Far Beyond The Moon E-Book

P. C. M. Vandermeer

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 663

Beschreibung

"One glimpse into my mind would drive you to insanity." - "Maybe I want to go crazy, all the way! Just for once..." The life of Christopher Ennington is in shambles. Volunteering at his local dog shelter is what gets the 38-year-old through the days. Battered by abuse, disease, and that particularly messed-up thing dragged into the shelter, he cannot believe his luck when he crosses paths with a mysterious stranger: Gyth is kind, dreamy, and just as much of an outsider as Christopher. Frankly, it has seemed impossible to ever find love again - but here he is, enamored by brown eyes and a voice like honey. Gyth has never planned on returning to this dimension. But after his crash into it, he is connected to the lonely creature who has saved his life. And so, he decides to stay and masquerades as a 'human' himself. With Christopher to teach him, it's not too difficult - and even fun! Birds of a feather flock together after all. But people in rural Massachusetts do not take kindly to this blossoming relationship. It is only when Christopher learns of Gyth's eldritch nature that this world finally starts to change - and they themselves with it... What lies beneath the flesh must break free: Cosmic horror and body horror entangled in a steamy queer romance - literally! Now available as a revised second edition with a bonus chapter.

Leseprobe

To anyone in need of a hug.

You are not alone.

CHAPTERS

Disclaimer

Prologue: Shimmer

Encounter

Dreamer

Spinner

Closer

Sleepwalker

Lover

Water

Drifter

Foster

Monster

Watcher

Overcomer

Finder

Epilogue: Keeper

Appendix

Bonus Chapter: Sucker

DISCLAIMER

Dear reader, this novel contains sexual and potentially re-traumatizing scenes. Please see if the read would be safe for you, as this book contains discussions and/or mentions of:

paranormal romance and sex, including tentacle sex

body horror and body dysmorphia

past abuse and rape

homophobia and homophobic language

racism and racist language

eating disorders

mental illness, self-harm, and suicidality

physical, emotional, sexual and mental violence (not between the main characters)

All sexual acts between the main characters are consensual. Further notes for this novel could potentially spoil the story; they can be found in the appendix at the end.

While writing “Far Beyond The Moon” has had a positive effect on my personal healing journey, all survivors experience and process their history differently. This novel, and by extension I, do not claim to represent with universal validity how trauma affects people in their everyday life. The same applies to the exploration of queerness and queer trauma – queer people are not a monolith. If you are currently struggling yourself, do not hesitate to seek help, for example with mental health professionals or anonymous aid centers.

PROLOGUE: SHIMMER

THE MARCH AIR is still chilly, as though it had not yet fully woken from the night. Dew from trees sheens the streets of Hillsburg, Massachusetts, once a picturesque smalltown with houses made of wood, bricks, and honest American work. Now the doorframes are shabby and the windows obscured by dirt or taped newspapers. No children buying donuts on Main Street, no cat rushing through the matutinal emptiness. Even the gas station by the southern town sign has been abandoned years ago.

The reason Hillsburg has turned into a ghost town is located on 27 West Street, a parallel road to Main. From every crack of this red brick building’s third floor, a pink shimmer overtakes the golden rays of the morning sun. Everchanging, everlasting. It shines as though refracted by a crystal, if said crystal was constantly altering its form and composition.

Not once in the past fourteen years has the light vanished. It attracts tourists and scientists from around the world and, more importantly, MIT. And so, West Street has been continuously filled with metal tables and plastic tents in the place of abandoned pickup trucks. Electronic receptors and measuring equipment keep growing in it like a tech jungle. In-between the instruments and flying papers, humans scurry through the site, day and night. Some are dressed entirely in white protective clothing, some in the pajamas they took to camp here.

This is the scene that Colin Waverford arrives to. He is a young MIT student determined to impress his old MIT teacher, Professor Wong, head of the Hillsburg Project that observes and studies the anomaly on West Street.

Further behind him follows a smaller figure, packed away into a dark blue coat to keep the spring cold out. Every step makes her kinky head of hair bop with energy. It is fellow student Allison Birk. Her eyes are glued to the same spot as his, though for different reasons.

Colin Waverford shields his eyes with a hand. “Whoah.” It truly is a pink shimmer, irradiating through the windows and all the tiny holes in the roof. And it’s true, even the joints between the brick stones are corrugated. As though a painter had used too much water for his colors; no straight lines to be seen.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Allison asks him.

