, but I was surprised that I didn’t really give a fuck. All I cared about right now was making sure my sweet little puppy was safe.
The automatic doors slid open as I approached, letting out a blast of AC. Inside was the shittiest little motel lobby I’d ever seen: a boxy room with tacky brown and green wallpaper, a musty carpet, a half empty brochure rack lined with touristy pamphlets, a vacant reception desk covered in what looked like dried puke, and a taxidermy beaver mounted above it all. There was single door marked FACILITIES in the far right corner.
It took me a second to notice the small, slumped shape in a pair of plastic antlers lying beside the door.
Icy panic shot through me. I lunged forward and threw myself down to Matheson’s side, my hands starting to tremble. The little bundle of fur wasn’t moving. I thought of all the times I’d seen him sunbathing by the window, all the times he’d come trudging into the kitchen to beg for dinner scraps. For a second my eyes grew hot and dry, and I forgot how to breathe. Then I noticed: his chest was rising and falling, so slow I hadn’t noticed the movement before. He wasn’t dead. The lazy little mongrel was taking a nap.
“Unbelievable,” I laughed, my voice cracking. “You’re just like your dad, you know that?”
I was in the process of reaching down to pet him when the air suddenly erupted in gunfire, scaring the shit out of me and startling poor Matheson awake. I grabbed him and threw us both to the ground. When I dared to look up, I saw Smith standing by the lobby doors, gun in hand. Bullets erupted the barrel in a series of erratic flashes and bangs, like he’d lost control of his trigger finger. His eyes were wide and scared and it looked like he was about to lose control of his bladder, too.
I barely noticed the hulking figure disappearing from the doorway leading back to the facilities; I was stunned into silence by the pounding of bullets, which left a series of stippled holes across the wallpaper and knocked the stuffed beaver clean off its perch. Smith eventually seemed to run out of ammo, because he lowered the gun and charged toward the swinging door beside us. Unfortunately the door swung back outward just as Smith reached it, beaning him in the head and sending him sprawling back on the carpet. I waited for him to get up, but he didn’t move. The door had knocked him clean out.
“What the fuck,” I uttered.
I left Matheson for a moment to examine the unconscious detective. His eyes were closed and fluttering slightly behind his eyelids. There was a red bumpy patch on his forehead where the door had struck him. I slapped him in the face a few times, and he stirred a little, but otherwise didn’t wake up. His gun had fallen from his hand and into the gnarly fibers of the carpet. I lifted it and checked for ammo, but it was clean out. Smith had blown every single bullet without hitting his target even once.
Typical, I thought.
I tossed the empty pistol aside and went back to check on Matheson. The little guy had pissed all over the floor, probably out of nerves, and he whimpered a little as I bent down to stroke his back. The red nose had fallen off somewhere in all the confusion. I gave him a kiss on his snout and removed the plastic antlers.
“Stay here, boy,” I said calmly. “Momma will be right back.”
I stood up and approached the bullet-riddled door in the corner. It had swung closed again, so I pushed it open slowly, peering around the door frame with one eye. The hall beyond was empty. I could hear the rattle of a cooling unit coming from the far end, but otherwise there was nothing here except a door leading to the employee restrooms and a long case on the wall with a pane of emergency glass.
I pushed the door open all the way and approached the case. Then I smashed it open with my elbow and delicately extracted the fire-axe from inside. I’d never seen one of these things outside of old movies, which I guess said something about how fucking ancient this motel actually was. The axe felt familiar as I hefted it from hand to hand. It felt right. Krampus or no Krampus, somebody was terrorizing this party and ruining my evening, and I intended to give them a piece of my mind.
The bathroom was a dead end: a single room with a nasty yellowing toilet, a graffitied mirror, and a sink that was practically hanging off the wall. That meant the guy in the Santa suit must have gone further in. I gripped the axe and inched my way along the hall, the rattling of the AC unit putting my whole body on edge. This hallway was at least well lit, but the light fixtures were lined with fly corpses, and they kept doing that horror-movie flicker thing – which didn’t exactly ease my nerves.
