The howl of the wind forced its way into Mary’s bedroom. It looked for her, as she hid under the covers.

It found her. A gap in the sheets. She shivered. It always finds her.

She was glad it did. It was an excellent way to fix any weaknesses before nighttime started.

The chimes made her jump. This worried Mary. They don’t usually startle her.

She shook her head. Just two minutes until he tries to find her.

115, 114, 113.

She tried to stop. If she wasn’t counting, maybe he wouldn’t come.

110, 109, 108.

Something brushed her leg. She snapped round.

A large gap in the sheets. The door reflected in her mirror.

She quickly closed it.

Too quickly.

Gaps opened up everywhere.

She wasn’t counting.

How long was left?

She grabbed each side, and rolled herself up.

She was going to have to do it old school tonight.

Her breath heated her face immediately. 

Her breath warmed the space around her almost immediately.

Too warm.

Every breath made it worse.

Calm down, Mary, she thought to herself, you can’t panic now. You’re better than that.

Breathing slowed.

The heat continued.

Beggars cannot be choosers.

She relaxed.

The footsteps followed immediately.

Sniffs and snorts clattered into her room. 

She squeezed the sheets tighter. Her own breath ricocheted back into her face.

Hot now.

Too hot.

Each exhale felt like an alarm announcing her location.

Bare feet clicked and scratched across the floorboards outside her blanket prison.

Toenails dragged against wood.

Then he spoke.

“Mary, Mary, Mary,” he growled.

She did not know how he knew her name.

Or why he wanted her specifically.

“I’ve got something to show you, Mary.”

Every night for the last four years, he had wanted to show her something.

She had never seen it.

She prayed she never would.

The scraping grew louder.
Closer.

So close she felt the scrape of a toenail against the mattress.

A squeal escaped her throat.

She clamped both hands over her mouth, trying desperately to force the sound back inside herself.
Then the world changed.

Not dramatically.

The dark simply became a little less dark.
“There you are, Mary.”

His breath smouldered against the exposed skin of her leg.

“I’ve got something to show you, Mary.”

The covers lifted from her body.

Cold night air hit her instantly. Sweat turned to ice against her skin.

“I’m glad I found you, Mary,” he hissed.

A smile slowly grew across his face.
Left to right.

Yellow teeth pressed tightly into black gums.

His head bent forward, as though it could not fit properly inside this world.

His eyes stared permanently toward the floor.

Never at Mary.

He was thin.

Far too thin.

His limbs bent and knotted like tree branches.

Something trembled in his hands.

Mary knew this was the something.

The reason he returned night after night.

“You look so much like you do in my dreams,” he whispered. “It mustn’t be long now.”

Without moving, he suddenly stood beside the bed.

The smell hit her immediately.

Hot.

Rotten.

His eyes still pointed downward.

“Look,” he whispered, thrusting his hands toward her face.

Too close.

Mary squeezed her eyes shut.

“Look,” he sneered.

She squeezed harder.

Pain throbbed behind her eyes.

Harder still.

“LOOK!”

Mary’s eyes unlatched.

The world was red.

Slowly fading.

Bandaged hands.

Swollen fingers trembling beneath filthy white cloth.

A white T-shirt hung on his hands, tattered. Stained black and red. A yellow smiley face beneath the filth.

The rotten smell clung to one side of the room.

A new smell crept into the other side.

Vanilla.

A dog barked somewhere nearby.

Familiar.

Close enough that she could almost feel wet breath against her neck.

Mary spun around.

Nothing.

She turned back.

The room was empty again.

Only the smell of vanilla remained.

Clinging to her nostrils.

She pulled the covers from the floor.

Crawled back beneath them.

Sealed every gap.

And waited.

He would return.

*

The sun rose.

Mary welcomed the light.

It transformed her room.

Deep breath.

She climbed out of bed.

The shower helped.

For a moment.

She turned it off.

Then back on again.

The toothbrush scrubbed harder that morning.

Nothing felt clean.

Mary left for school.

At the bus stop, a dog barked somewhere nearby.

Familiar.

Close enough that she could almost feel wet breath against her neck.

Mary spun around.

Nothing.

A woman nearby looked at her with quiet concern before sipping from a takeaway coffee cup.

Vanilla.

The bus pulled up.

A girl smiled at Mary and stepped aside.

“After you.”

Mary smiled back.

