u/AbKane667

My house sits on the shore at the beach. It isn’t the typical soft, sandy beach, but one with large, pointy rocks. In the summer, when the waves would die down and the sun was high, my Mom and I would sit on those rocks and watch the water wash the shore below. Her blue eyes looked toward the horizon while her blonde hair blew in the wind. She’d smile at me, grab my hand, and tell tales of brave men wandering the ocean while seagulls cried overhead and waves hissed on the sand.

My mom always loved the ocean. I liked it too during those summers, but I hated it in winter. The storms would bring huge waves crashing against the rocks. Sometimes it scared me so much I hid under the covers. Only when the storm quieted would I leave my burrow and walk to the window. I’d often find my mom there staring out into the dark, deep void on the horizon.

One night, after a heavy storm, I found her there, staring, not calm, but alert, her eyes slowly jumping left to right.

“Do you hear that?”

“The whales?”

“No, underneath it.”

“No, I can’t hear anything.”

Moonlight glittered on the water, shining red, blue, and green.

“Mom, look!” I screamed out.

“It’s so beautiful.”

We stood there until my eyes started closing and I went back to my room.

Over the next few nights, each time storms ended, I’d come out of my room and stand at the window with my Mom, looking at the dancing lights. Her blue eyes would smile like they did in the summer.

“Mom, can you tell me another story?”

“Not right now, honey. The sounds, they’re so beautiful!”

“Okay.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turned her head. “Is it okay if I tell the story in the morning?” she said in her sweet, soothing voice.

“Yeah.”

“Go to bed, it’s getting late.”

The morning after, I woke up excited to hear another of Mom’s stories. I got out of my room, but as I walked down the hall, I saw small puddles of water on the ground, coming from up the stairs. Our roof would sometimes leak, so I didn’t pay it much attention. I’d tell my mom when I saw her. But when I got down the stairs, she was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, the living room, or the yard. I walked back to her door and peered through the keyhole. She lay in her bed, turned to the wall, still asleep.

Before she woke up, another heavy storm came. I got the courage to get out of my burrow only after the last wave hit the rock. I expected my Mom at the window again, but only the moonlight shone. 

The colors returned, glistening in the dark water. I came closer to see it better, but then a gasp left my mouth. My mother stood at the rocks perfectly still, barefoot in her nightgown, staring at the glowing water. I turned and ran up the stairs back into my burrow.

The morning after, I dreaded getting out of bed. Only the growls of my stomach forced me. The water was all over the hall again, and my mom was asleep in her room. I sat at the kitchen table, replaying the scene from yesterday, still unsure if I was dreaming.

Only when the sun started coming down did my Mom wake up. She was wearing the same nightgown as yesterday, humming a tune I’d never heard before.

“You’re up early. Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go make breakfast.”

When she passed me, it was like I stuck my head under the ocean water. The smell of salt and kelp was so strong. She kept looking out the window, stopping what she was doing. She told stories, but they weren’t of seamen anymore; they were of strange creatures, living under the ocean that I’d never heard of before.

I stopped coming out at night after seeing my Mom outside. But one day, a storm raged for two days. The night had fallen when it ended. I was scared, but so hungry. I had to come out. The lights from the ocean were so bright they shone even in the hall upstairs. I called for my Mom, but the house was silent, empty. The light coming from the living room window was so bright and beautiful. It felt like a force was drawing me to it. I walked down to the window to see them again, but as I stood at it, my heart fell to my stomach. 

My mom was down there at the rocks, not standing this time, but walking to the water. I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and ran out the front door, barefoot in my pyjamas.

“Mom, Mom!” I yelled after her.

But she didn’t listen and kept walking towards the ocean. The lights and salty smell were overwhelming. My feet slipped on the rocks, but I still ran, calling out her name. Something in me screamed not to let her get there.

She was almost at the water, but with each step, I came closer. My hand reached out, almost touching her nightgown, but that’s when my foot slipped, sending me down onto the wet, hard rock. I let out a cry, but my Mom didn’t even look back. She walked into the water and opened her arms.

The lights started dancing, faster and faster. The taste of iron filled my mouth. The water rose and fell, but my Mom was not there anymore. Soon the lights vanished, leaving only the dark ocean. I would’ve stayed there forever if the next storm hadn’t rolled in.”

This happened a while back. I’ve grown up since. The light didn’t come again, nor did my Mom. I still keep her memory strong in my head. I thought the lights had left, too, until tonight, when beneath the waves and wind, I finally heard singing.