The rattle was coming from behind a second nondescript door at the end of the hall. I pushed it open, finding myself in a wide, dark room filled with looming shelves. I felt for a light switch on the inside wall but couldn’t find one. The idea of hunting down this figure in the dark wasn’t appealing, but I wasn’t sure I had much choice. My phone battery was totally dead, and besides, the light would have made me an easy target if this creep was hiding in the shadows.
I stepped inside and let the door close behind me. The AC continued to rattle away, disguising the sound of my footsteps. I approached one of the shelves and peered around the side, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I could see bundles of towels and boxes of what must have been toiletry supplies, but no distinct shadows, no sign that anyone else was hiding in this place. Sweat trickled down my neck and into the collar of my shirt. I tightened my grip on the axe and made my cautious way down the next aisle.
The cooling unit grew louder, its rattling more like a washing machine filled with pebbles, and I wondered if the damn thing was about to give out. I tiptoed down to the end of the shelf and braved another peek. Still nothing. There was only one more shelf to check behind, one more place this psycho could be hiding, and I felt my pulse pick up as I inched toward it.
Then two things happened at once: the AC abruptly died, its gravelly spin cycle sound cutting out with one last rumble, and a large, looming shadow enveloped the wall in front of me. I spun around, brandishing the axe in clammy hands. The hulking figure had snuck up without me noticing, and now they stood between me and the only way out, their broad shoulders almost stretching from one shelf to the other. My eyes had adjusted enough to make out the ratty red of their Santa suit and the large, bulky sack that dangled from their gloved hand. Their head was hairy and misshapen, and even though I couldn’t see their eyes, I knew they were staring right at me. Their curved horns jutted from their skull like tiny antler nubs.
It’s Krampus, Smith whispered in my head, and this time I found it harder to ignore him.
The figure reached toward their sack and began to undo the string keeping it closed. Something inside shifted and rattled, and I found myself suddenly, inexplicably terrified by what he might pull out from his bag of horrors. I lifted the axe, but it felt heavier than before. I reared back to launch a mighty swing, but it was too late; the sack was open, and the figure who I was actually starting to think of as Krampus was reaching inside –
But something made them stop and look down at their feet. The air filled with a deep, animal growl, and I realized that Matheson had somehow snuck up on us and latched onto the figure’s boot. They lifted their foot and tried to shake the dog free, but his teeth were in there deep, and the little guy refused to budge. I paused in mid-swing, wondering if I should follow through, when something struck the figure from behind with a massive thunk. A heavy box had collided with the back of their head and fallen to the floor, spilling bars of soap everywhere. The bulky figure swayed on their feet before losing their balance and crashing against the nearest shelf. Matheson finally let go of their boot, then lifted his leg and peed on it.
Detective Smith stood there behind them, his eyes wide with alarm, his arms held up like he’d just chucked a shotput.
“Nice throw there, buddy,” I said. I could barely hear my voice.
Smith didn’t answer me, instead leaning down to check on the figure he’d just beaned in the head. They were stirring feebly, but otherwise seemed totally out of it. He lifted a hand to touch the figure’s head, then curled up his fingers.
“Something’s wrong here,” he said quietly. “This whole situation felt off from the beginning. The party, the bar – it just isn’t Krampus’s usual stalking ground. And he only travels through chimneys, popping out here and there to claim his victims. It’s not like him to get around on foot.”
He stood up and grabbed a chain dangling from the ceiling, one I hadn’t noticed before. He gave it a yank, and the room flooded with more of that flickering yellow light. I blinked a bit to clear the spots from my vision. Then I got a good look at our mystery figure for the first time.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re just some fucker in a costume.”
Now that I could actually, you know, see them, it was clear that their furry horned face was nothing more than a Halloween mask. And a pretty cheap one, too – the horns were hollow and plastic, and there were big round eyeholes in the middle, so huge that the figure’s dazed blue eyes were clearly visible through them. I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a goat mask or a Devil mask, but either way, it was ugly as sin.