“I mean, I’m looking at it,” Colin says as though his perception was the be-all and end-all of scientific discovery. He turns to face his fellow student. “I’ve only seen the videos in the prep cloud online.”

She sniffs away the chilly air tickling her nose. “I feel you. Nothing could ever prep you for the real thing.”

“I know the radiation levels only go crazy inside the building, but it’s still so weird standing here without any protection. It’s so very weird. I’m already getting a headache.”

“That’s 27 West Street for you.” She gives him a smile. “I’m Allison. Welcome to the Hillsburg Haunted House.”

“Colin.” He shakes her hand with an uneasy look. “Is that a thing? The Haunted House?”

“It’s what my friends and I dubbed the place.”

Colin looks around. “All right. I’ll try to do better than my predecessors.”

“Up to you now.”

The comment, though spoken in amity, makes Colin rub his hands. “The fact that Professor Wong chose to email me is the biggest encouragement. I mean, that’s gotta count for something, right?”

Allison just smiles. The main concern and function of Mikaela Wong is the founding for this project, granted to her by the MIT, which Allison depends on to solve the mystery of the Shimmer. Instead of telling him that, she hands Colin the only thing he needs right now. “Here’s your manual. With all things that weren’t in the cloud.” She straightens her back. “Professor Wong’s briefing told you what to look for when studying the energy field. And this will tell you who.”

He gives her a funny look. “Who to look for?”

“Yes.”

“Okay?”

“Thank you for joining the project. Make yourself comfortable over there for now.”

“Will do.” As he walks toward the tent Allison had pointed him to, Colin flips through the pages, stapled together and, from the looks of their corners, already having been passed through many hands. He wonders if that meant anything.

Allison walks in the opposite direction, to the biggest table set up in West Street, the monitoring station. Bent over it is a woman who could make a gargoyle look friendly if it stood next to her.

“Morning, Miss Birk.”

“Good morning.” Allison sets down her bag to join the professor behind the notes and headphones on her metal table. There, she asks her usual question: “Anything new?”

Wong sighs and scribbles another note. “A fucking bird almost flew into my receptor. Other than that, business as usual.”

Allison laughs. “A bird?” Her hopeful eyes dart to the sky. It was exceptionally blue this morning. Or maybe that was just the contrast against the pink light. She could never be sure. “You mean they’re returning this year?” she asks.

“Maybe this spring is stronger than the light.” Wong glances at her. “The readings remain unchanged. To be honest, I would not get my hopes up.” She practically lives here by now, she knows these numbers like they’re her children.

Allison continues studying the sky. “But all animals had left this area. Maybe something’s about to change that we can’t register yet.”

“We’ll keep monitoring,” Wong says with a considerate nod. “You wanna take a look at the EMS?”

“Yes, right away.”

“Oh, Miss Birk, you know what? Go get a coffee first, you just arrived.”

“Actually – I’m sorry, Allison?” That is Colin Waverford, waving carefully to Allison after quietly greeting their professor. The manual serves as an extension of his arm. Allison gives those pages to their assistants only upon arrival, so that they would not send her defamatory emails and jump off the project before even coming to Hillsburg. With Colin confronting her now, it would be all the same though. Presumably.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

A nod from Wong allows Allison to join him on his way behind the logistics tent, where he turns around to give her a condescending look. “I mean no disrespect. But I’ve read through your ‘manual’.”

Against her hopes, Allison crossing her arms fails to steady her tone. “Hardly. I just gave it you.”

He looks around and lowers his voice, leaning into her personal space. “You’re convinced this energy field is connected to a personal tragedy of yours?”

Allison stares at him. Sits it out. Wait for it…

“I may be outta line here, but this looks really unprofessional.”

She sighs and turns away with a laugh of disappointment. It’s way too early in the morning for this kind of talk.

“Does Professor Wong know of your personal meddling with her studies?”

“This ‘personal meddling’ is the reason she’s here at all. She’s here because I’ve brought the Shimmer to her attention.”

“Unbelievable. Oh my God, the audacity! You can tell that to yourself–”

“I do,” Allison says, calmer than she expected. “Because it’s the truth.”

“That tells me everything.” Colin holds out the manual. “You do realize all those reports of people claiming they saw ‘eldritch abominations’ roam this town were a tourism ploy, right? In Massachusetts, around Halloween?”

