Return of Nitemare

Part 1: https://paper.wf/return-of-nitemare/chasing-shadows

(Trigger Warnings: this story tackles themes of past abuse, childhood illness, emetophobia, and mild transphobia including partial deadnaming) Cold brass met Dee’s hand as she turned the doorknob and walked into the sepia room again. She closed the door behind her, releasing the knob once the door was in place. Cole stared at her, ever emotionless, head tilted with what she assumed was amused curiosity. She pulled the curtains close, blotting out the last few spots of natural light. Lowering herself to the floor, she crossed her legs and sat down. She shifted, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders as if meeting a wealthy client. The boy faced her, shifting to match her stance. Silence filled the room. “Colton, where did you hear that word?” she asked. He thought for a moment. “I asked my brain for it,” he replied. Dee remained silent. The carpet scuffed as he shifted to grab his truck. “Am I in trouble?” he asked, staring at the toy. “No, not really,” she continued, “How did you ask your brain?” He wrinkled his nose. “I can’t show you,” he said, “It’s not something I can say with words” “Try your best,” she suggested. He tilted his head. “I like the ocean. One of my babysitters talked about a boat that sunk because it hit an iceberg. She said they’re really big under the water but tiny above it,” he explained, “It’s like my head’s an iceberg, I think. There’s more of me back there.” Dee coiled a hand in front of her face. “And you can ask the part of you below water questions?” she continued, “What’s it like? Is it another person?” He titled his head. A lump filled Dee’s throat. “I can ask it things. It asks me things, too. Normal stuff. Like what things taste like and why I like sounds,” he revealed, scratching his head, “It says it’s just me. Just more me.” “Are you asking it the answer to some of my questions?” she asked “Yeah,” he shouted excitedly. Something akin to an excited smile had broken out on the child’s face. Dee placed her hands on her lap. “Can it hear me?” she asked. The smile left the boy’s face, a look of worry growing. “My brain won’t answer,” he explained, “I think you made it mad.” Dee nodded. Rage had joined fear in her throat. “It’s ok. I think your brain’s just unhappy at me,” she comforted, voice dripping in cheer, “Is this where your powers come from?” The look of worry on Cole’s face deepened. “How did you know that?” he asked. Dee chuckled. “I’m a good guesser,” she said. Cole’s expression crept towards unfeeling neutrality. He turned the truck over in his hands. It blared to life as his thumb brushed a button, lights strobing and sirens wailing. He pushed it away from himself and covered his eyes. Dee gently removed the truck from his hands and handed him a pillow. He buried his face into the fabric, eyes squeezed tight. A muffled groan echoed from behind the cushion. “You can talk to your brain, yes? Can it talk to other people?” she pushed. Cole nodded his head. “It won’t talk to you,” he replied. He looked up. Red scuffs crossed his face like a sunburn. Twisting her face into an exaggerated look of consideration, she tapped her fingers across her lips and hummed. “Well, what if I said ‘please’?” she asked. The boy shook his head. She slightly leaned forward and put her hands in her lap. “Your mother is very worried about you. It’s worrying her enough that she’s not sleeping and she’s started to feel sick too,” she explained, “I want to help you so she can feel better. The best way I can help you is to talk to your brain.” His face twisted in worry, lips curved into a frown. . “Is mom really upset?” he asked. She closed her eyes and nodded gently. “Since she told me you understand people,” she explained, “I can tell you that she’s doing her best to be brave, but that what’s been happening to you makes her scared that you’ll get hurt.” “It doesn’t hurt when I change shadows,” he protested, “It only gets sore when I stop.” “Doesn’t it hurt when you touch sunlight?” she asked. The boy cheerily hummed as he thought. “That’s the sun hurting me, I’m not hurting myself,” he explained. “I see,” she said, stomach clenching. Cole paused silently for a moment. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head. Something itched in Dee, a long-forgotten scab growing painful upon being disturbed. His expression held a certain malice, a sharpness in the tension of his muscles. “Maybe I’ll hurt the sun back someday,” he mused. Rage flared from Dee’s stomach and flowed through her body burning hot. Cole’s body was small, fragile. Even her frail arms could reach out, clamp around his neck, and squeeze the barely-lived life from him. It would end quickly, almost gently. He would hardly know what was happening before his consciousness faded. She clenched her hands into fists, blood beading in half-moon cuts on her palm. The danger in him would sink back into the sooty mire of Nitemare and the time it used to recover could be used to find a way to fight back. Seconds of horror could buy decades of safety. Dee paused. A child would die. His mother would grieve. The decades of safety would not be a clean, untainted reward. An ugly trail of trauma and blood would issue from those seconds of horror. Nobody would blame her. But she knew she was better than this, especially when another path could still be taken. This was still a child. There was still time. “If you chose to, your mother would die,” she bluntly explained, relaxing her hands, “There would be no food. She’d be hungry. She would suffer. She would die.” Visible tears beaded in Cole’s eyes. The righteous fury in Dee’s chest ebbed. “I don’t want Mom to get hurt,” he admitted. Dee raised her shaking hand and placed it gently on his shoulder. Cole jumped forward and embraced Dee tightly. She ruffled his hair as he began to sniffle. Her movements felt stiff and exaggerated, the unfamiliarity jarring. This seemed to be the way people comforted children. Cole snuggled into her heavily, relaxing as if preparing to sleep. “You do need a nap, don’t you?” she cooed. He nodded into her shoulder and whined. She gently leaned forward, easing him off her shoulders, and stood him up in front of her. Tears had left wet streaks on his face and his eyes had started to redden. Rubbing his eyes, he nodded as he gently swayed on his feet. “The sun burns you because of your abilities, the power inside you,” she explained, “It can hurt other people too, if you’re not careful. I want you to learn how to be careful.” Cole removed his hands from his eyes and blinked rapidly before looking at Dee. “Will it stop hurting me too?” he asked. Dee tilted her head, miming consideration. “If you learn to control your powers, the sun might start hurting less,” she said, “But I don’t think it will ever stop feeling bad on your skin.” Cole beamed and stopped swaying. He nodded enthusiastically, head wobbling like a top. “I want to learn from you!” he exclaimed. Her calves started to burn as she rose from her crouch. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder and started to guide him to the bed. “Can you take a nap for me first? You’re very tired, and you should probably rest,” she asked, “I also need to talk to your mother for a few minutes.” Cole jumped up onto the bed, sitting on the edge and lazily kicking his legs. Dee gently peeled back the comforter. “Well,” she confessed, “I need to make sure your mother will let me help.” “What happens if she doesn’t?” he asked. Cole clambered over to his exposed bedsheet and sat down once again. He resumed kicking his legs absently. Dee backed away from the bed, casting her gaze towards the wall. “If that happens, I’ll make sure you get help from the best priest I know,” she reassured him. Cole scrambled beneath the covers, his smile unflinching as he pulled them up to his chest. Dee turned and walked towards the door. She passed the lamp on the nightstand, and her shadow circled in front of her. Reaching out, her fingers brushed the cold brass of the knob. Beads of moisture covered the brass and mingled with the sweat of her palm as she started to turn. Sheets rustled behind her. Dee turned around. Cole was sliding out of bed. His joyous demeanor had once again cooled to a disturbing neutrality. “Is everything ok?” she asked, dreading every answer. Cole met her gaze and bored into it unflinchingly. “I forgot,” he said. “You wanted to speak to my brain if you could.” The terror clambering through her chest was icy, petrifying. The soft fibers of her muscles pulled still. “I did,” she confirmed. Her face grew cold as the blood drained from her cheeks. She forced a laugh through her lips and attempted to smile. “I think we should wait until I talk to your mother,” she deflected, “That way you don’t have to call it up twice.” Cole slightly tilted his head. “I think I have to do this now,” he informed her. Dee opened her mouth, a single syllable of protest escaping before Cole held out his hand. “This won’t be a problem, it will only take a few minutes to talk and then you can tell mom I-” he reassured. Cole froze, mouth hanging agape. His irises, normally coffee-dark, had become small pools into the abyss, light seeming to actively drain from around them. His head lolled from the top of his neck as if it had snapped and held on by nothing but loose tendons. The unrelenting watch of his gaze remained focused on Dee. Around the room shadows that had earlier rippled now writhed like exposed parasites, dark tendrils reaching from them. What dull light the room possessed dulled into a twilit charcoal. Faint shapes danced in her vision where the memory of objects had been. A presence filled the room, weighing on her chest and forcing her to labor for each breath. Malice dripped from the walls as the presence’s attention turned to Dee. Dee backed into the wall, feeling around to judge her position. Her skin prickled as Cole’s gaze remained locked on her through the black. It could see her, and doubtlessly heard her. She located the doorknob and clutched it. Its slippery brass surface calmed her nerves. She braced herself. A few moments of horrible silence passed. “This is growing old, priest,” growled a voice from the darkness. Five long years had not changed the all-too familiar growl. It dripped with the same disgust, the same impatient rage directed at such puny interlopers. Dee’s already struggling breaths grew heavier with panic. Burning filled her lungs as she sucked down the blackened air. “Has it now?” she laughed, her voice shaking, “I could have sworn it had only been a few days.” Dee covered her mouth and coughed. Something wet and viscous splattered onto the back of her hand. She closed her eyes, the darkness unchanging, and exhaled. A faint rumble filled the dark room. “Is now the time for jokes?” Pitch’s new voice questioned. Dee found herself laughing as stress sawed at her nerves. “I found you in a shitty apartment in Columbus, Ohio, because a member of my former flock begged me for help,” she giggled, “Really, this is objectively hilarious.” Her lungs burned like she had dragged from a cigarette. The coughing resumed, harder and deeper. Smoke clung to the inside of her chest, clogging her breathing. “There is little humor in your presence here,” it replied coldly, “Not that I find much enjoyment in this place.” Dee smiled through her coughing, eyes darting to the boy’s last position. “That’s a shame. I will say, the place grows on you,” she reassured, the syrupy liquid starting to roll down her chin, “It gets a lot better in a few years.” “I grow tired of this place,” it hissed, the whining of the child’s voice unusually strong, “When will this charade end?” Dee leaned against the wall, breathing through her nose. She closed her eyes and tilted her head upwards. “The bargain was twenty years,” she reminded him, “Until Twenty years have passed, you are to walk alongside humankind to understand our worth.” The darkness remained silent. “It’s been five years,” she clarified. “I am aware,” the voice spat. The darkness rumbled again. “Colton seems to be enjoying himself, is it all an act?” she suggested, tensing for a strike, “Maybe you should just let yourself be him and stay there until it gets better.“ “The sun still burns,” he growled, “I would not linger there were his mind mine to inhabit.” Dee paused. Her eyes flicked open. “You aren’t the boy?” she asked. “No.” She squinted through the darkness, searching for the edges of Cole’s form. “I am surprised, after you appeared, I assumed Colton was a part of you,” she confessed, “His existence as a separate person will change my approach.” “Neither assumption is incorrect,” he corrected. Dee raised herself away from the wall. “Then what is he?” she asked. “The body’s original soul,” it stated. Dee slightly bared her teeth. Her impotence meant little in the dark, though it would not go unnoticed. But this atrocity could not go unopposed, so defiance was her duty, the least she could do. “Spit him out,” she demanded through gritted teeth. “Amusing,” it replied. “You have no right to Colton’s soul. Spit him out,” she demanded, flinching away. A rushing of air was audible in the dark, as if the room itself sighed. “Do you expect so little of me?” it asked. Wire springs creaked as Colton climbed into bed and sat. “The boy’s incorporation was not my doing,” it informed her. Dee silently crossed her arms and stared towards the direction of the creaking. This thing was a liar, a shameless liar at that. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that it had simply snapped up the boy’s soul without noticing, and gone about its day with nary a spare thought. Nagging doubt clouded her head. Eating the boy would not have benefitted it in any noticeable manner. Liar though it may be, it never lied without a grain of truth at the core of its statements. “Alright,” she probed, “Then what is the connection between you and the boy?” The room returned to silence. Dee touched her face. Streaks of the viscous tar had run down her face. It clung to her fingertips thickly, like warm honey, though it was icy cold. Dee covered her mouth silently and stared into the silent dark. Though her lungs no longer burned, she felt each breath enter and leave with gravely abrasion. The insider of her mouth felt muddy. Sandy particles floated in her saliva as if she had feasted on dirt. “I have subsumed the boy due to the passage of time and his inability to resist,” he revealed. “So you and him are the same?” she asked, confusion refusing to abate. “I seem to be wasting my breath explaining it to you,” it complained. Dee rubbed her chin. “Perhaps an analogy would help, herald?” she proposed. More silence lingered from the black. A curtain stirred, and for a moment the room brightened to a brown-gray twilight. Cole stared at Dee from the bed and kicked his legs. His eyes had been blocked by a hazy pool of darkness but his head seemed trained on her every twitch. Black tar coated her fingers and face. Long trails of clear fluid ran from them, clouded with wispy black powder. Valiant beams of faint light issued from the still-on lamp. The curtain returned into place. The room plunged into black. “Where does a stone’s shadow end and the darkness of a cave begin?” he asked. Like a stream flowing into a river. Like a quote. Like a graft. “I see,” she replied. Smug contentment filled the rumble echoing through the room. “Would you be able to separate him from yourself?” she asked. “He would die,” it revealed flatly. Dee had known that the chances of an easy answer were slim. She sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Then there is little I can do but mitigate your suffering,” she concluded. “I do not wish to remain,” it said. “As long as our bargain stands, you cannot leave and must inhabit a human body,” she reminded, “We are bound to the deals we make.” “Your new insistence on fulfilling your promises is an interesting development,” it sneered. Dee inhaled deeply, hoping to quell the burning of rage with the burning of ash. Its body was a five year old boy. Cole did not deserve waking up with new bruises. She didn’t deserve explaining herself to the authorities. “Our current deal benefits the both of us greatly,” she pointed out, “My only desire for our future interactions is to help you appreciate the new joys open to you.” “The things of this world of light hold no joy for me, only agony,” it objected. Its statements rang with a cold truth. Light dissipated shadows, any child knew that. Light burned it even in its native realm at full strength. Human form failed to protect it before and she more than believed human form failed to protect it now. Any joy it could find would be hard won at best, won against a tide of suffering. She chuckled. How wonderfully human. “I think you need to give this world a fair chance, Pitch,” she countered, “Five years is nothing in the life of a human, and even less time for something like you.” “I have felt every waking second of this, burning through my skin,” it growled, “I would prefer to not wait this out.” “Do you think the humans around you feel no pain?” she asked, “I find that most humans suffer and ignore it more often than they live without pain.” “The boy does not suffer,” he said. “Outside of when you make him suffer?” she asked. “I find it unsurprising that you fault me for my nature,” it remarked, “If I suffer, so does the boy.” Dee squinted in the dark. “Why do you only share suffering?” she questioned. The burning in her lungs flared suddenly. She choked back a cough. “Do you share only suffering?” she asked. “Yes,” it replied. “Why?” she asked. “Our natures are alien,” it explained, “It is a wonder we share anything at all.” It was lying. Willow had shared much with Vale. They shared much, unhindered by the gulf between human and spirit. It hadn’t taken one year, let alone five years, despite their unpreparedness. Myra would not have noted the increase in symptoms had it not been. Direct sensation transferred less readily than power. Had the connection been as weak as it insisted, the boy would not have been able to meld shadows. Something was coming through, something had to be coming through. “You’re certain?” She asked, listening intently. “Very,” it assured harshly. “In the name of honesty, I don’t believe you,” she stated. “I am fascinated to learn what you think I enjoy,” it dared. Dee scrambled through the details Myra had told her. She closed her eyes. “Sunsets,” she answered, “Your mother says you like sunsets.” “That is something the boy enjoys,” it dismissed, “That woman-” Dee crossed her arms. “Your mother sees you take over her son’s body just before sunrise and sunset,” she deduced, “She can tell it’s not him. The timing’s too close for the boy to be doing it.“ She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know what it holds for you, but you wouldn’t keep doing it if you didn’t gain something,” she continued, “I would assume you’re unhappy with that.” The bed rustled and creaked as the boy changed position. “I don’t care what you gain. Your purpose here is to learn and understand this world, and I am here to guarantee that,” she explained, “Hurting the boy or failing to blend in will simply mean you spend these 20 years institutionalized, which neither of us want.” “You assume I would not be able to hide myself?” it asked. “You’ve failed. The boy’s mother knows something’s going on and is bound to notice more as the boy grows up,” she responded, “You could try to learn how to act human, but without the boy, and without a degree of separation between you and him, you will do nothing but burn the moment a photon hits you.” A slight sigh of irritation echoed from the darkness. “You assume your help is useful,” it said. “If you think you can find someone else who is capable of helping you, willing, and able to persuade your mother, by all means, seek their help,” she offered. Dee tapped her foot. The list of people who could help was short. Danis. The Stanson twins might not fuck it up. Lumi Claire would do well enough, but she’d mine this private tragedy for social media clout. Were she on good terms with Davidson, she would trust him, but after the curse tablet- “No, really, I’d rather leave your mother alone, all things considered. It would be amazing if someone could help her, that isn’t me,“ she explained, “But until then, I will be here.” “I see that you do not plan on allowing me peace until I agree to this,” it stated. Dee smirked into the darkness. “If you truly think that I cannot offer you help, then I will leave you alone,” she clarified, “I would prefer not to, but, I’ll just focus on helping your mother deal with you.” “And if I agree to your terms?” it asked. “Then I will return, and do my best to ensure you and the boy are able to coexist and live full, happy lives,” she explains, “So that, hopefully, you may learn from your time in the human race, and perhaps even enjoy it.” “I see,” it growled. “This will include teaching the boy how to fight your influence,” she clarified. Dee paused for a response. Seconds ticked by without a single sound. She pursed her lips. Talkativeness was never among its virtues but it seemed she was indeed talking into the void. “As well as teaching him to block you from his body and mind,” she continued. “I will permit this so long as it allows me freedom from the sun,” it muttered in a tone of scalding disdain. She ran her hands down her face in gratitude, clapping when they parted from her face. Baring her teeth, she twisted her face into a pleasantly threatening grin. “Great!” she cheerily announced, “Glad to have your compliance!” “Do not mistake my cooperation for an alliance,” it warned, “That would be fatal.” The sludge smeared her hands as she clasped them. “Is there anything else you would like to discuss, then?” she asked, continuing her forced cheer. “How often will you train the boy?” he asked. Dee smiled larger. “That depends on the availability of your mother,” she explained, “Given what I know, that will likely vary quite often. Now, I have a question for you.” “Ask,” it ordered. “What is the easiest way to talk to you?” she asked, “I want to avoid today’s song-and-dance.” “I will come out when we have something to discuss,” it replied. “Nice try!” she said, hostility peeking around forced sweetness, “But I do need a way to contact you. Can you tell me, or would it be easier to just use force?” A strike would be unavoidable in the dark. The fog could chokingly thicken in her lungs. Preternatural hands could tighten around her throat. “Ask the boy to speak to me again, and then we may discuss whatever insignificant thing you bring before me,” it stated. “I thank you for your understanding. Can I add one more condition before we make our little bargain official?” she said. “What?” it growled, voice tinged in boredom and annoyance. “I need you to behave. If the boy cannot inhabit his body without you tearing control from him over every little annoyance,” she demanded, “Then he cannot learn to shield the parts of him that are you from the light. Do you understand?” Disgust pervaded the darkness like fog. “Do you understand?” she repeated. Darkness deepened in the room. “Yes,” it agreed. Dee held out her hand. “Well, if you understand the terms, why don’t we make this bargain official and shake hands as a symbol of our agreement?” she offered. The bed creaked and soft footsteps padded across the carpet towards Dee. The footfalls stopped a little more than a pace in front of her. She squinted at the dark. A figure was faintly visible in the dark, as if blacker than the gloom around it. A tiny hand wrapped around her palm. “Pray this agreement remains to our benefit,” it growled. Dee swallowed, shaking Colton’s hand. Her lungs ached dully, the searing sting of the air no longer bothering her. “I hope this partnership will prove beneficial to us both,” she replied. The hand let go of hers and imperceptibly slipped into the darkness. Amber light began to filter in from the lamp. Motes of ebony dust hung suspended in the air like a thick fog. The visible lines of Colton’s form stood staring at Dee, still obscured by shadows. Muffled snowfall echoed through the darkness as the room slowly brightened. It grew louder, growing into the dull roar of a blizzard. The fog seemed to visibly descend through the air. It fell and fell, particulates seemingly materializing from above the ceiling endlessly. Amber light filled the room. The darkness and fog had lifted. A few dust motes danced quietly in a stray sunbeam. The scent of dusty damp lingered on the edge of Dee’s senses, as if from a vanishing dream. Colton stood in the middle of the room, blinking. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at Dee. Dee looked down at him. Faint black rings stained around his eyes. Little had changed from the small boy she had met less than an hour prior. “My head hurts,” he said. His voice was normal again, the whine of a mortal child. Dee sighed and put her hand on his shoulder. She shuffled forward, guiding him to the bed. The bed creaked as he scrambled in, and she felt herself slightly flinch at the harsh metal groan of the mattress springs. “What does your mother usually do when you go to bed?” she asked. “You’re sticky,” he replied, looking at her through squinted eyes. She brought her hand to her face. A sticky mat of tar coated her face and neck thickly. Strings of gel trailed from her fingers as she pulled her hand away. Shaking her hand, she scraped her fingers on the side of her slacks. “My apologies, I’ll have to get cleaned up once you’re ready for bed,” she explained, “Is there a book you read or any sort of toys you-” “I’ll be fine,” he claimed, wriggling below the sheets, “Mom can come sing to me later.” Colton’s head peeked out from beneath the covers and strands of brown hair curled across his pillow like vines. His eyes fluttered, gaze still held on Dee. Dee reached over Colton and tugged the curtains closed. “Please can you turn off the light?” he quietly asked, his eyes closed. Dee smiled and reached for the lamp. Her hand wrapped around the ball chain and she readied herself to pull. She glanced aside and froze. A small, unremarkable alarm clock squatted on the nightstand. It was the sort of old, wind-up alarm clock that you’d see on the dresser of a boy in the 1960s. A tinny ticking echoed from its cheap frame. The chain dragged as she pulled the switch and plunged the room into darkness. Dee closed the door behind her and walked into the hall. Her hand returned to the sticky coating on her chin as she walked into the living room. It clung to her fingers in a thick coat, an oily feeling seeping from the ooze. She grimaced and rubbed her fingers together, letting it squish from between her fingertips. Myra was hunched over her phone in the kitchen as Dee opened the door. She glanced upward a moment. Silently nodding, she pointed at the sink before returning to her phone. “You too, huh?” she asked. Dee squirted dish soap into her palms and scrubbed at her hands. “Those stains are never going to come out of that sweater,” Myra advised, “It’s like used motor oil.” Black streaks had run through the soap on Dee’s hands. She smacked the faucet with her arm. Water roared from the tap and she thrust her hands in. Bubbles and gray water rolled off her hands and into the drain. “Dawn usually helps,” Dee countered, “At least for me.” The water started to clear of foam. Her hands were still blackened with staining and sludge was visible under her nails. She squeezed another glob of soap into her hands and scrubbed at her skin again. Black water poured from her hands ceaselessly. She grabbed a small nail brush, jamming it beneath her fingers. Myra sat silently at the table and continued to scroll her phone. Dee glanced at her as she washed the filth from her hands. Her eyes darted up to scan her before returning to her phone and continuing to tap at the screen. A glob of tar clung to Dee’s skin as she scratched at it with her thumbnail. Small black rolls shed from its surface before it peeled from the skin with a satisfying sting. Dee shut off the water. She snatched at the dish towel hanging from the sink cabinet door. Wiping her face, she tossed it into the sink and walked to the chair. The wood groaned as she sat down. Myra looked up from her phone and stared at Dee. “I found Prospero’s social media. You weren’t kidding about facing yourself,” she observed flatly. Dee nodded. “That year you were gone. I don’t think he has it in him to fake that level of grief,” she elaborated. “Not about me,” she agreed. “As for you- those were not the eyes of someone who wanted to keep going,” she continued, “It doesn't make what you did ok, but now I think I really believe you about wanting to do better.” Dee folded her hands in her lap. “I thank you for your willingness to consider the possibility that I can grow beyond my past self,” she said, unwilling to meet Myra’s gaze. “This doesn’t make you a good person,” she responded, “Not remotely. Don’t think for one second that you can claim any sort of virtue from this.” “Don’t worry, I have no intention of viewing this as anything more than paying back a debt,” she reassured as she reached into her bag. “That’s still an awfully generous way to think of this,” she mumbled. “How do you view this?” she asked, pulling out and setting down a pen and a receipt book. Dee rotated the pen in her fingers slowly, rubbing her fingers over the brass details. “I don’t know. If I had to put words to it, I think. The words ‘setting things right’ come to mind,” she proposed. Dee’s mouth dried. She forced a smile across her lips and uncapped her pen. “I believe I understand the point you’re making,” she said, “And I hope that I can provide help, however that may be. Has your son been using that phrase?” She scrawled “Colton” on the top of the page and divided it into two columns. Her fingers flew down the page as she scribbled down a rough invoice. “I think he has, actually. How’d you know that?” she asked. “Lucky guess,” Dee muttered. “Does this have to do with his problems?” “In a sense, yes, it is related,” she admitted, “Though I can tell you that I only caught it after gaining insight into Colton’s issues. “What’s wrong with Colton?” she asked. Desiree set her pen on the top of her notepad, folded her hands and looked towards Myra. She sat straight in her kitchen chair as she propped herself against her arm on the table. Dee closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She exhaled and opened her eyes. “Around the time that things ended with Rubedo, I underwent something that transformed the way that I viewed the cosmos,” she began. “What is happening to my son?” she interjected. “As part of this, I had a series of encounters with a particular entity with abilities that bear an uncanny resemblance to the ones your son displays, and-” she continued, eyes drifting to the wood grain on the table. “What's going on with my son?” she repeated in a raised voice. Air hissed through Dee’s teeth. “What I believe, Myra, is that your son has been somehow affected by a similar sort of paranormal energy that comprised the being I dealt with,” she explained, “If he had been exposed during pregnancy, it would explain why and how these abilities seemed to develop during early infancy.” Myra leaned into her arm. “How do I know that this isn't some stupid scam of yours?” She questioned, “It wouldn't surprise me.” Dee pulled out a business card. Myra stuck her hand out and shook her head. Dee placed the card on the table, and removed a stack of sticky notes from her bag. “Samuel Calvin, accredited Occult Scholar, 614-493-6709,” she recited as she wrote, “Tell him ‘Scarlet Sunset’ when you call.” Myra chuckled. “I take it he knows?” she guessed. “Not the gory details, but he knows of it. He pointed me towards a legitimate line of work after I moved to Columbus,” she explained, sticking the note on her finger and holding out her hand. Myra peeled the note from her finger. “He’s a respected member of the Paranormal Professionals Society,” she said, “ You will find more than enough evidence supporting his legitimacy.” Myra folded the note and gently set it on the table. Her eyes flicked towards the invoice. She stared, seeming nearly transfixed. Dee slid the notebook towards herself. “If you would be willing to, I would like to continue working with you,” she offered, “I know a good deal about your son’s condition, and I am more than willing to do so for much less than other occultists.” “How much?” She asked, staring at the receipt. “Let's discuss that!” Dee said, smiling with feigned enthusiasm. Dee scooted her chair parallel to Myra's. She whipped the notepad between them and tapped her pen against it as a pointer. “Normally, I'd be more than willing to simply let this go and do it pro-bono,” she explained, “However, considering our past, I will have to charge you something if you want consumer protection involved.” Myra glanced between her and the ticket. Her lips were subtly pressed together. “I can't afford this,” she stated. “That's what we will be discussing,” she explained, tapping her pen to the first item. “Normally, this is what I bill for a first meeting, consisting of an interview, initial evaluation, and a determination of services,” she said, “But considering your circumstances, it seems a tad high, so I’ll waive it for now.” Dee crossed out the first line. “I usually charge $50 for a home visit more than 10 miles from my office,” she continued, “However, your son’s condition prevented him from leaving home, so it seems unfair to charge you.” Dee crossed out the second line. “While I do plan to swing by tomorrow and explain a few basic ways to help manage your son's condition,” she said, “I wasn't able to today, So I can't charge you for this in good faith.” She crossed out the third line. “As the endangerment fee is 15% of your base fees, well, that amounts to zero, doesn't it?” She calculated. She crossed out the fourth line. “That just leaves the off-hours fee,” she revealed, “Which is $10 for every hour after my normal appointment cutoff, totalling to… $10.” Myra reached into her pants pocket. “I’m not done,” she revealed, “Since you are in a state of financial hardship, I’m willing to give a discount of say, 99%?” She drew a blue line through the fee, scratched down the discount and replaced the cost. She turned to face Myra. “Do you have a dime on you?” She asked. Myra rifled through her wallet and handed Dee a pair of nickels. Dee tore off the receipt and placed the pen on it. “Sign here to make it official,” she directed. Myra signed the receipt, and looked at the pen. Moving deliberately, as if underwater, she offered it back to Dee. Dee gently pulled the pen from her fingers, capping it and returning it to the back alongside the receipt book. “Now,” she said, “I must ask you. Would you be comfortable if I continued to work with your son?” Myra’s eyes scanned the receipt, reading it line by line. “I don’t know,” she concluded. Dee nodded gently. Tenderly, she closed her bag and rose from the chair. A gentle hand was draped over her arm and pressed down. Dee shifted back into the chair, holding her bag in her lap. Myra held out her finger and stood up. She disappeared behind the door to the living room, pulling the door softly closed behind her. The sound of the television cut out. Faint footsteps thudded through the silence and a box clattered open and closed. The door swung open and Myra emerged. A light scrape issued from the table as she pushed the velvet case of Dee’s engagement ring across the table. “When you bring me the paperwork, I want something else as collateral,” she requested, “Whatever form it takes, I want something less fraught, less involved with you being alive.” Dee quietly picked up the ring and clutched it to a clean spot on her sweater. “I need more time to think about this,” she explained, “You and I both know that you can help him, but I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.” “I understand,” she replied, reaching to open her bag, “This isn’t something to do on impulse.” “I’ll have made up my mind by the time you come back with the paperwork,” she requested, picking up her phone, “But just in case, can you tell me your phone number?” “That will be 614-019-8423.” she said, “If you text, please be sure to identify yourself in your first message. I don’t wish to lose your message in a sea of clients.” Dee’s phone beeped inside her pocket. “What would your services look like?” she asked. Dee cleared her throat. “Weekly visits to keep an eye on him, working with both of you to find ways to lessen the negative effects and channel his abilities,” she explained, “I plan to teach you ways to protect yourself as well as Colton. Much of it will focus on teaching him control and focus.” “That sounds awfully familiar,” she noted. “I can promise you that I have every intent to avoid the sort of techniques you’re thinking of,” she reassured, “With your experience, I have little doubt you’d catch on and step in at the first sign of trouble.” “Are you actually confident in my abilities or are you selling me something?” she asked. “I think the moment I tried to indoctrinate your son, you would make sure I never spoke to him again,” she answered. Myra smiled, absentmindedly scanning the post-it note before tucking it into her shirt pocket. She rose from her seat and brushed off her lap. She walked towards the door and gestured for Dee to rise. Placing her bag on her shoulder, she stood up and followed her. The door clicked as Myra grabbed the handle and slightly turned. “Thank you for what you’ve done so far,” she began, “I’m definitely going to call this Calvin person to see what he has to say about you.” Dee pushed in her chair and faced her. “I expect you to. Remember to mention the red sun,” she agreed. “Red Sun, got it,” she explained, “But I have things to do, and you need to take your groceries home.” “I understand, and I wish you a good rest of your night,” Dee agreed, stepping out of the door’s path. Myra fully turned the knob and opened the door. Dreary, aged walls of plaster greeted her again as lightly musty air drifted in. It seemed fouler than it had earlier, an almost rotten note lingering. The floorboards beneath the carpet almost squished as Dee stepped into the hallway. She pivoted on her heel and turned to wave goodbye. Myra smiled bitterly, reaching to close the door before pausing. “You said that my son was exposed to some kind of dark energy, right?” She asked. “I did, yes,” she replied. Myra shifted uncomfortably. “Is that my fault?” She questioned. For a brief moment, the room seemed to swim for Dee. Chalk dust faintly wafted off a circle in a black void. Seven formless faces glared at her and her allies from impossibly high in the sky. Her throat burned as she screamed the terms of a bargain into the air. The memory faded into a brighter hallway. The truth could wait. “No. He would have been conceived around the time that things were at their oddest,” she promised, “It was inevitable that this would happen. You're just lucky.” Myra nodded, nibbling on a fingernail. She covered her face with her hand and closed her eyes. Her fingernails clicked against the other side of the doorknob. She uncovered her face and nodded at her. “Goodbye, Desiree Wright,” she concluded. The hinges squeaked as the door closed. As the lock clicked, a soft silence settled in the air around them. Dee stared at a dark splotch in the middle of the door for a moment. She could have died. Her heartbeat slowed in her ears. Tingling cascaded over her cheeks as she walked to the elevator. It could have been worse. A dull hum seemed to settle across the room as she walked, almost peaceful. She could have died and yet it could have been worse. Weight settled into her limbs, her body starting to feel leaden as she continued. A peaceful air of exhaustion settled around her. The elevator dinged. It was almost so much worse.