Smith knelt back down, and this time his hands wrapped around a tuft of fake hair. “Let’s see who you really are,” he muttered.
Then he yanked off the mask. Underneath was a broad, genderless face freckled with magic marker stubble: a face I recognized. They’d been wearing their ridiculous floppy brown wig under the mask, and the whole thing was askew on their head, like a ferret that had curled up there and died.
“Mike?” the detective gasped. “Mike Hannity? It can’t be!”
“It’s not – fucking hell.” I lowered the axe and reached out to snatch the wig off the stranger’s head. “I don’t know who this dumbass is, but they’re not my ex-husband.”
That was when the stranger started to come to. They groaned, then rubbed a gloved hand against their jaw, leaving a smear of magic marker. Smith dropped the mask on the ground and drew back in horror. Matheson waddled over and sniffed the furry thing, then curled up in a ball, clearly bored.
“No,” Smith choked out. “No, not you – anyone but you…”
The stranger noticed him for the first time. They chuckled, a sound that made Smith shiver and clench his fists.
“Long time no see, Stephen,” they said. Their voice was smooth and accent-free.
“You know this clown?” I asked.
“Their name is Sammy,” Smith answered, but it seemed to take immense effort to get the words out. “Sammy Vance. They made my life living hell during our Monster Hunter initiation. Always leaving dead rats in my bunk, sending me death threats, poisoning my meatloaf, you know… prank stuff like that.”
“I’m sorry, they poisoned your meatloaf?” I said. “Also, what the hell is ‘Monster Hunter initiation’?”
“They were always showing me up on field assignments,” Smith went on, totally ignoring me. “They had the best disguises, too. And then when we graduated, they were recruited by ARPAC, the best monster hunting agency in the nation. It was humiliating. I should have been there with them.”
“That’s the Associated Ring of Professional Anti-Cryptids,” Sammy told me, misreading the confusion on my face.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said. “I just want to know what this asshole is doing at my friend’s Christmas party dressed as evil Santa.”
“I’d like to know that too,” Smith murmured.
Sammy’s lips curled up into an infuriating smile. “Isn’t it obvious?” they said. “I invited Stephen to this party under the pretense that Krampus would be here. I knew he had history with this town, so it was obvious he would come running. From there I just needed to disguise myself as Krampus, get the bartender to kill the lights, and lure Stephen into a wild goose chase, setting him up for yet another failure as a hunter. It’s the perfect prank.”
“That’s not the perfect prank,” I said. “That’s the dumbest, shittiest prank I’ve ever seen, and I watch Jackass. Like, what was your endgame? Just run around in circles until Smith gets tired and you can laugh at him? You might as well crank call him and tell him his refrigerator’s running.”
Sammy’s maddening smile faded. The sight of it seemed to boost Smith’s spirits somewhat.
“Yeah,” he said, a sliver of confidence coming back into his voice. “You’re losing your touch, Sammy. We’re not at the academy anymore. Your stupid pranks won’t work on me now.”
Sammy didn’t respond, but their hand dropped slightly toward their overstuffed Santa sack, a motion that wasn’t lost on me.
“Shit,” I said, lifting up the fire-axe. “Smith, stop them!”
But Sammy moved faster than either of us. They plunged their hand into the depths of the bag and withdrew a round object that looked like a Christmas ornament, complete with a little hook at the top. Then they tugged off the hook and lobbed the object toward us. I shielded my eyes as a burst of bright red smoke erupted from the grenade and billowed outward, blocking out my entire field of vision. The smoke, oddly, smelled like fresh peppermint. I could hear Smith coughing and Matheson whimpering. Something small and warm brushed against my leg, but it was only the dog, seeking me out like he did during thunderstorms.
Soon I was coughing too, trying to get that peppermint taste out of my throat. It took about thirty seconds for the smoke to clear. By the time it dissipated, Sammy was gone. They’d taken their sack of pranks and slipped out of sight, leaving nothing except a dent where they’d fallen against a box of toothbrushes.
“Ah, dammit,” I said. “They got away.”
Smith looked disappointed, but not entirely surprised.
“Come on,” he said, sounding defeated. “Let’s go make sure the sheriff and everyone else are okay.”
* * * * *