Then froze.

White T-shirt.

A bright yellow smiley face stretched across it.

Mary gasped and stepped backwards.

The girl frowned slightly, then climbed onto the bus.
Mary watched it pull away.

The girl in the white T-shirt died that day.

They all had.

Mary was supposed to as well.

But she didn’t.

Night after night, he still comes back.

Always wanting to show her something.

So Mary hid.

She covered her eyes.

She refused to look.

But…

should she?

“Hello, am I speaking to Martin Salisbury?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Hello Mr Salisbury, my name is Olivia. I’m calling from Final Resting Place. I was wondering if I could speak to your mother, Mrs Salisbury?”

“I’m afraid my mother is dead.”

“Are you sure, Mr Salisbury?”

“The funeral and the grief rather confirmed it.”

“It’s just that we detected a satanic prayer originating from your address at the exact moment your mother became unaccounted for.”

“Who did you say you were calling from again?”

“Final Resting Place, sir. Where good people deserve to go in the end.”

“Right…”

“That’s why we’re so concerned, sir. Your mother lived a good life. We simply want to reward her for that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any satanic prayers, Olivia dear. I also have no idea how to draw a pentagram.”

“I didn’t mention a pentagram, Mr Salisbury.”

“Well… that’s usually how these things go, isn’t it?”

“What things are those exactly, sir?”

“You know. Satanic things.”

“Mr Salisbury, I’m not just calling to locate your mother. I need to warn you—”

“Please don’t take her.”

“Is she there, Mr Salisbury? With you?”

“I just missed her so much.”

“I understand, Martin. I truly do. Losing someone you love is difficult. But that is not your mother anymore. She’s dangerous.”

“She would never hurt me. I’m her baby boy.”

“Martin, please listen to me carefully. Your mother would never hurt you. But that is not your mother right now. She exists to feed.”

“It is my mothe—”

A muffled voice.

“You need to listen to me. If she harms anyone whilst she’s like this, she will not be allowed back here.”

The muffled voice again.

Louder this time.

Grunting.

“Martin, please. Your mother doesn’t deserve this.”

“No, Mother… please… get back… please, you’re hurting me.”

“Mr Salisbury?!”

Screaming.

“Martin! Are you there?”

Silence.

Heavy breathing.

Then the sound slowly fades back into silence.

“Bloody mummy’s boys are the worst.”

Phone dials.

Ringing.

“Hey girl.”

“Hey Joe. I’m afraid we’ve got another Mumbie. We’re going to need a clean-up.”

“Mummy’s boys are the worst.”

“From your mouth to Hell’s ears, Joe.”

I woke up in the dog bed again. Oli was growling at me, trying to warn me away. He is never normally aggressive, even when most other dogs would be. However with his teeth bared, and his haunches up, he was ready to go to battle with me.

“Sorry,” I apologised, making sure the cushion was plumb enough for him.

He didn’t even look at me as he made himself comfortable.

My mouth tasted like a combination of copper, meat, and farts. I grabbed a glass of water, drank it, and immediately refilled it. That one went just as quickly as the first. I refilled it again. Each soothing drop briefly convincing my throat everything was okay.

I closed my eyes and breathed out.

My stomach roared. Not from being empty. I was full. My belly skin stretched tight. Each breath felt like it might tear.

I rubbed my eyes. Something scratched across my eyelids. My hands were covered in dirt and dried blood.

I ran to the bathroom mirror to find the source of it.
Scratches littered my dirty face. My eyes were red, heavy bags beneath them. Dried blood smeared my skin, but there was nothing deep enough to explain so much of it.

My throat still stung. I coughed.

My throat exploded.

I coughed, spluttered, choked. It became so intense I couldn’t catch my breath between spasms. My face burned redder than the blood smeared across it.

Something clawed at the back of my throat, forcing the retching harder. My eyes watered, or maybe I was crying. Probably both.

Something shot from my mouth and clattered into the sink.

A fingernail.

The sound I made came from somewhere deep inside me.

I threw up into the sink, the contents blocking the pipes.

I ran, too scared to see what had been sitting in my swollen stomach.

The kitchen floor was littered with boxes and packets of food, all torn apart.

The kitchen tilted beneath me.