It started one morning. He was already walking around the room as I woke up. When he saw me rub my eyes, he smiled and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Morning, Liz.”

“Good morning…wait, come closer.”

“What’s wrong?” he said, smiling.

“Just come.”

He leaned over, and I took a deep sniff of his skin. A sour, metallic smell hit my nose. My body immediately recoiled. It smelled nothing like him. 

“What is that?”

He furrowed his brow and looked at me.

“What? My skin?”

“It smells so weird.” I took another sniff and turned my head away.

“It’s just new soap. You’ll have to get used to it.” He squeezed my thigh so hard it made me twitch, and walked back to the bathroom. I rubbed my thigh as I stared at him. It was not just the smell, but also the way he squeezed me, the way he looked so smugly at himself in the bathroom mirror, combing his hair. 

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. His gaze, his touch. And the smell! It started to give me headaches. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran up the stairs to the bathroom, looking for the special soap. I drew the curtains and flung open cabinets, but no matter how hard I looked, it was nowhere to be found. Had he been lying to me? 

I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my leg. When he opened the door, he frowned and looked away.

“What’s it this time, Liz?” he murmured.

“You don’t have the right…”

“I don’t?!” he shouted over me. I leaned back and let out a faint gasp. 

“I work myself to death, stress over each client. And what do I come home to - my wife talking about some fucking soap.”

“Then where is it? I searched the whole bathroom.”

He clenched his jaw and banged on the table.

“I threw it out this morning because of you,” he said between his teeth.

“But how did it…”

He grabbed my hands and pulled me closer, his face twisted in anger. I screamed and closed my eyes.

“Fucking stop,” he said, and let me go.

Tears streamed down my face. I got off the chair and ran upstairs. My wrists were pulsing from how hard he had grabbed them, and worst of all, they had that strange smell on them.

The mattress sank as I lay on it. I burrowed my face into the pillow and curled up. His steps echoed through the hall. He banged on the door, calling my name, but I didn’t answer and pushed the pillows over my ears, reducing his calls to a muffled splatter of sounds.

The sun had set by the time I lifted my head. I wasn’t crying or sad, just tired, so tired. My hands were still shaking as I took a lighter and lit up a candle. One thing that could always calm me down. But no matter how much I breathed in the smell of roses, my body still wouldn’t relax. Thoughts of my husband grabbing me ran over and over in my mind. What had happened to him? My eyes watered again. No, maybe he was just tired, overstressed. He works so much for us. 

I pulled out our photo album to try to lift my mood and remember happier times, but as I flipped the pages, my husband was nowhere to be found. My friends, my family, but not him! I flipped faster, faster, until my eyes darted to a photo of myself at the lake and a man, holding my shoulders. We looked so happy together, smiling ear to ear. He looked so much like my husband, but it was not him. But he looked so similar, and I knew him. I knew that man. Was the man downstairs someone else? No, no. No way. I was just freaking out. But the smell, his gaze, his touch. And the soap! My stomach twisted. 

A knock on the door.

“Listen. I’m sorry. I overreacted. Can we please talk?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please, I’m really sorry.”

I must have been going crazy. There was no way. 

I looked at the picture. 

“This man will be behind that door,” I whispered to myself, took a deep breath, and walked over, twisting the lock and slowly opening the door.

Panic surged through my body. It was someone else, his eyes, his lips, his nose. 

“You, you’re not him,” I said and started backing off.

“What has gotten into you?” he said and started coming closer. The more I looked into his eyes, the more foreign they seemed.

“Get away from me.”

“Liz, stop.” He got closer and grabbed me by the wrist again; the pain shot up my arm. That awful smell lingered in the air. 

I let out a scream, pulled my wrist out, and pushed him. He took a few steps back and tripped on the edge of the bed. His arms flailed as he crashed into the closet, hitting his head on the corner. He let out a sharp breath and fell to the ground. 

My whole body trembled. I sat on the bed and pulled the photo out, looking at the man on the ground and the man in the photo. No, it really was somebody else. I took a deep breath and held the photo tightly in my hand, but as I pulled it closer, I noticed some writing on the back of it. 

It said: “Your wife’s a great woman, cousin.”

What?

A wave of coldness washed over me. I took the photobook out of the drawer and flipped to the next page. Photos of me hugging and kissing a man, the man who lay on the floor. A small red pool was under his head. A metallic smell filled the air. 

The hospital. The promises. Waiting before the ICU ward. And then the doctor’s cold, expressionless face. Tears poured down my cheeks before he said the words. I don’t even remember how I got home or what I did the next few days. It all blends into the crumpling of tissues and the silence of my dark, empty room.