“Those reports align perfectly with the possible time window of my father’s disappearance,” Allison lets him know, snapping the pages from his hands.

Colin’s face contorts into a pitifully disingenuous grin. “Listen, I’m sorry your father went missing. Fourteen years is a goddamn long time. But you need to put two and two together. I’m sorry, someone has to say it! It may be hard for you to see it now, ‘cause you’ve been spinning all these theories for so long, apparently, or watched too many melodramas but – let me get this straight. Your parents get divorced, half a year later someone dies in a gruesome car crash, and the last person they talked to was your father. Shortly after that your mother and your grandmother die in hospitals, sharing almost exactly the same symptoms, and your father ‘goes missing’ after saying something vaguely ominous to you. I mean – don’t you see what happened here?”

Allison shifts, her sneakers wet from the muddy streets. She would be lying if she said this possibility had never crossed her mind. But she has dismissed it years ago. Slowly, she says, “If you’re insinuating my father is a runaway murderer…”

Colin leans back. “Right. It’s easier to believe he got sucked into some portal or whisked away by a monster or so.” He gestures vaguely at the pages. “Or ‘hate-crimed’. Grow up.”

Allison nods her anger away.

“Yeah. For real.” Colin shakes his head as he leaves. “No wonder there’s no credit points for this shit.”

“Would you still like to contribute to this shit?” Wong asks from around the corner.

“Professor! Yes – what would you like me to do?”

“Scavenge this street. There’s a rake over there. Start making yourself useful.”

Once Colin Waverford’s steps are inaudible, Allison returns to the observer station. Numb. As though by cue, her eyes wander to the Shimmer. Everchanging, everlasting.

This is where her dad had lived, in this dark hole of an apartment, before every trace of him vanished from this world with not a soul to care for where he went until Allison was old enough to understand. His blue pickup truck was towed away only when the science camp had settled here two years ago. It has been one of the last cars in Hillsburg to go, after more and more people left, fearful of the pink light and its power. ‘It drives you mad’, says the urban legend. ‘It pulls you apart. It’s the most dangerous place on Earth. It’s just fun to look at. It fills the area with enough vitamin D so serve hundreds but also gives you sci-fi cancer. It’s too strange to even look at. It’s impossible to describe.’

‘It’s unbearable to be near.’

Allison puts her arms around herself like a shield.

Next to her, Wong is observant but tight-lipped as always, too edged to get personal: “Maybe we should finally separate your specific research from the particle physics.”

Allison suppresses her tears. “Yes,” she says. “I will continue the personal part of the project on my own. I’m sorry.”

A bird flies over the building. A lone sparrow? Even stretching its wings only once makes it soar higher. Its simple shape up in the sky looks like the cartoon birds Allison has drawn on that picture all those years ago. A drawing of her and her father at the shelter, with all their favorite dogs. It was supposed to be his Christmas present. He disappeared before he got it.

She still has it, safely packed away in her most precious file. And by God, she’ll gift it to him someday. “I’ll find someone new for the UV readings,” Allison says, her voice firmer now, and goes to check on the EMS.

Wong softens as she passes her by. “Make sure to order that Waverford around as often as possible, as long as he’s still here. Could never stand that guy. Should be the perfect candidate for those pain-in-the-ass FBI questionaries.”

Allison snorts and smiles over her shoulder.

Wong gives her an encouraging nod. “You go get yourself a coffee and carry on, Miss Birk.”

Allison thanks her and, indeed, carries on with daily business on Hillsburg Project. Scanning for changes, collecting evidence, looking for signs. Trying to make sense of this crazy, senseless place.

But her peer’s words sting all day. The ‘vaguely ominous’ parting of her father, that Colin Waverford has twisted into something sinister, is exactly what makes Allison so sure she can find him, possibly even the only one able to find him. All of this – his deteriorating health, their last interaction, his disappearance, the deaths, the Shimmer – it cannot be a coincidence. For years, she has single-handedly been collecting information and data, calculated formulas, arranged interviews, investigated all on her own, and she is sure it will have been worth her while one day. She mustn’t give up hope.

The biggest clue that Allison Birk was indeed somehow personally connected to the anomaly has not yet made it into her manual though. She just cannot quite believe, with so many having ascended the stairs to the third floor, stepping into the warped rooms, screaming at the light they saw inside the energy flames, that she should be the only one who has ever come out of it alive.