I heard snarling, like Oli, but much bigger. It hurled itself around my skull, clawing at my memories. I heard screaming. Images of stalking, running. Pouncing. Faces twisted with fear before disappearing into mushes of red and white. The sounds of ripping and chewing made my stomach howl with hunger.

No matter how disturbing these memories were, they didn’t sicken me. They felt familiar.
Almost like pride.

I pulled myself back. The images stayed, stained into my mind. I turned on the TV, hoping to burn them away.

The news.

It was near my house. By the campsite.

The sound was muted, but the text scrolling across the screen read:

ANIMAL ATTACK CLAIMS SIX LIVES

I started coughing again, gagging. I clamped my mouth shut. Something hard surged up my throat. I kept it in my mouth.

Swallowed it.

I turned off the TV and walked over to Oli’s bed.

I growled at him.

He whimpered, crawling away.

I lay down, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

“Look babes, I’ve already said this, but I’m not a huge fan of the things you’re saying to my mum.”

“You want this to work, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I just don’t understand how screaming those things at my mum is going to help. And why does it have to be so… sexual?”

“It has to be believable. I need to scare her. This won’t work if she’s not terrified.”

“Can’t we just stop this? Just be together like we are now?”

“Come on, Riley, you know that won’t work. They’ll take you away, just like they did before.”

“I know you’re right, but please, when you talk about me and my mum… you know… keep it above the waist.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try. But, babes, I’m a sexual being. I can’t just turn it off.”

“Thank you. Anyway, you just need to mention my gran. She would hate that.”

“You want me to talk about having sex with your nan?”

“No! Gross! I want you to talk about how disappointed and embarrassed she’d be.”

“Okay. Sounds boring, but fine. We’ll try it your way.”

“Thank you.”

“So, this is the final part of the plan. Are you sure you know what you need to do? He’ll be alone. Your mum will be outside.”

“I need to will it to happen. Then let it happen. You’ll do the rest.”

“Before he even says a word. If he starts speaking, everything’s finished. It’s the end of everything.”

“I know. Look, I’m part of this too. Haven’t I already proven myself?”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, babes. It’s just that, if this goes wrong, I’m gone. There’s nothing more I can do. I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not.”

“Me either. I lov—”

“Shush! He’s coming.”

“By my will, I unmake this bond. 
You are not mine. 
I am not yours. Go.”

…

“Hey Riley, how do I look?”

“Okay, wow. We definitely lucked out.”

“I’ve already checked what he was packing. Pretty impressive.”

“Such a shame. Total underuse.”

“Right, are you ready, Riley? Time to meet your mum.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Are you kidding? She’s going to love me. I’m a hero. I just exorcised her daughter of a god damn demon, we’re going to get along just fine.”

“Excuse me…”

Silence.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above the prison corridor.

Silence again.

“Well… I think somebody should probably know. The man in this cell is dead. He is no longer a person. Just a thing.”

“Will you shut up!”

“Oh, there he is. Big scary officer speaks.”

Timothy Dawson shifted in the plastic chair outside the reinforced cell door.

“I was told to ignore you,” he muttered. “They said you like to talk.”

“Oh, they make me sound desperate. I’m just a bloke doing his job.”

“Shut up.”

“Normally I would. But there’s something about you…”

Silence.

“Is your name Timothy Dawson?”

Timothy frowned.

“What? No.”

“Hmmm.”

“That’s not my name.”

“You see, Timmy, I know it is. Even if I didn’t, the smell of urine in your trousers would’ve confirmed my suspicions.”

“You’ve somehow seen employee files.”

“Oh, you got me, Timbo. Too clever for me.”

Silence.

“You’re wasted in prison security, honestly.”

Timothy gripped the arms of the chair tighter.

“What even is the point of you sitting out there? The door’s locked. He’s dead. I’m just here to collect him.”

Silence.

“Unless you’re here for health and safety reasons.”

A soft chuckle drifted through the hatch.

“In that case, you might be in trouble…”

“Shut up or I’ll come in there and shut you up myself.”

“Oh yes please,” the voice whispered excitedly. “Please come in here, Tim. I’ve always wanted to finally meet you properly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Put a face to all the work I’ve been seeing.”

Timothy stood.

“Mate… seriously. Shut up.”

“Aren’t I a bit old for you, Timothy?”

Silence.

“A bit too big?”

“I don’t know what sick game you’re trying to play—”

“Oh, Timmy… don’t act all shy now. I’ve seen how expressive you can be.”