Only my flowers got me out of there. The sun was long past the horizon. My hands were too weak even for the watering can, but the flowers needed their water. I walked around the garden, pouring a hefty amount of water on each of them. It was mid-summer after all. The dirt under the red roses slowly turned black. It made me smile to see those beauties no longer thirsty. My eyes darted to the next flower when, between them, I saw a few green leaves sprouting from the ground.

Wintercreeper!

I walked back for my gloves and shovel, ready to conquer a formidable opponent, but as I got back and leaned over the flower, a familiar smell was in my nose - his cologne. I hadn’t smelled it for days, not since…

The ground darkened from my tears. I stood up, pulled out a tissue, and wiped my eyes, but as I put the tissue back, I noticed the smell of his cologne was in the air. Not just around the wintercreeper, all around the garden. I bent down to it again. It was the strongest from where the wintercreeper grew. With each breath, I could feel this tickling, warm feeling growing in my chest.

One more day won’t hurt it.

The next morning, the smell hit me before I even walked down the stairs. I took a few breaths, letting the warm feeling grow inside me again. My mouth flew open when I saw the living room. Through a small gap in the door, the vine from the wintercreeper had grown all the way inside the house, and it had turned into a circle and stopped at the couch, right at the place he used to sit. I stood there for a while, staring at it. But as my eyes wandered up, I saw the massacre in my garden. The rose bushes were wrapped in a green vine, almost choked, the small flowers invisible. 

The warm, lingering feeling was replaced with a hot anger. I walked across the vine towards the shed and picked up my shovel and shears. I put a shirt over my face, walked around the roses, and held the vine, ready to cut it off. 

A light summer breeze blew by, and with it came the whistle, his whistle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground. As the vine moved with the wind, my husband’s whistle sang in my ears. 

No. No. It was not possible. I saw him in the bed, under the cover. The doctor said. 

The breeze. Again. His whistle. His singing. The vine wrapped around my hand, pulsating.

I knew I should have cut it, I knew, but… 

I placed the shears down and walked back to the house. 

I sat down on my side of the couch and put the TV on. A few new episodes had come out. I hadn’t watched them since he was in the hospital. I turned to his side, but only the vine was on the couch.

“I wonder what happened to Poirot,” I whispered to myself, expecting silence, but the vine’s green leaves shook around. 

The warmth was back in my chest. I put my hand closer to it and left it there. Throughout the day, the vine hadn’t grown, but with each of my laughs, the leaves shook along, with each breath of the breeze, his whistle came too.

I didn’t want to leave the couch, but my eyes were practically closed. 

“I’m going to bed, but I’ll leave the TV on for you.” 

The morning after, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked down the stairs. The vines had spread all over the downstairs floor, except for a tiny path towards the couch and my cushion. I held my hands to my chest as I drank in the sight.

One small vine was already growing on the first two stairs.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, and grabbed the vine and spun it around the railing.

We spent the rest of the day watching TV and talking to each other. I talked mostly, but the vine’s shakes were more than enough. I even grabbed it at some point. He was usually the one who would reach for my hand, but it was okay; he was probably still a little shy.

When the sun started to set, I was sad to leave him, but it was okay, I’d have even more of him the next day.

That night, I had a dream of being submerged underwater. No air in my lungs. Nothing to see. Only the dark abyss of the ocean. My eyes darted open. I tried to breathe again, but my lungs only stretched halfway. I tried to move my limbs, but they were stuck in place. An unnatural, pulsing tightness wrapped around my body. Panic surged inside me. Each second, the tightness grew, and the thing moved up my shoulders to my neck. With all my might, I tried to throw my hands and my legs out, but the thing wouldn’t move. But then I looked down, and all the fear, the panic stopped, and the warm feeling grew in my breathless chest.

“I knew you’d come back, honey.”

The hospital. The promises. Waiting before the ICU ward. And then the doctor’s cold, expressionless face. Tears poured down my cheeks before he said the words. I don’t even remember how I got home or what I did the next few days. It all blends into the crumpling of tissues and the silence of my dark, empty room.

Only my flowers got me out of there. The sun was long past the horizon. My hands were too weak even for the watering can, but the flowers needed their water. I walked around the garden, pouring a hefty amount of water on each of them. It was mid-summer after all. The dirt under the red roses slowly turned black. It made me smile to see those beauties no longer thirsty. My eyes darted to the next flower when, between them, I saw a few green leaves sprouting from the ground.

Wintercreeper!