ENCOUNTER

BEFORE HILLSBURG PROJECT, indeed before any of the events that would lead up to the pink shimmer in 27 West Street, a creature has seeped through the sky above the forest outside of town – resembling a whale but mostly invisible to the human eye. And gone just as suddenly as it has appeared.

Below those clouds and trees, a shadow crashes and crawls across the ground. No, not a shadow – a piece of flesh. And bones and hair, just as dark as the forest itself. It is breathing. Yes, it is very much alive. But not home.

This does not belong here, the world whispers. Leave!

But whereto?

What’s home used to be but a leap away. Now it seems unreachable.

Orientation. Beneath it is a solid ground. To its sides, large trees reach high into the air. Not whispering but crying. Oh, the rain. The water makes the ground so slippery. Just the water? No, it is blood, too.

A helpless trill echoes through the forest. To outrun one’s enemies, one must run. The creature summons its strength to move forward, or maybe just to form a shape that would make it easier to advance on the physical ground instead of trying to leap through the fabric of this dimension. But the cold and all the water stifle it. Oh, the cold – it crawls into its skin, making itself a terrible home.

Faster, quick! Or should it wait for all those solid forms to change its trap? Just when will they transform?

The threat of the hunters is close. They are now here, too, so far from home. Their smell of decay reeks through all the water falling from the sky.

But nothing changes. Nothing moves constantly. No twirling forms, no swirls or spikes of transformation, and no glimmers that illuminate the darkness.

But steps flying closer, those are undoubtedly there.

The creature realizes it cannot not wait any longer if it wants to survive. It heaves itself forward, willing to transform itself if everything around it stayed solid. It will need to reassemble all its power to percolate and leap back home.

At least the big one was in safety, it thinks. The one it ought to protect. She would be able to continue her migratory route.

But its own wounds are deep. It is not as careful as it has once been. Yes, it has been careless, taking on so many hunters at the same time.

Perhaps assuming solid shapes could stop the bleeding, it muses.

Birds fly up at the boom of bones cracking through the night. Or are those branches snapping under its weight? Curls of flesh shove them away, but they tear right through it.

It hurts…!

The creature cries out as it crawls forward, over the thorny ground piercing its flesh.

It is now more obvious than ever that it is alone. No one will come to its aid. But that is only logical.

A guardian needs no saving.

Behind it, trees fall down, splashing into deep shadows. The hunters’ breaths are like a storm upon this Earth. Oh, but it is not too late for running now if it just tries again – once more!

Make haste! Fly!

This persecution drama goes unseen but not unheard by Jeffrey Hobson. Jeffrey is coming home late, having just driven his daughter to a friends’ party out of town. His truck’s windshield wipers squeak helplessly against the pouring masses of rain hammering onto the old car. Even the highest setting can’t clear the vision. Shitty weather, and even shittier weather to spend the night out of town, Jeffrey thinks. If he’s honest with himself, he can’t make head or tail of that Dylan. He doesn’t like that. Gives him a bad feeling in his gut. Missy knows what she’s doing though, she always has. And Barbara will laugh at him if he comes to bed tonight with a frown on his face. He is now in the stage of fatherhood he has always dreaded the most. He knows he should simply trust Missy. She knows what she’s doing.

Yet again, Jeffrey’s chain of thought is cut by those weirdass sounds coming from the forest. “What the…” He cranes his neck to look out the window, but you can’t see shit in this darkness.

They don’t log trees in the night, do they, Jeffrey thinks. Especially not during a thunderstorm. Maybe it’s two bears fighting? They’re coming back, right? Somewhere he read that Black Bears may be moving East, if he remembers correctly.

Another boom – “Jesus!”

The car slows down and drives without gas for a few moments as his foot jerks upwards. Jeffrey rolls back his shoulders. That was loud – he must be driving past them right now. Or right under a storm cloud, from the sounds of it.

To not jump at the next crash yet again, he turns up the volume of the radio. After a few seconds he regrets it already. Is everything past ten just the clubbing stuff? He groans and turns it off. He’d rather listen to the rain. The heartland rock CD is still in the office, ever since Barbara wanted to copy it to the computer. He really needs to light a stick of dynamite under that woman’s butt. Copying a CD can’t take that long, right? Besides, you can stream everything these days.