Silence.

“You really throw yourself into it.”

Timothy’s face tightened.

“Whatever this is, it isn’t scaring me.”

“Oh, but it is though, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded almost sympathetic now.

“Not just a little bit scared either. More… ‘oh no, he knows what I’ve done’ scared.”

“You can’t do anything to me from behind that door,” Timothy snapped. “It’s locked, remember?”

“Oh, Timothy…”

The voice softened.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Silence.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to. That’s not how any of this works.”

Timothy slowly sat back down.

“But one day?” the voice continued quietly. “I’ll be able to.”

The fluorescent lights suddenly sounded deafening.

“And honestly, Timothy Dawson… it’s already going to be bad for you.”

Silence.

“Terrible.”

Another soft laugh.

“But if I have to keep collecting frightened little children with your fingerprints all over them before you finally arrive…”

Timothy stopped breathing.

“…then when I do finally get you, there won’t be anybody left to stop me being honest about how I feel.”

Silence filled the corridor.

Timothy swallowed hard.

Said nothing.

“I’ll see you soon, Timothy Dawson.”

Silence.

“Give my love to Annie and the kids.”

Timothy froze.

“How do you know their names?”

Timothy leaped to the door.

Unlocked it.

The door opened.

The prisoner lay motionless on the floor.

“What…? Oh shi—”

Long silence.

“Somebody call an ambulance! Quick!”

“Mr Benevolous, are you there?”

Silence.

“Mr Benevolous, please. I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there.”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Ah, there you are. Mr Benevolous, you were scheduled for a possession at 15:34 today. It is now 15:36. What seems to be the issue?”

“I’m not doing it. It’s not part of my job.”

“You are a demon, Mr Benevolous. Possessing people is most definitely your job.”

“I am a Level Two Possession Demon. That means pets, the dying, and inanimate objects. This assignment is above my pay grade.”

“You asked for this overtime, Mr Benevolous. Management went out of their way to accommodate you.”

“I’m sorry, but this is a Level Six. Minimum. I’m not qualified for this.”

“You’ve been working here for two thousand four hundred and ninety-eight years, Ben. You should be running the Possession Department by now, not haunting tables and chairs.”

“There is a reason I haven’t taken any promotions. I do not like what we do. Our entire job revolves around fear and control. I only do it to provide for my children.”

“Ben, these calls are recorded. Someone could hear you. Just do the job and try to forget about it afterwards.”

“It’s a child, Ali. Do you have any idea what possession does to a human mind?”

“They deserve it, Ben.”

“Please tell me exactly what a six-year-old child could possibly do to deserve any of this.”

“Come on, Ben. We’ve all completed the basic training.”

“The things we make them do… they don’t forget. When the job is finished and management is satisfied with the results, we leave. The possession ends. But we never really leave them behind.”

“I told you to stop reading that rubbish. There is no supernatural basis for any of it.”

“What we leave behind, combines with what was already there… part of us becomes part of them.”

“They are going to hear this call, Ben.”

“They start seeing the atrocities we committed as though they lived through them personally. They feel the pride we felt killing people. The joy we felt destroying things. They don’t understand why those feelings exist inside them, because what they’re seeing disgusts them.”

“None of that is true, Ben.”

“It’s a child. I don’t want to become part of those nightmares. Do you have any idea what that would do to a mind that young?”

“Ben, I don’t want to do this, but if you refuse the assignment, you will be terminated. Your child benefits will also be revoked.”

“Ali… please. We’ve known each other for over a millennium.”

“My hands are tied, Ben. Think about your children.”

“I will never forgive you for this.”

“I am sorry, Ben. But at least you’ll still get to see them.”

“Yes… but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look them in the eye again.”

Silence.
Soft sobbing.
Silence again.

A child screams.

I have a memory from childhood. I couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

The memory is clear in a way childhood memories shouldn’t be. Too sharp. Too complete.

Even stranger, my eight-year-old self somehow narrates parts of it like an adult. Proper sentences. Adult observations. Adult logic.

That shouldn’t be possible.

I think what I actually remember is a memory retold over and over again. Each version polished by an older version of me until the impossible became explainable.

A child scared of the dark.

That’s all it was.

Shapes in the corner of the room becoming people. Wind sounding like whispers. An overactive imagination convincing itself there was a man standing by the wall.