I walked back for my gloves and shovel, ready to conquer a formidable opponent, but as I got back and leaned over the flower, a familiar smell was in my nose - his cologne. I hadn’t smelled it for days, not since…

The ground darkened from my tears. I stood up, pulled out a tissue, and wiped my eyes, but as I put the tissue back, I noticed the smell of his cologne was in the air. Not just around the wintercreeper, all around the garden. I bent down to it again. It was the strongest from where the wintercreeper grew. With each breath, I could feel this tickling, warm feeling growing in my chest.

One more day won’t hurt it.

The next morning, the smell hit me before I even walked down the stairs. I took a few breaths, letting the warm feeling grow inside me again. My mouth flew open when I saw the living room. Through a small gap in the door, the vine from the wintercreeper had grown all the way inside the house, and it had turned into a circle and stopped at the couch, right at the place he used to sit. I stood there for a while, staring at it. But as my eyes wandered up, I saw the massacre in my garden. The rose bushes were wrapped in a green vine, almost choked, the small flowers invisible. 

The warm, lingering feeling was replaced with a hot anger. I walked across the vine towards the shed and picked up my shovel and shears. I put a shirt over my face, walked around the roses, and held the vine, ready to cut it off. 

A light summer breeze blew by, and with it came the whistle, his whistle. I stopped, my feet rooted to the ground. As the vine moved with the wind, my husband’s whistle sang in my ears. 

No. No. It was not possible. I saw him in the bed, under the cover. The doctor said. 

The breeze. Again. His whistle. His singing. The vine wrapped around my hand, pulsating.

I knew I should have cut it, I knew, but… 

I placed the shears down and walked back to the house. 

I sat down on my side of the couch and put the TV on. A few new episodes had come out. I hadn’t watched them since he was in the hospital. I turned to his side, but only the vine was on the couch.

“I wonder what happened to Poirot,” I whispered to myself, expecting silence, but the vine’s green leaves shook around. 

The warmth was back in my chest. I put my hand closer to it and left it there. Throughout the day, the vine hadn’t grown, but with each of my laughs, the leaves shook along, with each breath of the breeze, his whistle came too.

I didn’t want to leave the couch, but my eyes were practically closed. 

“I’m going to bed, but I’ll leave the TV on for you.” 

The morning after, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked down the stairs. The vines had spread all over the downstairs floor, except for a tiny path towards the couch and my cushion. I held my hands to my chest as I drank in the sight.

One small vine was already growing on the first two stairs.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, and grabbed the vine and spun it around the railing.

We spent the rest of the day watching TV and talking to each other. I talked mostly, but the vine’s shakes were more than enough. I even grabbed it at some point. He was usually the one who would reach for my hand, but it was okay; he was probably still a little shy.

When the sun started to set, I was sad to leave him, but it was okay, I’d have even more of him the next day.

That night, I had a dream of being submerged underwater. No air in my lungs. Nothing to see. Only the dark abyss of the ocean. My eyes darted open. I tried to breathe again, but my lungs only stretched halfway. I tried to move my limbs, but they were stuck in place. An unnatural, pulsing tightness wrapped around my body. Panic surged inside me. Each second, the tightness grew, and the thing moved up my shoulders to my neck. With all my might, I tried to throw my hands and my legs out, but the thing wouldn’t move. But then I looked down, and all the fear, the panic stopped, and the warm feeling grew in my breathless chest.

“I knew you’d come back, honey.”

Two new BMWs were parked in the garage of the large two-story home. The smell of wood and leather lingered. Mrs. Wahler sat in her wheelchair. Her face brightened as she saw me walk through the door.

“Mr. Parker, I’m delighted you came.”

“I’m sure,” I said, my voice low and monotone.

“No need to worry, it’s nothing serious, only a small tumor in my pancreas. I’ve already sent the payment through. Usually, I don’t do such things; it’s hard to trust people who work this profession, but you, Mr. Parker, have been the most reliable.”

“I appreciate that.”

The floorboards creaked as I walked to the living room and picked up a mahogany chair with a leather backrest.

“Mr. Parker, I apologize, but would you mind getting a different one? This one is very expensive. I’d hate it if something happened to it. Here, come take the piano chair.”

The piano chair didn’t even have a backrest. 

The chair creaked as I picked it up, carried it to her wheelchair, sat down, and placed my hand next to hers. We closed our eyes, and I began counting down.

“Okay, two minutes had passed.”

“Delightful.”

On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store. I tightened my grip on the wheel. “The fridge is almost empty,” Emma had said.