The lights were on in the Swinging Boulder across the way when the three of us emerged from the facilities hallway. A slouching old woman in a gray tank top was kneeling over the bullet-riddled beaver and moaning slightly. She saw us enter the lobby and jumped half a foot in the air. She must have been the receptionist or something, because she began to bitch at us in a raspier smoker’s voice than Smith’s, complaining that we’d ruined her lobby and she was going to call the police and maybe the FBI and whatever, I honestly tuned her out. We walked right past her and left through the sliding glass doors.
“I should have known Krampus wasn’t real,” Smith said morosely. “All this time I should have been hunting actual cryptids, like the Florida skunk ape.”
I snorted. “Sounds like my ex-husband.”
Smith glanced over at me. “Is it true, then?” he asked. “You used to be married to Mike Hannity?”
“Seven years of my life I’ll never get back,” I said. “Sammy told me you worked a case with him once?”
A hint of a smile flickered on the detective’s face. “Yeah. Kind of a long story. Mike, he’s a bit…”
“Of a bastard, I know. Sorry you were forced to put up with him.”
“I was going to say abrasive,” Smith chuckled. “But he’s got a good heart.”
“Really?” I said. “Must be as small as his dick then, ‘cause I sure as hell haven’t seen it.”
Smith didn’t say anything to that. He just kept up that tiny, strange smile as we crossed the lot and reentered the back hall of the Swinging Boulder.
The party was back in full swing, as if literally nothing had happened. Some jazzy rendition of “Jingle Bells” floated over the crowd of drunk, dancing lesbians, and the stoic bartender was back pouring drinks, her Santa hat as droopy as ever. I was surprised to see that Smith’s bowl of “nectar” was almost empty. The dessert had been brought out while we were gone, and cookie crumbs and dabs of cupcake frosting were smeared across the table.
I glanced around for Libby and Jamie, only to find them chatting with a tall stranger near the appetizers. It took me approximately half a second to realize this was Sammy in disguise. They’d ditched the Krampus getup for a shiny red dress that was (once again) just a little too small for their body. The face beneath their long, blond, obviously fake Britney Spears wig was still covered in smudged brown marker. It looked like they’d shoved their face into a chocolate cupcake and forgotten to use a napkin.
I’d had a really long night and was just about tired of this bullshit, but any thoughts of calling Sammy out faded when I saw the flustered look on Smith’s face. Little dots of red had appeared in the center of his cheeks, and he wore the slack-jawed expression of a high school freshman seeing their crush for the first time.
“Who’s that beautiful woman?” he gasped.
I looked down at Matheson. The basset hound stared back up at me, his eyes glistening and knowing, as if to say, I won’t tell him if you won’t. Or maybe he just wanted a treat.
“What the hell,” I said. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Smith wandered away, tugging at the bottom of his ridiculous sweater, and approached the group in the corner. Libby cheered at the sight of him and threw her arms around his skinny waist, sloshing booze onto the floor. Jamie looked flustered, but amused. The disguised Sammy tossed back their fake hair like a fashion model and sipped mischievously from their glass of eggnog.
As for me, I was fine to let the weirdos do their own thing. If anything I could use a little “me” time after this acid trip of a night. I tugged Matheson over to the bar and ordered a glass of straight tequila, plus a cup of water for the pup. I nursed my drink while Matheson slurped his down in the corner. Together we watched as the lesbians and the odd pair of monster hunters laughed and chatted and swayed to the holiday tunes overhead. The air was cool, the lights twinkled brightly, and everyone was having a good time. It took me a second to realize that I was too.

What are your favorite strains of flower out there right now?
I'm looking for a few things this week:

1. Something to wake and bake to make it not as miserable to wake up to the world STILL in a pandemic!
   
2. Something that will chill me out in the early evening, take the edge off, and make me mellow without making me sleepy.
   
3. Something that will knock me out. 😂
   

Need to avoid anything that causes anxiety, paranoia, or dizziness! I micro-dose to avoid psychoactive effects (boring, I know 😂).
Leafly is not dependable for what is or isn't in stock near me (MoCo but willing to travel), or I would just use that!
Here is what flower I've already had:

• Pineapple Upside Down Cake
• Lemon Meringue
• Lemon Royale
• Blue Dream
• Clementine
• Tropicana Cookies
• Lamb's Bread
• Shoki x 87 Limepop
• Bluniverse
• Caramel Cream
• Northern Lights
• Ata Tundra (lite)
• Black Manhattan
• Mango CBD
• Tainted Love CBD
• Pennywise (1:1)

Look forward to hearing what's working for everyone!