That explanation has helped me sleep for fourteen years.

Different houses.
Different beds.
Different dark corners.

Eventually every room became safe again.

I barely thought about the man anymore.

Until tonight.

I’m back in my childhood bedroom for the first time in years. My parents are moving house. Mum asked if I could stay one night to help sort the loft tomorrow morning.

I said yes.

Now I’m lying in my old single bed, thirty minutes past midnight, staring into the same corner I used to stare at as a child.

And the darkness there is wrong.

At first it’s just shapes.

Coats.
Shadows.
Nothing.

Then the blackness starts bending around itself.

Stretching.

Forming.

A tall figure stands in the corner of the room.

So tall its head nearly touches the ceiling.

I can’t tell if it’s facing me or the wall.

My body turns cold.

I try to laugh it off.

Sleep deprivation.
Memory.
Suggestion.

But then I hear it.

Breathing.

Slow.
Wet.
Patient.

My chest tightens.

Because I suddenly remember something important.

The figure was never breathing before.

Eight-year-old me used to tell people about “the man in the corner.”

Not the breathing.

Never the breathing.

I pull the duvet tighter around myself and listen.

The sound grows heavier.

Closer.

Then another memory returns.

Not a real memory.

A feeling.

A certainty.

Something I used to know before I convinced myself I’d imagined it.

The thing in the corner was never the part I should’ve been scared of.

Something shifts underneath the bed.

The mattress dips beside my legs.

My entire body locks instantly.

Panic detonates through me.

I try to move.

Nothing happens.

My arms won’t lift.
My legs won’t kick.
Even my mouth barely opens.

Sleep paralysis.

That’s all this is.

Except I’m not asleep.

Something drags itself slowly beneath the duvet beside me.

The breathing is directly next to my ear now.

Then a voice whispers:

“Come join us.”

Recognition hits me so hard I nearly black out.

I know that voice.

Not from adulthood.

From childhood.

I used to hear it every night.

Tears stream sideways across my face as I struggle against my own body.

The figure in the corner finally moves.

It peels itself away from the darkness.
Not steps.

Peels.

As though parts of it are still stuck to the room.

Black strands stretch and snap behind it as it crosses toward me.

A sound escapes it.

Not a growl.

Not a scream.

A howl forced through a whisper.

The room smells damp.

Rotten.

Like wet soil.

The thing crawls onto the bed.

The mattress sinks under impossible weight.

Its face hovers inches above mine.

I still can’t see features.

Just absence.

A hole in the shape of a person.

Then it smiles.

Not visually.

I somehow feel it smiling.

The voice enters my head before I hear it.

“Hello, Mr Helpful.”

Pain explodes through my skull.

White-hot.

Like something digging through my memories with burning fingers.

Searching.

Looking for something buried.

Then...

The room disappears.

—

Daylight.

Children laughing.

I’m lying face down on gravel.

For a few seconds I genuinely believe I’ve woken up somewhere else.

A playground surrounds me.

Bright sunlight.
Metal climbing frames.
Children running in circles.

Then I see the group gathered near the fence.

Watching something.

I move closer.

My legs barely work.

The children don’t acknowledge me at all.

In the middle of them is a small boy sitting cross-legged in the dirt.

Tiny.
Thin.

Familiar.

Me.

Eight years old.

He’s crying.

And speaking to something underneath the climbing frame.

Something hidden in shadow.

The other children laugh at him.

Mocking him.

One throws stones.

Another barks like a dog.

I remember this.

God.

I remember this.

I’d forgotten.

The thing under the climbing frame whispers to him.

me.

“Do you want them to stop?”

Eight-year-old me nods.

The children keep laughing.

The shadow moves.

Not outwards.

Downwards.

Like darkness spilling underneath the playground itself.

Then the screaming starts.

Children collapse.

Teachers collapse.

Blood runs from noses.

Eyes.

Mouths.

The windows facing the playground explode outward.

The world becomes noise.

And little me just sits there crying.

The thing beneath the climbing frame wraps around him lovingly.

“Better?” it asks.

The world flashes white again.

—

I’m back in bed.

Back in paralysis.

The figure hangs over me.

Waiting.

Understanding spreads through me slowly and horribly.

It wasn’t haunting me.

It answered me.

All those years ago, I asked it for help.

And it helped.