The store’s fluorescent lights made my vision blurry. A small, dull pain started in my upper stomach, and the nausea followed. Luckily, the house wasn’t far.

The smell of cooked corn and beans hit my nose as I opened the door, making the nausea grow. Emma stood in the hall, her eyes lit up when she saw me. 

“Hi, Dad!”

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad, are you okay? You seem sick again.”

“I know. I’ll need to rest more.”

“I cooked up some beans and corn for you!”

“That’s sweet. Is it okay if I eat it later?”

“Okay,” she said, looking at the ground.

I rubbed her back and made my way up the stairs. Each step felt like a mountain. I collapsed into bed, still clothed. All night, I kept turning, staring from one wall to the other, holding onto my stomach. The pain had spread to my back, replacing my thoughts. I blinked, and the room was coated in darkness. Blinked again, and the morning sun pushed back through the curtains.

“Are you okay, Dad?” Emma called from behind the door.

“Yes, just resting.”

“Yesterday’s dinner is in the fridge if you want it.”

“Thank you. I’ll eat it later.”

“I’m gonna go to school now.”

“Alright, have fun.”

By the time the sun started to disappear into the horizon, I managed to pull myself out of bed. The jobs had been getting harder. A year ago, I’d be fine in a day. 

Sealed envelopes lay stacked neatly on the coffee table. The red letter stared at me as I opened the first one: LATE NOTICE. The second. The third. All the same. The phone began ringing. I put the envelopes down and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Parker. We got your references from Mrs. Wahler. My father has stage 4 lung cancer. He’s in urgent need of the Transfer.”

“I’ve just done Mrs. Wahler and am still very sick.”

“We’ll pay triple the rate.”

“I’m sorry, I really can't.”

“How much do you ask for such a service?”

“I can’t offer anything right now.”

“We’ll pay 20,000 dollars.”

“But I can’t even drive. Barely can get out of bed.”

“We’ll come to your house.”

“No, no. That’s out of the question.”

“I know how family members can be around the Transfer. We can come through the back door or the garage. No one will know. Once it’s done, we’ll leave immediately.”

“Please call someone else.”

“30,000 dollars, Mr. Parker.”

My eyes darted to the envelopes.

“I don’t know.”

“40,000 dollars.”

That would cover all the debt.

“Okay.”

“Great. Our butlers will bring my father there at midnight.”

The phone beeped, and the room fell silent again.

I sat in the yard, drinking small sips of Gatorade, massaging my stomach. The moon was up in the sky, shining down on the grass.

“Mr. Parker?” sounded from behind the gate. A tall man in a suit stood behind it. I got up, walked towards it, and opened it. The man came in, followed by three others. One carrying a black leather chair and two carrying an old, frail man with sunken cheeks, pale skin, and thin arms and legs. His limbs were limp, and he was wheezing hard, barely pulling air into his lungs.

They put the chair down next to mine and sat him in; he immediately sank into it. 

“I’ll need the payment first.”

“No problem,” said the man, and pulled out his phone.

The notification dinged a second after. I looked at the man in the chair, took a deep breath, and sat down.

“May we proceed?”

“Yes, yes,” I said. I put my hand next to the man’s, closed my eyes, and began counting.

115, 116.

“Dad?” Emma’s shaking voice came from the porch.

“Emma? This is not what it…”

“Complete the transfer!”

I closed my eyes again and counted to 120. The men took the old man and the chair and ran out.

“Dad? Were you doing the Transfer?”

“No, no, something…” My chest tightened. I began coughing, lightly at first, but it quickly turned into hard, loud coughs. My body jerked. It felt like my lungs were going to come out. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m…” I dropped down to the ground. Splatters of blood fell out of my mouth. The coughs turned into wheezes. It felt like I was drowning. No matter how hard I breathed, nothing more would go into my lungs. I gripped the grass as the taste of iron filled my mouth.

“You promised you’d stop,” she said between the cries.

I turned my head away. Unable to look into her eyes.

I don’t recall how I got this job, barely even remember the posting - a small motel, rural, free accommodation. Back then, I still lived with my mom and was eager to get out. When I dialed the number provided, a man on the other line picked up in a low, stern voice. He barely asked me any questions, mostly when I could start. When I said I could start immediately, his voice jumped a little, and he said I got the job. 

To get there, you had to take an exit off the highway and get on an old forest road that had last been paved three decades earlier. I was sure it was a scam, but when I got to the address, the motel was there. It was a small one-floor concrete building painted dark grey with small windows. There was a small parking lot for about 4 cars, but there was no sign outside that said it was a motel. Nearby was a natural reserve, so I figured people already knew of this place and used it as a starting point. No one would stumble onto it by accident.