Ah, to hell with it. He gives the radio another try, looking at the glowing green digits of his console instead of the street for not even two seconds.

A tremendous rumble – a resistance – stops the truck on its way, and the entire windshield blackens. Jeffrey slams the brakes. His chest fills with heavy breaths, fingers digging into the wheel as the furry thing slides down the car.

It doesn’t move. Jeffrey pauses, swallows.

Wow, roadkill is just what would make this day perfect.

He hurries to the hood and looks at what the yellow headlights illuminate. It is furry, all right, and black, but not a bear.

“Aw, shit.” Jeffrey rubs his forehead, stepping back and forth. Did he just run over a dog?

Its belly is moving, meaning it’s breathing. But drops of blood from the hood prove just how badly it must be injured. The rain washes it away already.

Jeffrey curses as he carries the animal to the back of the truck. If Barbara hadn’t taken the gun, he would’ve put the poor creature out of its misery right here and now. Then again, he couldn’t just shoot someone’s dog, right? Or is it a wolf? It doesn’t wear a collar.

Jeffrey pants, grabbing the wet cargo area with calloused hands as he looks around the dark forest. “Hello? Anyone?” He tries the other side. “Anyone? A dog owner here?”

He walks around the car to honk. No response. Just more rain, it seems. Jesus, he should get home, he’s soaked already. If he can’t deliver the poor thing, he should drive it to a vet. He won’t let the cops shoot it. Isn’t there a dog shelter by Hillsburg? He’ll just take the road through town and drop the animal there. They definitely have a vet. Maybe not at this hour, but there’s always on-call duty, right?

Jeffrey rubs raindrops from his face. If you don’t hurry up, he thinks, they won’t need to examine it anymore.

The twenty-two minutes it takes him from here to Hillsburg are among the longest of his life. Jeffrey needs to actively remind himself to not look into the rearview mirror too often. “We’re gonna be there real soon, it’s gonna be all right, buddy,” he says, though more to himself than the dog. There is blood on his hands, and on the wheel now, too. Barbara will know how to clean it.

Hillsburg is pretty in daylight, and usually the picturebooklike facades down Main Street brightens Jeffrey’s mood whenever he passes through. It’s like a fairytale. Even at nighttime, with all those sparkles from inside the houses, shops, and string of lights.

But right now it’s pure agony to drive down this good old American street with a half-dead dog in the back of his truck.

Getting to the shelter feels like ages. After Hillsburg, there is not much else but dark hills and forests. Just when Jeffrey thinks he may have remembered the shelter wrongly, a sign with a dog illustration tells him to turn right.

The parking lot is illuminated by two streetlights that show Jeffrey his deed in all its misery when he grabs the dog from the cargo area. The black fur is sticky with dried blood already. It is still breathing though. And whining.

“Shit. Come on, buddy.”

The dog shelter, a bungalow-looking building from the seventies, painted orange near the foundations, is dark except for the window in the main door. Jeffrey stumbles there – warm fluid is running down his trembling arms. This thing is damn heavy. Jesus Christ, hopefully there’s someone here. Without a phone, the only alternative is to randomly ring someone’s door and ask for a gun and hope for the best.

With no hands free to ring, Jeffrey simply calls, “Hello? I have an emergency here! An injured dog!”

After a surprisingly short amount of time, the door buzzes and slowly opens via an electronic mechanism. It has been activated by the broad-shouldered nightshift volunteer behind the counter, walking toward Jeffrey with worried eyes from behind his thick glasses.

That is Christopher Ennington.

“This way please, sir,” he says right away and points to the corridor.

“I ran it over,” Jeffrey confesses as he carries the animal to the examination room. It smells in here. Dogs bark from their kennels in another room. Jeffrey feels like he disrupted these poor creatures’ nighttime peace.

How will he explain all this to Barbara?

“Please lay him down here,” the volunteer says with a gesture toward the metal table in the middle of the room, pain meds already in his hands. “I’m gonna call Doctor Miller, our veterinarian.”

There, they have a vet.

“Thank you.”

Urgh, the smell in here is unbearable. And the bright neon lights in this room are unforgiving. Jeffrey now sees that the poor thing, though still breathing, has a gaping wound in pinks and reds reaching from its chest down under its belly all the way to the tail. Its right front leg looks like a child could tug it off. And those claws – they’re not supposed to be so twisted.