The thing strokes my forehead with fingers that feel like damp roots.

“I took them away,” it whispers gently.

Fresh tears run into my ears.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did.”

The breathing deepens happily.

“You asked.”

Images flash through my head.

News reports.

Funerals.

Tiny coffins.

Memories buried so deeply I’d mistaken the absence for forgetting.

“You belonged to us after that,” it says.

The room darkens around us.

“But you stopped listening.”

The thing presses closer.

“I need you again, Mr Helpful.”

I finally force movement into my jaw.

Every muscle screams.

“No,” I whisper.

Silence.

Then disappointment.

Heavy.
Ancient.
Heartbroken disappointment.

“Yes you will. I know you."

The thing beneath the bed loosened around my legs.

Somewhere deep inside my head, eight-year-old me started crying.

Not because he was scared.

Because for the first time since that playground, somebody had finally said no to it.

The darkness swallowed my bedroom whole.

And eight-year-old me thought I was brave.

I woke up on the floor sometime after sunrise.

My childhood bed was empty.

The corner of the room was empty.

But the gravel was still embedded in my cheek.

I haven’t slept since.

Because every night now, just before I drift off, I hear children laughing underneath my bed.

Waiting for me to help again.

There used to be a boy in my class called Cody. He had convinced himself of the existence of The Toilet Witch. Something he’d made up entirely on his own.

He was petrified of her.

He never described her properly. Not in a way that stuck. She kept changing. Sometimes she was thin enough to fold herself inside the toilet bowl. Other times she was swollen, wet, and barely contained by the porcelain. All he was ever certain of was that she lived in there, waiting, listening to the water drain away.

When he flushed the chain, he had to get downstairs before she came out of the toilet. That was the rule.

The sound of the water masked her movements. When it stopped, she was free.

He used to say she had fingers like roots. That they scraped along the floor first, feeling for ankles. Other days, he said she didn’t have eyes, only a mouth that opened wider the closer you got to her.

Nothing about her was consistent, except his fear.
He was so convinced she was real that, after he told me about her, I started to believe it too. Maybe The Toilet Witch lived in my house as well. Maybe she was everywhere, waiting beneath every toilet seat in the world, and now that I knew about her, she’d eventually come for me too.

I started running down the stairs myself. Jumping two or three steps at a time. Never looking back. I could picture her anyway. Pale and steaming. Dragging herself free from the bathroom. Furious that I knew she existed.

“Stop running down those bloody stairs,” my parents would shout.

But the telling off was worth it.

At least I was safe again.

Cody died two weeks ago.

He tripped while running down the stairs. Broke his neck. Died instantly.

I knew I needed to stop after that. It was too dangerous. That could just as easily have been me.
But the thing I can’t get out of my head is this:
What if he didn’t trip?

What if he just wasn’t fast enough?

What if he got sloppy? Let the sound stop too soon?

What if she finally reached him?

How could I stop running now?

I should probably run faster.

Hold music.

“Hello, you’re speaking to Margot. Can I take your details please?”

“I’m sorry Margot, but you’re the fifteenth person that’s asked that today. Do you not talk to each other?”

“It’s for your security, sir. There are a lot of bad people out there.”

“Okay. My name is Dominic Guild. October nineteenth, nineteen ninety-four.”

“Thank you. One last question. What was the name of the first pet you killed?”

“Excuse me?!?”

“What was the name of your first pet, Mr Guild?”

“Oh… Tucker.”

“Brilliant. That’s all sorted.”

“Is it though…?”

Silence.

“Why are you calling today, Mr Guild?”

“I’m calling because you left me a message asking me to call.”

“I’m afraid I did not, sir.”

“No, not you specifically. Someone there did.”

“Who was it, sir?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr Guild, there are over three hundred souls working here. I can hardly interrupt everybody’s day just for you, can I?”

“I’m not saying that–”

“You just said that, Mr Guild.”

“No! You said that, Margot. Not me!”

“Please calm down, Mr Guild. I know you enjoy hurting women.”

“What did you say?”

“I said no one enjoys this sort of thing.”

“…Are you sure that’s what you said?”

“I’m trying to help you, sir.”

“Right… sorry. Surely there’s a system you can check?”

“One moment please.”

Typing sounds.

“Okay Mr Guild, I’m afraid you’ve come through to the wrong department.”

“No I haven’t!”