Outside the motel stood the owner, a large older man in his 50s with balding brown hair, wearing a gray buttoned-up shirt and black pants. He greeted me in the same low, stern voice and showed me around. There wasn’t much to do; my job would be to clean the rooms and the motel, take calls, check guests in and out, and handle payments. The last place he showed me was my room. It had the same musty blinds and a stained carpet as the other rooms, but at least the sheets looked newer than in the others.

“Will I be the only one working here?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, the season hasn’t started. There will be barely any guests. I’ll get you a helping hand once the season kicks off. For now, you can manage it yourself.”

More than the help, I was worried about getting bored. 

“You got everything?”

“I think so.”

“Great. You know where my number is. If you need anything, call me. I live an hour away, and can be here in no time. We really value personal privacy here, so make sure to keep that in your head.”

I didn’t realize I was making a face until he furrowed his brows and looked me in the eyes.

“I really do mean it, okay. Respect their privacy.”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Good,” he smiled and shook my hand.

His steps echoed down the hall, and soon his car left the parking lot.

Over the next few days, I mostly sat around at the reception desk and watched TV. The bell on the door didn’t ring once. 

One Friday evening, I was flipping through the channels when the doorbell rang. I almost fell out of my chair, and my hands frantically searched the table for the guestbook. The person came closer to the desk while I was still fumbling with the pages. He was about 30 with a pale face and dark eyes, dressed in a long brown coat, hat, and gloves. The weather outside was cold. The sun had gone down an hour ago, but it still seemed like he was overdressed.

“One room, please.”

“Sure. That will be 40 dollars. Please sign in.”

He scribbled his name and signature into the book. I turned around and took a key off the hanger.

“If possible, may I get room number 7?”

I stopped for a second with the key in my hand. Room 7 was the one at the end of the hall.

“Um, sure.”

“Thank you.”

He took the key from me and walked away. Only then did I notice the very large suitcase he carried. After he left, I took the guestbook and looked inside, but his writing was so bad I could barely make out anything.

The next morning, I woke up early at sunrise. I got ready and walked to the reception. To my surprise, the key from Room 7 was already lying on the table. The guest even signed the checkout time into the guestbook. It seemed a little rude, but it also meant less work for me. I got the cleaning supplies and went into the room.

The smell hit me before I entered. It was like someone had emptied an entire bottle of air freshener inside. I started coughing and put my shirt over my nose. Save for the smell, the room was strangely clean. Even when I rolled up the blinds, I still couldn’t find a spot. The sheets were untouched, and the bathroom seemed that way, too. 

Over the next few days, I spent my time watching TV again. The leaves started falling, so I had at least something extra to do. 

No one besides that man had stayed. It was true that the hiking season wasn’t in full swing, but the emptiness of this place was still weird. It didn’t help my mind either. I caught myself talking aloud a few times since I started.

It was Friday evening when the bell rang again. When I saw the brown coat, I didn’t believe my eyes. It made me almost fall out of the chair again.

“Good evening.”

“Evening.”

“Back again?” I said, smiling.

The man looked from under his hat, his eyes staring into mine. I swallowed and turned around.

“Room number 7?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice.

When I turned around, he was already writing his name in the guestbook. He had a large suitcase with him again.

Just like before, his car was gone, and the key was left at the reception desk. I took the cleaning supplies and made my way to the room. The smell was as strong as before, and the room was spotless again, sheets not moved, bathroom clean. At least I thought, until I pulled up the blinds. There were a few drops of some liquid on the carpet. I dipped my sponge into the bucket of warm water and started scrubbing, but the stains didn’t come off; they seeped into the carpet.

“Jesus, what is this?” I said to myself.

No matter how hard I tried, it seemed I only managed to spread them more. Looking over the dirty carpet, it probably didn’t matter. I wiped the sweat off my face, changed the sheets, and walked back to the reception.

The days passed like before: TV, leaves, boredom. When the phone rang on Wednesday, I jumped up out of my seat in excitement.

“Hello?” came the owner’s low, stern voice

“Hi!”

“Good evening. How have the past two weeks been? Is the work too much?”

“No. We only had one guest over the past two weeks.”

“Oh yes. I expected that. The season’s over, so fewer people.”

“He’s actually been here twice. The same man. Has he been here before by any chance? Tall, brown coat, hat, and gloves.”

The owner went silent for a few seconds.

“What have we said about respecting privacy?”