Jeffrey looks away. “It was on Church Road, half an hour ago,” he manages to say.

“All right.” The volunteer opens the thing’s giant muzzle to put the analgesics down its throat like it’s second nature. He hovers over it with a hand on its ribcage and a blinking device. “Thank you for bringing him here. I, um, didn’t get a hold of our vet. Usually we have good reception here. I’m gonna try again in a minute.”

Jeffrey swallows, glancing at the dog once more. “Jesus, I feel so damn sorry for ‘im. Took my eyes off the road for, like, a millisecond. He must’ve run straight into me.”

The volunteer’s face hardens. “A car accident doesn’t cause this kind of wound.”

“I thought of bears,” Jeffrey says and sniffs. “Or wolves, possibly. Could he be a wolf? Hurt in a fight, y’know?”

“Never seen one like this.”

“My uncle, he, err – he had a large dog like that, with pitchblack fur just like this one. A Belgian shepherd, I think.”

The volunteer shakes his head, deep in thought. “He’s too big to be a shepherd.”

“Maybe it’s a crossbreed or hybrid. Hell if I know. One of those fashionable new breeds.”

The volunteer straightens up and gives Jeffrey a weary smile. The indication that he smiles already calms Jeffrey down. They know what they’re doing here.

“It’s not important anyway. An animal is an animal. We’ll treat him as best as we can. I’ll keep checking for a microchip. Whatever he is, we can contact his owners that way.”

Jeffrey nods and rubs his forehead. His face must be red with blood by now. “If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’d like to go home. But in case he makes it…”

“Write down your telephone number at the front desk,” the volunteer says with a friendly face. “We’ll get in touch with you and let you know.”

“All right. All right, thank you.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight.”

The dog’s right paw shakes as the door falls shut. Christopher hovers by his side, watching his ears fold backwards. He whines, eyes shut.

The sounds agitate the other dogs in their kennels.

Christopher exhales through his nose. “Shh… easy, big guy. You’re in safety now.”

The dog lets out an anguished cry. His nose works hard. His muzzle opens to bring more air into his lungs, revealing fangs like Christopher has never seen in his life.

The whines grow shallower and higher.

“I know, I know,” Christopher whispers. “It’s scary. Painkillers can only do so much. But I can’t put you to sleep on my own.” He swallows and runs an unsure hand over the black coat. It’s clotty with dirt. “No matter how this goes, we will help you. You’re safe here.” He raises the scanner anew. “Now, where is your microchip? We can see and phone your parents that way, you know? Hm?”

The caresses over his side do calm the dog down. Eyes still closed, he presses his head against Christopher’s arm. Searching for contact.

“Yes, I’m here,” Christopher smiles. “I won’t go anywhere.” He puts away the chip scanner and sighs to stroke his heavy head. It is a giant dog. He tickles his ears. “You must be frightened. Hm, buster?” He strokes the fluffy neck, and once more, the dog leans into this touch. The motion shoots a terrible thought through Christopher’s head – maybe this is the last warm interaction this creature will ever feel.

“I’m gonna call the doctor again, okay?” He leaves another voice mail, just to be sure. The dog’s wound twitches funnily.

“I know it’s pouring, but please hurry,” Christopher begs into the phone. “Just… drive carefully.”

The wind does howl louder now, and as though to respond to it, the dog snarls. The sound is weak but full of intent.

“It’s just the weather. I won’t hurt you either,” Christopher promises him. In such situations, he is convinced talking to dogs helps. But he still needs to read the body language signs. He should back away.

As he does, the lights above the table flicker.

Looking upwards, Christopher returns to the medicine cabinet. He will try and not appear confrontational toward this animal until Stephanie gets here. But simultaneously, he wants to make sure to keep an eye on their patient.

Who owns a dog like that, Christopher wonders. With legs this long, he must have hip or back problems. Or both. And the claws haven’t been cut in years, it seems. No microchip either.

Christopher closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Maybe this is one of those nights of death.

The dog cries.

“Keep calm. Things are gonna be all right,” Christopher says, trying to steady his voice. Of course, the dog does not still after these words. “I can’t give you any more painkillers,” he explains half-heartedly. He pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I can try and clean the wound around your leg. Unpleasant but necessary in case we need to amputate it. That’s not as bad as it sounds. You’ll see.”