*****

Myra leaned against the door and listened to Dee’s steps fade. She closed her eyes and listened to the clocks in the apartment quietly tick. Rising to her feet, she walked into the living room and sat down on her couch. She stared at her darkened phone. A metallic tang spread in her mouth. She quietly gestured at a cabinet, a phantom sensation of metal in her fingertips. The cabinet door swung softly open. Myra walked to the cabinet and reached towards the top shelf. Her hands wrapped around a small cloth journal. She pulled it down, and opened it, leafing through the pages. She stopped, flattening the book open. A Saturday with a reminder of a party to attend. She started to rifle through the pages again. A few months passed through her fingers. A year. More. She flipped open the page marking the end of Rubedo. She placed a second finger into the book. Myra held more than a year sandwiched between her fingers. More than a year of clipped wages. A year of boring Saturdays. A year of lying to everyone she knew about her free time. Of telling her therapist half-truths. A year of feeling like the world would end and of growing paranoia. For what? A bit of ferrokinesis. Like hell was that worth it. So much bullshit for so little. Myra put the diary back into the cabinet and reached for her phone. She reclined into the couch and opened her phone, greeted by an old family photo. Clacking sounds played as she tapped through her contacts. She opened Desiree’s entry and felt her chest tighten. Her brother had offered to help her if, uh, she came around again. With a few swipes she opened her messages. A stream of texts about his baby shower spilled forth. Smug gratification faded into the embers of light shame. He would go to jail for her revenge, and leave her niece with only questions in place of a father. Myra stared at the photograph of an ultrasound he had sent her, a child she knew he would do anything for. She traced the lines of her niece’s first picture and swiftly closed her phone. No child deserved to lose everything over a year. Quietly, in the other room, Colton muttered as he rolled over in his sleep.

*****

Desiree closed the door behind her, kicked off her heels, and walked into the kitchen. She set her groceries and bag down on the counter, walking back into the hallway. “Dorian, I’m back,” she called, listening for a response. A faint chiming echoed from behind her. She paused, turning to look for the source of the noise. Another round of chimes began, echoing from her purse. The air seemed silent and heavy as she approached and opened her bag. Someone was calling from an unknown number. Dee steadied herself and tapped the green circle. “Hello?” she greeted. “Hi,” Myra’s voice crackled from the speaker, “Have I reached Desiree?” “Yes,” she confirmed, “May I ask the purpose of your call today?” A sigh echoed from the line. Dee wrapped her arm around her waist, slowly pacing through the kitchen. “Right. Right,” she said, “I just wanted to call and say-” “Take your time,” she reassured. “I want to say, I look forward to working with you, Desiree Wright,” she explained. “Thank you,” she replied, as the line clicked close. “As do I.”