“I’m sorry sir?”

“I’m fed up with people telling me I’ve come through to the wrong department. I’ve not done anything. You people are the ones passing me back and forth.”

“I’m sorry you don’t like it when it happens to you.”

“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry this process has frustrated you, Mr Guild.”

“No, Margot. That’s not what you just said.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You keep saying things, then pretending you said something else.”

“Please do not raise your voice, Mr Guild.”

“I am not.”

“You always said that afterwards.”

“…After what?”

“Were you really not angry, Mr Guild?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do. You thought about it every night.”

“What? I don–”

“Not guilt. Pride. Like remembering a fun holiday.”

Silence.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Margot, sir.”

“Who are you really… Sarah?”

“One moment please.”

“No. Don’t put me on ho–”

Hold music.

“I’m sorry I made you so mad…”

“Sarah…? Is that you? What is happening?”

“Thank you for holding, Mr Guild.”

“What was that? Someone else was on the line.”

“That was our hold music, sir. It’s designed to manipulate time perception and regulate emotional states.”

Silence.

“Personally, I just think music has a way of transporting us to the past.”

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“No, believe me sir. You do not.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You can’t, sir.”

Silence.

“Are you still there, Mr Guild?”

“Yes…”

“Good.”

Typing sounds.

“Let me connect you to the correct department. One moment please.”

“No… please don’t…”

Hold music.

Dementia seemed determined to return the memories he deserved least.

“It took me all weekend to dig those up, I’m not giving them back.”

I open my eyes, and the knife plunges into my chest, I tell myself the pain, though excruciating, will soon be over.

Hold music.

“Good afternoon, you’re through to Karma Points Customer Support. My name is Elizabeth. How can I assist you today?”

“Oh, hello Elizabeth. My name is Roger. I appear to be having issues cashing in my Karma points.”

“Not a problem, sir. These things can get tricky at the end.”

“It keeps saying I don’t have enough, but I’ve been saving all my life. I definitely have enough.”

“Not a problem, sir. If you can give me your account number, I can look into that for you.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. You are an angel.”

“Not exactly.”

“My number is triple zero, two, four, three, nine, six, six, seven.”

“One moment please.”

Typing.

“Here we are, Mr Oakland. I can see your balance is eight hundred and seventy-two.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So what seems to be the issue today?”

“It won’t let me choose butterfly.”

“Yes, Mr Oakland. The Butterfly Package is currently nine hundred and fifty points. You do not have enough.”

“No, that can’t be right. They were eight hundred and fifty.”

“Not since the recent price adjustments.”

“The what, sorry?”

“The price adjustments, Mr Oakland. They came into effect at midnight.”

“But I have to be a butterfly. Mary will be a butterfly.”
“I see you are a very loyal customer, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“In that case, you should have received notification of the changes.”

“I didn’t receive any letters.”

“It would have been sent by email, sir.”

“I don’t have email.”

“Yes you do.”

“…Do I?”

“Yes. We have your address listed as enterdetailshere@email.test.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“It is clearly your email address, sir.”

“But Mary is a butterfly.”

“Yes, Mr Oakland. You’ve already mentioned Mary several times.”

“We were supposed to be butterflies.”

Silence.

“I promised her.”

“I understand, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“…What do I have enough for?”

Typing.

“Passing you through to the Roach Department now, sir. Please hold.”

Hold music.

“Looks like you’re a bit early, sir.”

“How can I be early?”

“Please, take a seat.”

“How early am I?”

“Twenty-four years, four months, six days, eight hours, and fourteen minutes.”

“…That is early.”

“Yes, sir. Please take a seat.”

“How can I be early? It wasn’t even my idea to come.”

“I understand your frustration, Mr Howard, but anomalies do occasionally occur.”
“I don’t—”

“Mr Howard. Take. A. Seat.”

He sits.
Waits.

“Excuse me… I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

“And?”

“Has there been any progress?”

“No. You will be called when there is—oh. Mr Howard, there has been progress.”

“Great. What does it say?”

“It says you are the party at fault.”

“How? That truck hit me.”

“Yes, but you don’t usually take that route to work.”

“So? I wanted a change of scenery.”

“And there it is.”

“What?”

“Spontaneity.”

“…Sorry?”

“Spontaneity is responsible for seventy-six percent of our anomalies.”

“I’ve been seeing this girl.”