“Yes, yes. I know. I didn’t ask him anything. I was just wondering.”

The owner paused again.

“Yes, he’s been here before. Quiet. Good guest. We don’t get many like him this time of the year. Don’t bother him. He doesn’t like it when people are nosy.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good. If you need anything else, call me,” he said and hung up.

I stood there for a few minutes, phone still in hand, staring at the key with the number 7 on it.

By Friday evening, I already had the key ready on the table. I didn’t even shut off the TV when the man came. He greeted me with his usual cold demeanor, and I handed him the key and turned the book over. He signed in, left the money on the table, and walked to his room. 

That night, there was a movie on that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. I had long ago closed the reception door, but stayed in there, glued to the TV. It was about 1 a. m. when I heard it. At first, I thought it was coming from the TV. I tried to turn the volume down, but the noise didn’t quiet down; it only grew louder. Turning the sound off completely, I sat in my chair, looking around, listening. It sounded like someone was digging their fingers in wet dirt, followed by an irregular, almost rubbery crackle. I got up and walked closer to the rooms. The sound was coming from down the hall, from where room number 7 was. 

I swallowed, walked back to the reception, turned the TV sound back on, and made my way to the room. I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling like I was being watched. With each step, the sound grew louder. The crackle grew faster, and the digging turned into a tearing-like sound. I was almost at the door when one of the floorboards creaked. The noises stopped immediately. I stopped, frozen to the floor with my eyes locked on the door. I heard the man walking back and forth around the room. Each second, I thought the door would fly open, but only the noises of his steps came. Then it stopped, and the slow crackling and digging started again. I let out a deep sigh and quietly walked back to the reception, turning the TV off and going back into my room. I thought about calling the owner, but I’d have to admit what I did. The last thing I wanted was to go back to living with my mom and lose my income. 

The morning after, the key was on the table as always, with the checkout time written in the book. This time, the smell of air freshener reached all the way to the reception. I pulled my cleaning supplies out and went into the room. The stains were all over the carpet. No matter how hard I scrubbed, they wouldn’t come off.

Over the next few days, each time I put the TV on, my mind would drift back to that night. The sounds would echo in my head like I was at the door again. 

That Friday, he came back at the same time. His voice was monotone as before, but his face was slimmer, gaunter. I had to grip the desk not to ask him questions about what was going on in his room, but as quickly as he came in, he disappeared into the hall.

Not even an hour after his arrival, the noises came back again, the digging, the crackling, louder than before. Even at full volume, the TV wasn’t louder than the noise. I sat at the desk fiddling around with pens on the table, looking into the hall. The air began to fill with a strange musty smell.

“What the fuck,” I whispered to myself. 

I got out of the chair and walked slowly towards the hall. The smell grew stronger with each step. My mouth dropped when I peeked around the corner and saw that the door was open, not much, just a little, but enough to see into the room if I got closer. I looked around the hall, even though there was no one else there except us, and walked towards the room, walking as nimbly as possible, looking at the floor before putting my foot down. There was a strange, faint feeling of warmth coming from the room, growing as I got closer.

The door loomed in front of me. The words of the owner echoed in my mind, but the hole was there, just there, waiting for me to look inside. Taking a step closer, I peered in. A movement on the floor. A shadow. Something inside the suitcase I still don’t have a name for. Before I realized it, a gasp escaped my mouth. 

The man immediately turned around and looked at me. He screeched, smiled, and began crawling towards the door. I backed away, staring into his eyes, not able to look away. He grabbed the doorframe and pulled himself upright in one motion. I turned and ran down the hall. His steps were behind me, but not quick or rushed - slow, as if he knew he didn’t have to hurry. I turned the corner, pushed the glass door open, and ran out.

The car keys were deep in my pocket. I fumbled to pull them out, but my hand was trembling so badly that I dropped them right behind the car seat. I threw myself behind the seat, pulled out the keys, and started the car. I put the pedal to the floor and bolted from the parking lot. In the mirror, I saw him reach the spot where the car had been and stop, standing still, watching me go.

The drive was a blur. I didn’t stop until I saw the first open gas station and pulled in. I stumbled inside and sat down at a small table.

“You okay?” The attendant said, coming around the corner.

I tried to speak, but only gibberish came out. He didn’t push it, and a minute later came out with a coffee and a hot dog.

I wrapped both hands around the cup and stared out the window at the tree line.

He sat opposite and opened his mouth, ready to speak, but the phone rang.

“Sorry.”

“Are you Mr. BLANK? A motel owner is asking for you,” he called from the back.