(Trigger Warnings: this story tackles themes of past abuse, childhood illness, and mild transphobia including partial deadnaming) If Desiree Wright had to guess where her past would catch up to her, Line 3 on a Saturday afternoon at Kroger would not have been her guess. She had no clue what she would have picked, maybe a walk home after dark, or an unfortunate confrontation off in some hellhole in the Imageria. Perhaps on a paper with an Ohio Justice System letterhead, or even an old familiar name echoing across broadcast waves like an echo, like a ghost. Not three in the afternoon, on a Saturday, at Kroger. If anything, that would have been her last guess. There had been a text, seconds before. Dorian had asked some insignificant question, some request or reminder about an item forgotten on a grocery list, and Desiree had picked up her phone to answer. A cart’s rattle crashed over the clicking of keys. She ignored the cacophony, idly swaying as she cradled the handles of a basket in her elbow. Typing the final words of her text, she looked up, glancing at the distant price of tomatoes. The total of the shopping trip fled her mind, and she frustratedly returned to her counting as she checked her shopping list. “Oh my god,” croaked a voice from the edge of her vision. Desiree raised her head, turning to face her fellow shopper. A young woman, approaching her late 20s, stood petrified. She stared at her, still lightly hunched over mid-push. A few strands of brown hair framed the look of shock covering her face. Her white-knuckled hands shook visibly as she gripped the ends of her cart’s handle. It was impossible to forget the face of a cult member. Let alone one she watched, and felt, break out. Dee’s eyes met hers, and the woman straightened. She closed her mouth abruptly and squared her shoulders. Dee scanned her face as her mind raced, searching for the name of the woman before her. Years had passed, foggy miserable years, and she felt a haze cast over her memory. Her face was clear, a scared young college grad scrambling for a sense of self. She had broken out on the second try. The awakening had been chillingly brutal. Metal had buckled around her as she screamed for her sister. Abruptly, she had gone silent and, for the remainder of the night, hauntedly stared into the distance, oblivious to the revelry around her. “Myra-” escaped Dee’s lips as a breath. Dee shook her head. An unwelcome look of horror had started to find its way to her face. She stretched a pleasant smile across her face as her heart thudded in her chest. “Apologies,” she said, shaking the mothballs from a warm, detached tone, “Is there some way I can-” “Don't even try to feign ignorance,” she interrupted, “My name was the first thing out of your mouth.” Myra’s face was tightened and her eyes narrowed slightly. Dee sighed and dropped her smile. She looked to the side and crossed her arms. “You look like you're doing well,” she said, eyes flitting across the magazine racks, “I’m sure I’m probably the last person you’d want to hear that from, but for what it’s worth, you seem to be.” Myra bitterly laughed. Dee’s eyes flicked back to her. She was shaking her head, a pained smile stretched behind a raised hand. “You have no idea of how much damage you really did,” she remarked, with sadness and bitter humor in her voice, “Do you, Ariel?” Dee faced her with a frown and a sigh. She looked over Myra again. She dropped her hand, her lips now pressed tight in an impression of calm. Her cart was full, her clothes seemed new. By some miracle, she seemed to be alive and thriving. She had been lucky. Dee’s face softened into an expression of sadness. “I’ll make sure you never have to deal with me again,” she promised, already turning to face forward, “And that was never my name.” “I need your help,” Myra loudly announced. Dee froze mid turn before slowly turning to fully face her. Myra looked to the side, hand running down her cheek. Her hands opened before slowly closing, and she leaned back on her cart. “My son is- my son needs help,” she explained, exhaling to soothe herself, “He’s paranormal, somehow. Something’s wrong, he can’t control his powers.” Dee nodded sagely, hand curled in front of her mouth. “I don’t see how I would-” she began, halting as Myra raised a finger. Myra’s hands shook, and she gripped the cart again, hands once again white-knuckled against the black plastic. “For all of the horrible things, all of the harm, you’ve done,” she said, the tempo of her voice climbing, “This is what you did. You helped people.” Desiree met Myra’s eyes. She glared at her, shifting the fingers of the curled hand. She unfolded her hand, placed it on the metal of the conveyor belt, and leaned casually, not breaking her gaze. The receipt printer electronically screeched behind her and she distantly heard the cashier ask for the next customer. “Then I will need you to explain everything that’s happened to your son, to me,” she demanded, turning and stepping towards the register.

*****

Desiree leaned on her arm, pen in hand, as her eyes bored into Myra. Children screamed from a distant park and clouds sped by on an unfelt breeze. The paper pad was thick enough to block the undulating metal of the park table from marring her words, while little prevented it from digging into the back of her thighs. Myra sat opposite her, shoulders hunched, arms on the table between them “What do I even call you? I don’t think ‘Vin-” she asked. “Desiree. I go by Desiree,” she answered. Myra blinked and jerked backwards. “I must ask that you handle this with sensitivity,” she explained, “I understand if you must curse me, but please do so with my real name.” Myra’s nose scrunched in palatable disdain. “Alright, then, Desiree, let’s make this quick,” she said, opening her phone, “I have a kid to return to.” She clicked on an image, set the phone down, and slid it across the metal table. A picture of a young boy glowed from the surface of the phone. He smiled into the camera, arms full of a perturbed cat. A carefree smile squished his round cheeks, and curly brown hair tumbled to his shoulders. “This is my son. His birthday is in November, he's five years old. He likes fire trucks and the pop music I play to clean,” she explained, “He's one of the smartest kids in class, and for the last few years he's been losing himself to some horrible darkness inside of him.” Dee tapped a period onto the paper as she finished her notes. Nothing too strange, by the sounds of it. A few meditation lessons would start curbing those bad habits. “Can you explain this further to me?” She requested, pen briefly touching her lip. Myra looked upwards and swallowed. “He, ah, he’d always been a bit weird, you know? I found out I was pregnant just after I left and I decided to keep him,” she explained, “He was my little miracle. Let me keep going, helped me steer clear of the likes of you.” The plastic in Dee’s pen creaked. “He started playing with shadows at first? It was adorable, you know how it is with kids, they play with everything,” she continued, eyes sparkling like glass, “We all found it a bit strange that he never really broke out, but we figured we just never noticed.” It had been on the news that the children of some paranormal parent displayed paranormal abilities without a definitive breakout. Speculation involved epigenetics and maternal stress levels. “And how has this been causing problems?” she asked. Tears trickled down Myra’s cheeks. She covered her eyes and leaned over. Dee’s stomach knotted. Touching her to provide a measure of comfort would have been inappropriate, too comfortable, too intrusive for their shared past. Influencing her emotions was far beyond the pale. She pulled a pack of tissues from her purse and held them out towards Myra. Myra wiped her eyes and accepted, pinching her nose through the paper. “Sorry, I- this is hard. I feel alone in this,” she confessed, quietly trying to blow her nose. Dee nodded. “I understand.” “So my son started having problems. It was just shadows in the night at first. Sleep paralysis happens sometimes. But then it got worse,” she explained, “He'd have scratches the nights he had sleep paralysis. He felt cold all of the time, seemed irritable most days, some days he even stopped being able to see.” That was more unusual. Not unheard of, but not the thing you expect to hear out of some random woman. “Did the problems stop there?” She asked, expecting a negative answer. “No, if anything that's where it only began. Black spots started showing up on his skin. Doctors said it was nothing. Shadows jumped when he was around, even when he wasn't moving them,” She said, “His coughs have started producing this black, tarry paste that stains anything it touches.” The denizens of shadow had no business here. Desiree narrowed her eyes and circled the new bullet points. Spirits rarely stopped at this level of affliction. Far easier, far more common, for them to slip into extreme violence or possession. “What else is happening?” she asked, pen poised. “He's telling me his head hurts. He's started to be bed-ridden when the worst of it hits. He's started being out of it all the time,” she continued, “He was odd even before this started, but now I feel like I barely know him.” Odd was a troubling descriptor. To be expected, but troubling. “What do you mean by ‘odd’?” She asked, tapping her pen to her lips. Myra hesitated, clasping her hands. “My more spiritual friends have called him an old soul. I don't need to tell you why I hate that bullshit. But he’s been very quiet for a kid his age. He’s patient,” she explained, “Other parents talk about their kids not understanding things like money or their parents having needs, but it seems like he does.” Dee bit her pen. She would have to ask about abuse history. That could wait. She pulled the pen from her mouth and placed it at the head of her notepad, folding her hands in front of her. “I’ll assume you've been smart enough to ask a doctor for help,” she said, “Your son’s issues sound extreme. I’m surprised you haven't sought out paranormal help already.” Myra grimly nodded. “We did. He scammed us,” she said. Dee struggled to find words, a strangled syllable issuing from her mouth. “Your abilities were legitimate. And at this point, I’ll do nearly anything to help him,” she explained. Dee closed her mouth. She gently placed her notepad and pen in her purse. She handed Myra’s phone back to her and pulled out her phone. “Let's see when my next appointment is available,” she offered. Green boxes crowded her calendar. The next free hours were weeks away. Myra looked expectantly up at her. “When are you available?” She asked dryly. “I work long hours. Medical field,” she said, “I’m normally open in the evenings, but I sleep early.” “Right,” replied Dee, scanning her evenings. Every day, her final appointments ended far too late. The nights ending earlier were immediately abutted by doctors visits, errands, a book club meeting. Even disturbing a single appointment would cascade, throwing weeks of planning into disarray. Only the remainder of that day remained a bare, stark white. Dee shut her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “My closest appointment is the 23rd,” she admitted, “I don't think it's safe for you to wait that long.” Myra shook her head. “I don’t think it would be either,” she agreed. Dee exhaled slowly. “Are you available right now?” she asked, removing her hand and looking back at her. Myra blinked as she recoiled in shock. The distant screams of children filled the silence between them as she stared at her. “Are you serious?” she asked. “I know it’s on very short notice, and I know,” she said, hesitating, “You have no reason to trust me, but it’s the quickest option.” “I-I-I don’t want you in my home!” she exclaimed. Dee raised her hand defensively in front of her. “I don’t want to be in your home either, is there somewhere you want to meet outside-” she offered. Myra stood up, grabbing her belongings. “What about my son’s state makes you think he can leave home?” she countered, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I don’t know, I just assumed,” she explained, “If I had any other options, I would take them, I-” Myra had turned and began to walk to her car. “Wait!” she yelled. Dee ran a few steps before stopping dead in her tracks. Running after Myra would be exactly what her old self would do. She had to figure out some way to prove her good will without manipulation. She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes. “If you want proof that I won’t hurt you, I’ll give you something of mine,” she offered. Myra stopped and turned around, confused. “Something I can’t replace, something I won’t be able to get back,” she clarified, staring at her hands, shoulders falling, “I’ll give you my wedding ring, or a picture of my family, or- Something.” Myra scanned her, confusion turned to thought. “If I hurt you, or manipulate you, or do anything you think might be motivated by malice, you can destroy it. I won’t try to stop you, I’ll just leave,” she offered. Dee slowly took a step towards Myra. An itch had grown at the base of her skull. A few moments, little more than a thought, would be all that it took to ensure an enthusiastic agreement. Bile rose in her throat and raged bloomed in her chest. Was she really so pathetic as to resort to her pathomancy with an Ex-Rubedo member? “And if you really can’t find it in your heart to trust me, I understand, I have done horrible things to you,” she promised, “I can offer you a recommendation to the best occultist I know in the Colombus scene.” Myra’s face had returned to rest, a slight gentleness in her expression. Dee visualized the itch as a bug, crushing it in her mind’s fist. “I can’t let your son suffer. If what you say is true, something very bad is going on. Like you said, I help people,” she concluded. Myra scratched her scalp and ran her tongue over her teeth. “And you swear that you know how to help him?” she asked. Dee walked slowly forward, stopping just outside of Myra’s personal space. “If I can’t help him, I know how to find someone that can,” she explained. Myra glared at her suspiciously. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook out her hair. She approached Dee and held out her hand. “I want your collateral now,” she said. Dee dug in her purse, pulling out a small velvet box. She ran her fingers over it lovingly. It had been given to her on the brightest night of a dark time. That night, in the depths of her depression, she had dragged herself from bed, dressed, joined her partner on a boat on Lake Eerie, and painted a face of joy above her despair. She hadn’t expected him to propose. The ring had been his grandmother’s. She hadn’t let it leave her side since then. Desiree put the box, and the ring inside it, into Myra’s outstretched hand. She opened the velvet container, pursing her lips before closing it and tucking it into her back pocket. “You weren’t fucking around,” she remarked. Dee stared at the ground, her throat tightening. She dug in her purse again, pulling out a business card and holding it out. She snatched it from her hand and read the text. Curtly tapping on her phone, she entered the number as a contact and tucked the card into her wallet. She turned towards her car and walked away. “‘Wright’?” she asked. “Married two years ago, he’s a better man than I could have dreamed of,” she explained, “He knows about Rubedo. He loves me, and that’s what matters to him.” Myra nodded and tapped on her phone. “Let's go,” she ordered. Dee walked to her car as she felt tears well in her eyes. She pulled the door open and threw her purse in the passenger seat. A notification glowed blue with an address and an unknown number. With a tap the address opened to her GPS. She buckled her seat belt and leaned into the seat. A few tears fell down her face and she stared at the cloth ceiling of her car. A human life was more important than a stupid ring. There was no other way to convince Myra to give her this chance. Dee sniffled. The car roared to life at a key’s touch, drowning out her self-pity. She would make it worth it.