“Tale as old as time, sir.”

“She said I was unexciting.”

“But you were alive.”

“So that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought spontaneity was supposed to be a good thing.”

“It is not, sir. It creates paperwork.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Wordsworth started this nonsense.”

“…What?”

‘“Spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings.” Absolute disaster. We were correcting timelines for decades.”

“What happens now?”

“Then Kerouac came along. Then self-help books in the seventies. That’s when they introduced overtime.”

“I just want to know if I can still see my—”

“And now TikTok, of course. Honestly, we’re expecting a complete collapse within the decade.”

“Will you PLEASE tell me what’s happening?”

“You need to take a seat, sir.”

“…How long do I wait?”

“Let me see…”

papers shuffle

“Ah. Twenty-four years, four months, six days, two hours, and ten minutes

“Looks like you’re a bit early, sir.”

“How can I be early?”

“Please, take a seat.”

“How early am I?”

“Twenty-four years, four months, six days, eight hours, and fourteen minutes.”

“…That is early.”

“Yes, sir. Please take a seat.”

“How can I be early? It wasn’t even my idea to come.”

“I understand your frustration, Mr Howard, but anomalies do occasionally occur.”

“I don’t—”

“Mr Howard. Take. A. Seat.”

He sits.
Waits.

“Excuse me… I’ve been waiting quite a while.”

“And?”

“Has there been any progress?”

“No. You will be called when there is—oh. Mr Howard, there has been progress.”

“Great. What does it say?”

“It says you are the party at fault.”

“How? That truck hit me.”

“Yes, but you don’t usually take that route to work.”

“So? I wanted a change of scenery.”

“And there it is.”

“What?”

“Spontaneity.”

“…Sorry?”

“Spontaneity is responsible for seventy-six percent of our anomalies.”

“I’ve been seeing this girl.”

“Tale as old as time, sir.”

“She said I was unexciting.”

“But you were alive.”

“So that’s it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought spontaneity was supposed to be a good thing.”

“It is not, sir. It creates paperwork.”

“I can’t believe—”

“Wordsworth started this nonsense.”

“…What?”

‘“Spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. Absolute disaster. We were correcting timelines for decades.”

“What happens now?”

“Then Kerouac came along. Then self-help books in the seventies. That’s when they introduced overtime.”

“I just want to know if I can still see my—”

“And now TikTok, of course. Honestly, we’re expecting a complete collapse within the decade.”

“Will you PLEASE tell me what’s happening?”

“You need to take a seat, sir.”

“…How long do I wait?”

“Let me see…”

papers shuffle

“Ah. Twenty-four years, four months, six days, two hours, and ten minutes

“With respect, I don’t think you understand what I’m asking for.”

“I gave you a full list.”

“Yes. A list of horrors.”

“It’s what we do.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to reposition.”

“Reposition.”

“Yes. Optics. You don’t torture people—you deliver justice.”

“…Go on.”

“They’re up there preaching rules. You’re down here enforcing them. Without you, the whole system collapses.”

“That’s always been my argument.”

“But they control the narrative. Big buildings, stained glass, good lighting. Telling everyone what an awful thing you are. Meanwhile you’re doing the hard work.”

“We don’t get many compliments.”

“That’s about to change.”

“I’m listening.”

“Social media. Controlled messaging. Weekly updates. ‘Where are they now?’ segments.”

“On who?”

“Dictators. Serial killers. The worst of them. You don’t show anything explicit—just imply it. Let people imagine the rest.”

“…I like that.”

“Polls, too. Engagement. ‘Who deserves what next?’”

“You’re very good at this, Mr Bridger.”

“I love what I do.”

“So do I.”

“You’ll build an audience. People will follow for the justice. Stay for the… anticipation.”

“And you think people will enjoy this?”

“They already enjoy worse.”

“…Fair.”

“You’ll have more content than you know what to do with. There are always more of them.”

“You sound almost excited.”

“If it gets clicks, I hope it never stops.”

“…Excellent.”

“Is our time up?”

“Yes, Mr Bridger. We’re done.”

“I could stay longer. Flesh this out.”

“I know.”

“…Good. Because I don’t really have anywhere else to—”

“You’re right… you don’t.”

“…What do you mean?”

“You are exactly where you need to be.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“Take him.”

“No—wait, I didn’t—”

“Next!”