Careful not to move too quickly, Christopher collects the disinfectant, a cotton swab, and some bandages. His motions are automated. He does not want his thoughts to run wild again. Just keep breathing. Easier for dogs to stay calm when you’re unagitated, too.

When he turns around with a quiet “okay, big guy”, he finds the dog has opened his eyes, lying dead still. “Watching me?” Christopher asks in that baby voice humans use when talking to animals. “Are you watchin’ me? I have this fluffy ball of cotton right here,” he says and holds the swab up to his eyes. “This is the disinfectant. Decidedly more unpleasant than plain cotton. It’ll burn a little.”

He carefully places a hand on the dog’s pulsating neck to keep him in place as he lets the damped swab ghost over the pink flesh above the foreleg.

The dog stills entirely. But doesn’t attack.

“Oh. You see? It’s not so bad. Thank you for trusting me,” Christopher says. He continues to talk throughout the process of cleaning away little crumbs of dirt and blood from the wound. He also finds what looks like a twig. One that seemingly has no end when Christopher pulls it from between the bloody muscles. It cracks into two before he can get the entire thing out.

“Oh my God.” Christopher swallows, standing up to throw it into the trash. “You did run through the woods. Jesus Christ.”

The smell of copper fills the air.

His senses alert, he squats by the table. The dog has started panting. “You’re doing amazing. Good boy. Just let me…”

Christopher searches and finds the broken twig. It stabs into the soft flesh of the belly as the dog breathes, spilling blood. Christopher whispers nonsense words for distraction as he sinks his hands inside. “Good boy…”

Slowly, he drags and shoves at the twig, careful not break it this time around – but blood keeps spilling as he pulls it outside, pooling on the table before pouring onto the tiles. It never crosses Christopher’s mind to just keep the thing inside because the supposed twig is a full-on branch, complete with green leaves and moss, about as broad as a man’s arm. That alone is distracting. In addition, the dog does not fight back against the action, just whines as Christopher pulls the entire branch out, elbow-deep inside his body.

He throws it to the ground with a thud. The leaves rustle on impact.

Christopher’s lungs strain with exhaustion. “Oh my God.” He looks at the dog in horror, wondering just how an adnate branch the size of a bicycle got inside this animal. He must have been attacked and then fallen straight onto this branch as he fled. Yes, that sounds right, Christopher thinks. All that, plus the car accident – “You’re a brave boy,” is all he can say.

Eyes empty, he staggers around the table to resume the disinfection.

The warning growl hits him not before but during the dog’s attack. He shoves Christopher away with his giant head – it must have been the head, although it felt like a pair of hands – making him fall backwards onto the tiles. They’re surprisingly warm. Or is that…?

“Ah! Fuck…” Christopher holds his dizzy head. The tips of his fingers are red, well, because his entire arm is red. Or are their bloods different shades?

Vertigo makes it hard to stand, but he manages to pull himself up by the medicine cabinet, from where he observes the dog snarling on the table. While pressing a hand to the back of his own head, Christopher keeps looking at him until flickering lights snap him out of it. He should prepare everything for Stephanie, for surgery or euthanasia alike. Best to be prepared.

His shoulders sink at that thought. Much like his heart. The back of his head stings. He had thought tonight would be quiet for once. Just him, the dogs, and the rain pattering onto the roof like drops of peace. Surely it must be a sign that when he prays for a night of calmness, he gets to put down roadkill. Roadkill that now croaks with blood spilling out of his belly. And it’s Christopher’s fault –

It’s always like that, isn’t it?

The lights keep flickering, dizzying. God, why tonight? Bad timing. The charity sale is next week, and the neon tube has never made trouble before. Maybe it’s the storm.

But the storm would not shake the building. With the force of a squall, Christopher falls into the cabinet. His glasses slither away, instruments clatter dangerously over the desk, the floor. Thunder rumbles above the roof.

Don’t earthquakes announce themselves with little shakes at first? Or is this a surprise hurricane?

As Christopher still tries to orientate himself, he hears crackles from behind. A look over his hurting shoulder reveals the dog standing up under the flickering lights – only he’s not standing up. His left legs grow taller and taller until he’s positioned upright again.

“Hey,” Christopher begins. He wants to help him calm down, but the words get stuck in his throat when he watches the loose front leg fall off. It smacks onto the tiles with an ugly sound, taking loads of pink flesh and bones with it.