*****

Myra’s apartment was in a small, aging complex. Years had taken their toll on the building, the once white plaster tanned, the painted metal balconies flaking, but it retained a feeling of safety and charm. Desiree saw Myra park a few dozen feet away. As Dee exited the car, Myra popped open the trunk. Brown bag after brown bag came out of the trunk, blue lettering visible. She darted over and picked up a few bags. “Thank you,” she said, handing over a few more bags. She slammed the trunk shut, arms festooned with plastic. She walked across the parking lot and she followed her, scanning the buildings for the correct unit. The edge of her heel clipped the cracked pavement, and she stumbled. A blue square met her at eye level. The bags rustled as she fumbled around, before smacking the button with a sharp clack. “That crack gets all of us,” Myra explained, “Glad you didn’t drop anything.” Dee straightened and hustled through the lobby doors. It matched the outside. A scattered handful of tables and 6- looked older than either of them. Silence filled the room, sound dulled by tiles of industrial carpet. Myra calmly walked towards an old elevator. She kneed the small ivory button and rattling issued from behind the doors. Dee silently stood a few feet behind her, listening to the sound grow closer and stop, doors opening to reveal a fluorescent-bright box. The pair entered the doors and turned, standing side by side. Myra clicked the button for the fourth floor, then the elevator doors closed and it started with a jolt. Dee stared into the dull, stained metal surface of the door. Mechanical whirring filled the tense silence as the elevator slowly rose. Her fingers burned as the grocery bags dug into her hands. Myra stared at the crack between the doors. She was slightly hunched, folded around her groceries. She gently closed her eyes. “Sunsets.” Dee turned to face her. “Sunsets?” She asked “My son has a very strange reaction to sunrises and sunsets. It's hard to explain,” she said. Her hands tightened around her bags. “Every time that the sun sets, like clockwork, about ten minutes before, he bolts towards a window and watches it,” she said, “Just spends the time looking back and forth, like he's trying to burn it into his memory. It's strange, but I thought it was harmless” Dee continued to gaze. Myra’s face was tired, slightly tensed in worry, but her voice was calm, almost soothed “How long has he been doing this?” She asked, stomach strangely heavy. “As long as I can remember, actually,” she explained, “Even as a baby, he would stare at the light on the wall as it changed when the sun rose or set.” “Did this change when he started showing signs?” she asked, “Did he do it more, do it less? Would he start getting upset afterwards?” Myra stood silently for a few seconds. She shifted her hands around the handles of the grocery bags, angling away from her. “How did you know?” she asked. It had been a long time, but the memories rang clear in her head. It always seemed to be five years. Something made them start to go stir crazy after about five years. She guessed that human bodies simply lacked the qualities that they needed. “How exactly did you know?” she pushed, her voice growing suspect. She would have to intervene. It would be possible to keep the kid, and whoever else was there, calm and stable. “I think I know how to help your son,” she explained, “He won’t be the first person I’ve met in a similar situation.” “Did I know any of them?” she asked. Dee renewed her grip on the grocery bags. The elevator door dinged and rattled open. A corridor of middling carpet and aging plaster stretched in either direction. Myra huffed as she hauled herself into the hallway. “No. Nobody you’d know,” she explained, leaving the elevator. The carpeted hallway dampened Dee’s steps and the air in her lungs. Myra hauled herself towards the end of the hall, her head locked onto an orangish wooden door. Metal jingled as she rifled through her pocket, drawing out a mess of keys dangling from a sparkly pink leather strap. Dee turned her gaze as guilt ignited in her chest. Even a glance at her keys seemed intrusive, like the seeds of a plan to enter her house uninvited. A final key clicked and she muttered briefly as she shoved the key into her lock and wrenched the door open. “Put the bags on the table.” she ordered, plucking the keychain from the lock and boredly tossing it on a key rack. Dee walked in, hoisting her bags to her chest. PBS echoed from a tinny speaker through a cheap door to her left. She eased the bags onto a round wooden table. The bag rustled as she pulled it down around the items within. Myra heaped her bags on the counter and threw the fridge open. Dee turned at the sudden sound. The fridge light flickered to life behind bright, pre-packaged food. “Please help me put away the groceries,” Myra asked, rubbing the back of her neck. “Certainly,” she replied. She held her hand out, and she pawed at the groceries behind her. Her hand wrapped around a cold plastic tub, and handed over a container of yogurt. She pulled the container out of her hand and paused. Dee perked up and turned to the remaining bags, quickly gathering any item that felt cold to the touch and shoving them roughly into a bag. She whipped back around and held the bag out. Myra paused, hand held out, a look of mild shock on her face, before gingerly lacing her fingers into the bag’s handles, pulling it close, and looking inside. “Thank you,” she said cautiously, eyeing Dee. Myra continued to watch Desiree as she emptied the bag. Dee returned to searching the table. She handed over another bag of cold items. “Is that everything?” she asked. A sigh issued from behind her. “I think that’s everything cold. Can I get your help with the pantry?” she replied, shuffling a few boxes in the freezer. Dee scooped the food off the table, approaching the cabinets. “Alright,” she replied with a shrug. Myra put the final groceries away and stretched, walking towards the dining room table. Dee snatched up the last bag. She crumpled them into a ball and took aim at the garbage bin. “Put those under the sink,” she groaned. The chair hollowly squeaked as she pulled it out and sat down. She tapped open her phone and scrolled it, covering her forehead with a hand. Dee opened the sink cabinet. Among the brightly colored bottles of cleaner and rolls of trashbags was an overstuffed grocery bag. She peeked inside, the grays and browns of more bags threatening to spill forth into the cramped space. Grabbing her wadded bags, she wiggled in and shoved them with the rest. She wrapped her fingers around the cabinet frame and leaned out, brushing a few small pilled strands of dust off her sweater. “What do you plan on doing to my son?” came Myra’s voice from the table. Dee pulled herself up and faced her. She dusted off the last remains of dirt on her clothing and walked over, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Let’s see,” she said, tapping her lips in thought. She reviewed the information Myra had given her in her head.
“I don’t yet know what’s happening to your son,” she explained, “So I’m going to talk to him and see if I can figure out what troubles him.” “Do you just need to talk? Nothing more? No tests, no magic, no-” she said, making circular gestures at her. Dee shook her head. “Having the information from those tests would help, but I won’t do it without permission from-” she explained. “As long as you don’t touch his mind, I don’t care what you have to do,” she said, “Figure out what’s happening to him, whatever needs to be done. I’ll forgive you when he’s ok.” Dee nodded gently. She placed her hands in her lap and rose from her chair. Myra placed her hand on her arm and stood up beside her. She looked down. They locked eyes. “What do you need?” Myra asked, unmoving. “I would like to make you and I some tea,” she explained, “Failing that, I would like some water.” Myra nodded and headed towards the stove. Dee slowly sunk back into her chair. She threw open a cabinet and rummaged around, pulling out a beaten metal kettle. A few clicks of the piezo sparked the stove to audible life. She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Mugs clinked as she searched the cabinets. Placing two white mugs on the counter, she reached into another cabinet and plopped a teabag into each mug. Her eyes glinted as she watched Dee. Dee shifted uncomfortably as the water finished boiling. “Do you take cream or sugar?” she asked. “A bit of milk,” she answered, swallowing, “Usually 1%, but whatever you have will be fine.” Myra poured the water over the tea and carried the mugs to the table. She carefully set down a mug in front of her, turning the handle towards Dee’s right. She sat down and watched Dee over her mug, twirling the bag around the mug. “Run me through what I should expect to happen to my son,” she requested. Dee scratched the back of her head. She could start to smell the brewing tea. Little clouds of fragrant steam brushed the skin of her cheek. “To put it briefly: Whenever you’re ready, You’ll take me down to his room. For the wellbeing of you and your son, I encourage you to observe the process” She cleared her throat and smelled the still brewing tea. “I’ll ask a few questions to get a handle on what he’s like in general. After that, I’ll start asking him about the unusual things that he’s been going through. He might have insight that he hasn’t thought to tell you,” she explained, “If I need to run any tests, I’ll get my supplies from my car, and be as non-invasive as possible, though I may need some hair or nails.” Myra grimaced. Dee sighed gently and picked up her mug. “Blood is normally used for this sort of thing,” she explained, “Quite frankly, I think it’s a bit excessive. Nails and hair are gentler.” She gently sipped the tea. Her throat burned. Needed another minute. “After the tests are finished, I should know more about what’s going on,” she continued, “And I plan on telling you everything. You’ll know what’s going on, what to do about it, and I’ll be on my way.” Myra exhaled steadily. “What if he needs more help after this?” she asked. Dee swirled her tea, stood, and opened the fridge. A gallon of whole milk sat on the bottom shelf, half full. She pulled it out and returned to the table. She poured until the tea turned paper-bag brown, capping it and returning it to the fridge. She sat down and drank. The tea was rich, oily from milkfat. “Then you have a choice,” she revealed, “You can ask me to come back, or I can refer you to someone I know is an honest tradesman.” Myra nodded and drank her tea. She pulled the mug from her face and stared down into the brown abyss. “I still don’t like this,” she said, lips slightly pursed. “Neither do I,” she replied, “But the night I put a bullet in Rubedo’s spine, I-” “Gave a hollow promise to cover your ass and abandoned us,” she snapped. Dee set down her mug, folded her hands, and stared at Myra. “I made a promise that if I could make things right, I would. That should you need my help, I would provide it if I could,” she explained, “and I have always held that promise to heart.” Myra scoffed and downed her tea. “You up and vanished immediately after,” she countered, “Gone. Prospero covered for you.” Dee pressed her lips tightly. “And that was my fault,” she admitted, “But I had to come to terms with myself.” Myra’s face scrunched. She picked up her mug and walked to the sink. She glared and stared out the kitchen window as she set it down. “How?” she asked, hostility creeping into her voice. “Rubedo was a dream bled by a thousand cuts,” Dee explained, picking up her tea, “I had to ensure my hand never held another knife.” Water rushed as the sink roared to life. A sponge rasped as Myra scrubbed the inside of her mug. Dee continued to sip at her tea, waiting for the tightness in her chest to subside. “Your dream wasn’t the only thing you bled dry, and self-pity doesn't remove blood,” she replied as she