Fire spread from house to house. Screams echoed in the valley. I called for my mother, but a soldier's hand grabbed me and dragged me away. 

They shackled us and sold us in another village like cattle. I tried to resist, but got a beating. A man with white hair and a beard chose me. He was to take me to another man’s farm. 

The farm was far from the village, with wheat fields and rolling green hills. On the farm were two other workers and the owner. They all stared at me as if I were something foul. My master beat me with a wooden stick and made me work in the fields until exhaustion, but his eyes didn’t stare at me as the others did. He would even hold back the stick a little when we were alone, the one act of kindness.

One morning, my master came to the stable, smiling ear to ear. He said he got a new job on the farm. It paid more than being a master. My nails dug into my legs as I held back the tears. He hated it when I cried.

The day after, I stood by the barn door, holding the plow in my shaking hand.

“Good morning, master,”

He was younger than the old master, with long brown hair and friendly eyes.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Here,” he pulled a small pastry out of his pocket.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

I shoved it in my mouth. It was so sweet it made my teeth hurt.

We made it to the field, and I started my work. My master sat on the grass, not rushing me. Before sunset, he said it was time to head back. I was sure to get the stick, but he got me to the barn and said goodbye.

The summer came early, with a smell of gravel and fresh dirt in the air. My master looked up and said, “You work while I do nothing, and I get money. It’s awful. There are no slaves where I’m from.”

“Where is that?”

“Far. I’m saving money to go back, but the owner pays horribly. I can barely survive. He only pays well the people he can trust.”

I pushed the plow into the ground, thinking of how the owner and other workers always stared at me.

The next morning, my master came into the barn, his face twisted in anger.

“The owner fired your previous master. He has a family! I’ve had enough. I’m going to leave.”

I gripped the plow harder.

“A new master.”

“It doesn’t have to…”

“What?”

“No, nothing. It’s crazy…”

That day, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the hills. They looked so tall and green. My master kept looking at me, shaking his head, as if he wanted to say something.

“Master, do you have hills in your town?”

“Call me Jack.”

“Jack, are there hills in your town?”

“Yes.”

“Is the place pretty?”

“Beautiful.”

“Is everyone really free?”

“They are.”

The sun was still up when we got to the barn.

“Can I talk to you, Jack?”

“Please, talk.”

“Would you take me with you?”

“I don’t know. It’s very dangerous.”

“You’re right. Please don’t tell the owner.”

“I’d never do...”

The door rattled. We both shot our eyes back. But it was the donkey standing outside, staring at us. Jack looked at it for a while, then back at me, the friendliness gone from his eyes, and walked out without saying another word.

That night, I barely slept, sure that Jack had told the owner and the man would come and kill me. But the sun came up, and only Jack stood in the door. He was holding two pastries and a small pouch.

“We will go today.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I can’t stand this anymore. I brought you more to eat and money for us to live off.”

“But, that’s your money.”

“No. You made that money. At lunch, we will go. I know a path over the hills.”

He pressed the pouch into my hands, not looking me in the eyes.

“Take it. Just in case.”

I took it and hid it in my pocket.

At noon, Jack looked at his watch and nodded at me.

“I’ll go in to make sure they’re busy. Then I’ll come back, and you’ll go first. I’ll catch up to you.”

I stood in the field, staring at the path to the house. Soon, Jack emerged again, walked closer to me, and whispered: “Okay, they’re eating. Now’s the time. Go.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, fast.”

I began running across the field.

The hills. Freedom. The summer air never felt so good.

But I didn’t even take a few steps when, behind me, Jack shouted, loud and clear: “He’s escaping!”

From behind the bushes, the two workers emerged. I tried to run faster, but there was no chance. They grabbed my legs and dragged me to the ground. One of them grabbed my hair and pulled my head to the sky, and pressed a knife to my neck.

“You little shit. You thought you could get away, huh?”

“No. Jack.”

“Sure, blame him.”

Jack emerged with the owner, smiling ear to ear.

“See what I told you? He would try to escape.”

“I didn’t want to believe, but you were right.”

“He even stole money from you. Search his pockets.”

One of the men stuck his hand into my pockets and pulled out the pouch Jack had given me.

The owner looked at it and shook his head.

“We have no place here for a thief, but for you, Jack, we’ll have plenty,” the owner said and turned around. Jack pulled out another pastry and began eating it, staring into my eyes. One of the men started to chuckle, and the knife’s blade began digging deeper into my skin. I looked at the hills one last time and imagined what the summer air felt like up there.