cleaned, “Put those words into action, and I’ll believe you.” Myra turned to face her. “I need your mug,” she said. Dee stood up, downed her tea, and held out her mug. Myra wrapped her hands around it and Dee slowly let go, the mug leaving her grasp. She placed the mug in the sink and filled it with water. The house stood in unsettling silence as she quickly cleaned the mug. She returned to her chair, gently grabbing the top of the backrest. Dee met her eyes before turning her eyes to her hands. “We’ve beat around the bush long enough,” she said, gently sighing in disappointment, “Follow me.” Dee stood up and followed her. The living room was small, a hand-me-down couch and two used armchairs surrounding a small coffee table. A documentary on stars beamed from the lightly bruised screen of a Hisense TV. The room was otherwise silent and empty. No toys were scattered around the floor. A row of children’s books on a shelf next to the TV appeared untouched, neatly lined up on the bottom shelf. Myra walked towards a short hallway. Three doors lined the sides of the dim hall, a pair on the right and another on the left. She stopped before the rear left door. She knocked twice on the door and cleared her throat. “Hey kiddo, I’m home,” she called out as she grabbed the handle, “How are you doing? Did you have a good nap?” Unoiled hinges creaked as Myra swung the door open. Dee gently peeked in over her shoulder. Sepia light flooded the room from a small lamp, a small fire truck serving as its base. A few white lines of sun were visible on the walls opposite the drawn curtains. On the twin bed sat a small child, quietly moving trucks across the undisturbed half of a comforter. Dee felt a hand wrap around her waist and Myra pull her in. A bucket shelf of toys stood against the wall, undisturbed before an empty floor and untouched playmat. Myra approached her son, reaching out to fluff his hair. “You should have the light on if you’re playing,” she said, reaching for the curtains, “You don’t want to hurt your eyes.” The child reached for her arm, remaining silent. Myra hesitated and pulled her arms away from the curtains. Dee watched the boy. It seemed to her that his face was still for a child’s, slightly tense. Most children didn’t know how to hold expressions like that. There was little of the unthinking doughiness of youth. She crouched to the boy’s eye level, shifting her weight to the heels of her boots. Myra turned to face her and gestured towards her son.. “Desiree, this is Colton, but we call him ‘Cole’,” she explained, “Cole, this is Desiree, but we call her Dee.” Dee waved gently. Cole stared at her intensely, an eerily emotionless curiosity visible in his features. He held his gaze for an endless minute before looking up at his mother’s face. “Momma, how do you know her?” he asked. The tone of his voice was noticeably high. Suspicion crept into Dee’s thoughts. Myra smiled and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “I knew her a long time ago. I felt really bad and she found a way to make me better,” she answered, “She’s here to find a way to make you feel better, too.” Cole looked at Dee again. “Why didn’t she help earlier?” he asked. Myra paused briefly. “Dee hurt people by mistake and I felt angry at her,” she said, “But I’m letting her try again.” Cole stared at the floor blankly for a second, the eerie stillness unchanging. He slowly grabbed the toy truck on the bed and crawled towards the edge of the bed. At the edge, he squirmed into a sitting position and slid off the bed. He walked a few steps to the neglected playmat, plopped down, and idly pushed his truck around. Wide paths were carved into the dust on the surface of the playmat. Myra slowly backed towards the door and looked at Dee. Her expression was subtly wide. Dee stood and walked over to Cole. She kneeled down on the playmat and smiled warmly. Cole looked up at her and stared emptily for a moment before returning to his play. Dee paused and watched him. The boy’s movements were cold, dispassionate. His eyes tracked the car, looking over it as he ran it around methodically. Though his expression had remained distant, static, something had subtly changed. She tilted her head and looked closer. The corners of his eyes and mouth had subtly tightened, as if he struggled to hide an emotion. Cole’s mouth twitched. Irritation, perhaps. “Do you like to play with your trucks often?” she asked, continuing to observe. “Yeah,” he replied coldly. “It seems like you haven’t been playing a lot,” she pressed, running her finger through the dust. “I was sick,” he explained, “Didn’t mom tell you?” Dee nodded. “She did. I want to hear about how you are feeling,” she said, “Your mom can’t tell me what’s happening in your body.” Cole stopped moving his truck. He looked at the buildings on the mat. “My head hurts a lot. It hurts more when it’s bright,” he explained. “Go on,” she encouraged. Dee felt herself grit her teeth slightly. Pulling national secrets out of a spy was easier than pulling information from a child. “I stopped playing outside because it would make me throw up. Then I’d hurt all over,” he said, “And I’d cough too. And it would burn my skin. I miss the swings.” Dee nodded and lowered herself onto the carpet. “Is that how you got the spots?” she asked. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so.” Cole stood up and walked towards his bed. His hands grasped towards a truck on his blanket. Stretching, he clutched it in his hand and walked towards the mat. “Do you know how those spots happened?” she asked. He twisted his small face, scrunching his nose in the same way his mother did. “I don’t know,” he said. A chuckle escaped Dee’s lips. Children were horrible liars. “Your mom told me that you can shape shadows,” she asked, “Can you show me?” “Mom said I can’t,” he said, “It’s scary. People don’t like it.” Dee looked at Myra and raised her eyebrows. She nodded from the doorway and stepped in. “Please show her what you can do, Colton,” she commanded. Colton’s eyes grew wide. He looked towards his mom and his mouth fell open. “I won’t be scared,” Dee reassured with a wink, “I’m pretty brave.” The deep shadows of the room shifted, turbulently swirling like heated oil. Cole stuck his hand into the light and stared at its silhouette on the wall. The shape warped and stretched around, devouring the light around it. A grimace spread across his face and he groaned. The shadows settled, forming the shape of a small, simple tree from Cole’s hand. “That’s very cool,” she replied as she examined the shadows, feigning excitement, “I’m surprised people don’t think so.” “That’s not the scary part,” he admitted, “Watch this.” The room noticeably dimmed and shadow flowed from the wall like fog. “I see,” she remarked, “Cole, you did a good job, that’s enough for now.” The shadows flowed faster, vapor visible on the ground. Dee turned to face him, shifting back onto her heels. The whites of his eyes had gone gray and his face remained twisted with concentration. She gently reached out and touched his shoulder. “I need you to stop, Cole,” she asked, her voice low. Cole grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. The amber light brightened into a dull orange. Myra walked over, stopping just behind her son. Dee looked over her shoulder. The shadow of his hand had shrunk, once again five small fingers jutting from a human palm. He blinked rapidly and squeezed his eyes shut as a few ink tears ran from his eyes. Grinding his fists into his eyes, he walked towards his bed, trucks abandoned. “I feel bad again,” he asked, “Mom, can I take a nap?” Myra lightly draped her fingers on his shoulders. “I think Dee has a few more questions for you, sweetie,” she explained, “She’s a nice lady, it would be mean to waste her time.” Cole continued to rub his eyes, a few more black tears flowing onto his face. “Can I tell her later?” he asked. Dee held up her hands reassuringly. “I’m sure a nap will help him feel much better,” she agreed. Myra looked between her son and Dee, pursing her lips slightly and raising her brows. “She’ll get tired, and she has to get home. It’s like she’s a doctor,“ she protested, “You wouldn’t take a nap at the doctor.” Cole leaned against his bed as the tears stopped. His hands and face were covered with a powdery black residue as he pulled them from his face. “She’s not a doctor.” he protested, “She doesn’t have a clipboard or anything.” Myra covered her face. “Not all doctors have those, Cole,” she explained, “Some doctors don’t need to check your heart.” Cole looked up from his hand, meeting his mother’s gaze. “She’s a charlatan,” he said, tone flat. Dee slowly stood. A creeping cold had entered the room. Her vision tinged gray. The tightness in her chest returned. She walked towards Myra. She reached out and touched her shoulder. “Can we talk for a moment?” she asked, staring at the lamp. Myra rose and nodded, a hand still on Cole. Chemicals coursed through Dee’s blood and her vision felt tilted as she walked out from the bedroom. She walked into the hallway, turning towards the living room. Her eyes darted around the hallway for a lightswitch. A small plaque of plastic rose gently from the plaster wall. The walls spun as she rushed forward and flicked it. Bright yellow light filled the hall as Myra walked out of the room. Pained cries echoed from the room, ceasing as she pulled the door closed. Dee sucked in air as she stood by the lightswitch, beating back the panic rising in her chest. “Where did he learn that word?” she asked, flattening her voice in false calm. Myra stuttered wordlessly. “I. I don’t know,” she admitted, “I’ve never used that word around him before.” Dee steepled her hands on her face. “Did he hear it in a show? Did one of his babysitters mention it?” she pressed, “Did one of your relatives use the word in front of him?” “I don’t know!” Myra responded, raising her voice, “I’ve never heard him use it before tonight. What’s going on?” Dee fully covered her face. Sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. It clung to the tips of her fingers, sticky, damp, uncomfortable. Small beads ran down her fingers. She pulled her hands from her face and reached into her jacket pocket. The handkerchief felt sandpapery against her skin as she blotted the sweat away. She tucked it back into her pocket and folded her arms across her stomach. “Can I talk to him alone?” she asked, flinching. Myra’s earlier incredulity visibly crept into her features. “Are you serious?” she scoffed, “No-” “I don’t care if you spend every moment with your ear pressed against the door,” she protested, “I just need you to not be visible to him.” Confusion emerged from her disdain. “I… think I might know what’s happening to your son,” she admitted, hesitating, “But I need him to admit something, and he won’t do it if he sees you there.” Dee’s heart stuttered. It wouldn’t be safe for her if he did admit it with her there. The rest of the apartment would not be safer, but the seconds it bought her could mean life or death. Worry was born from confusion, and Myra glanced at the door. “What’s going on-” she questioned. “I don’t want to tell you until I’m sure,” she promised, “I will tell you the moment I’m certain. But for that, I need to check.” Myra pulled out the box with Dee’s engagement ring and opened it. She looked at the ring, then at Dee, before closing the box and tucking it back in her pocket. “Alright,” she sighed, “But know that I will be listening to you. If anything funny happens, I’m destroying that ring.” Dee nodded in agreement, staring at the floor. The tension that had slowly built in her chest started to sour into panic. She had to make it to the end of the hallway. A gentle flick of her fingers threw the hallway into shadows, not darkness, but still too dim for comfort. Her steps were dull thuds against the linoleum floor as she approached the door. (Cont.: https://paper.wf/return-of-nitemare/chasing-shadows-part-2)

(CW depersonalization, emotional self harm, social judgement)

You were about nine, you think, maybe eight, when you realized your Aunt was scared that you were Shadow.

Not scared of Shadow’s ability to control you or what he could do in your body, no.

Scared of you being Shadow.

It made several things make sense. Your aunt had been giving you these weird sideways glances when you’d stood in the darkest corner of the room. Her shallower breathing and strange concern seemed odd to you, like a non-sequitur. No amount of promising her that you were just recovering from a very bright recess at school could get her to finally relax.

Another time, at a doctor’s appointment you were sure that she had paid for herself, you had sat still and quietly read from Highlights as you waited. You’d enjoyed the puzzles more than the stories, but the doctor’s office had to share them with everyone. It was no fun when other people did the puzzles, so you never did them yourself. That month someone had written to Ask Highlights about feeling like their classmates found them weird for being paranormal. Before that article, it had always seemed like it was just you. So of course you wanted to show Aunt Dee, and -

Looking over and seeing your Aunt pretending to not watch you had crashed your mood and your plans withered and died.

You couldn’t force yourself to keep reading, and you tossed it aside. Watching her relax as you began to squirm with boredom was more than awful. You could feel it crush your soul.

Puberty had brought alongside it fresh problems. You could pretend to not notice your aunt’s discomfort at your face. Everyone knew you looked like Vulpin. Everyone. A girl in your 4th hour social studies class saw it the most, judging by the way she leaned in when she talked to you and could never wait to be around you and work with you.

You were so not interested.

But it was impossible to not notice how Aunt Dee started getting anxious as your voice dropped. You didn’t get the grace of a slow, gradual deepening. It couldn’t have taken much more than six months for your voice to stop sounding like a child. One day, getting home from school, Aunt Dee had jumped in her seat as you said hello, knocking her coffee across mom’s table and lap. She’d been very apologetic, helping clean up and apologizing to you. Still, she had flinched as you spoke, painfully bad at keeping her discomfort hidden.

So you did what you had to. You learned how to fidget and mess around instead of behaving yourself. You gritted your teeth and stood in the brightest spots you could bear. Mom and Aunt Dee were frustrated by your behavior, but at least they stopped acting afraid.

You learned how to raise the pitch of your voice. Talking hurt for a while. Every moment you could manage was spent drinking enough warm cider and tea so that you could pretend it didn’t. Eventually, you could talk again, and the ease in your aunt’s demeanor made it worth it.

When Shadow expressed interest in math and science, you decided to focus on history. Literature. People. People were important. Science and Math were just there to help those around you, they didn’t matter on their own.

You tried to throw out the dark clothes in your closet, but found them safe on their hangers every time. So you just stuffed them into drawers, and it seemed to be fine with that.

It talked way too formally, hah! It sounded so stuck up and conceited. You didn’t need to talk like that, everyone thought you sounded like a douche when you did that.

People grated on its nerves. God, they exhausted you too, but they seemed to be well meaning. You got used to it. It wasn’t as painful as the voice. People were what was important. Having friends gave you a reason to be there.

You became a friend, confidant, helper, apprentice. People started looking at you as that, and not the weird little shy kid. But even when they looked right past you into the funhouse mirror of what they wanted you to be-

People stopped seeing Shadow.