As he is falling apart, the dog stares at the ceiling, teeth bared and eyes wide opened. They seem to multiply, more and more pink holes opening along his head, with pupils like thorns. Eating away his ears. His throat.

Instinctively, Christopher steps forward, wanting to put him back together. “It’s fine,” he breathes. All this overwhelms him. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s only the weather.”

He raises his trembling hands, on the one side to reach the dog, on the other to keep it at arm’s length should it attack him. When he reaches toward the big wound to stuff all the flesh back inside, he almost burns himself. Hot blood runs down his hands and arms – does it glitter? Or waver?

Jesus Christ, is his head so fucked already?

Christopher curses and pulls away, his head grazing a sharp fang as he does. Through flickering lights, he watches the dog pick up the severed pieces from the ground. With his teeth? His claws? To Christopher, it almost looked like an octopus’ tentacles. They leave the branch where it is. And twist the leg until is it gone, absorbed, if Christopher sees correctly. But he can’t. No dog can absorb severed limbs back into itself.

Where are his glasses?

The dog reaches around the table legs, descending.

Holding his burning arms, Christopher blinks through the pain to keep track of what’s happening. He cannot let him run away. He would never survive outside in this state.

He looks over his shoulder to check the door. It is closed.

“Stay here,” Christopher breathes, missing the commanding tone entirely.

The dog’s next grunt – not snarl – shakes the entire room. The rumble makes Christopher fall down – his ears ring – but he needs to keep an eye on him. It’s like his vision is blurred, seeing all sorts of twisted forms distorting the room, as though through invisible flames that pierce his head and nose. And his arms burn…!

He needs to get a fucking grip. What would Stephanie say if she arrived to this scene?

She’ll be here soon. Surely.

In the hopes of chasing the pain away, Christopher presses his eyes shut and screams. His lungs are flaming. He hopes that burnt smell is not coming from his own body. Coughing, he manages to roll to his side, to get back on his feet.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he gasps and turns around. In front of him, the dog is rearing up. His vibrating grunt continues, which is weird, because Christopher cannot make out a muzzle anymore. Or a mouth of any sort for that matter. Just eyes and tendrils and dripping flesh, pink, red, brown, then inkblack as though it’s been burned despite its wetness, without any particular shape to make out. Like a flower blossoming upside-down, the shape splits open at the sides. Fleshy petals curl back into it, twitching, flickering. Always moving.

It’s a display of utter chaos.

“You need to let me help you, please!” Christopher calls.

He reaches out again. The next impact is not as hot but still wet. Something shatters – the table? – and throws Christopher back to the ground, covered in blood. No, not blood –

He gasps, rushing to get off the floor. It’s slime. Pink and warm. It’s everywhere, even the walls have some splashes.

The lights stop flickering, and the room has stopped shaking. It allows Christopher to find his footing despite the slippery tiles. Full of reds and pinks. His once white sports shoes are covered in the strange fluid, as are his clothes, his arms, indeed all over his face – it drips off him in long strings when he raises his hand to look at it, mixing with red blood. What he thinks is a result of his bad eyesight actually glitters and distorts. But he blames it on himself.

And it is suddenly quiet. Just him and the night.

“What…?”

Oh, idiot! Don’t look at yourself, look after the dog!

Almost stumbling over the blood-coated branch, Christopher rushes from the exam room to the corridor, crashing against the doorframe as he does. He blinks – oh, the entrails got into his eyes, too, those must be entrails – and now the other dogs are barking again.

At least that means they’re still here then.

No sight of the big black one though. No blood or traces in the corridors.

Christopher takes a deep breath, realizing only now how badly his scarred lungs needed the air. He trembles, loses his balance and falls, but before his head slams against the nearest wall, a pair of arms supports him.

“Chris! Oh my God, what happened?”

“The dog,” Christopher presses out from the floor he’s sliding onto. “Was there a dog running? In the parking lot?”

“No? The dog you called me for? That ran into a car?” Stephanie grimaces. “You have a nosebleed. And what’s all this stuff?”

Christopher pants, helpless – he doesn’t know. He knows nothing of anatomy, neither human nor canine. “He had a branch in his stomach. I think he was sick,” he tells her through labored breaths.

“Yeah, sick, all right,” she murmurs, shaking her hand to get rid of the slime.

Christopher looks at her through empty eyes, lips parted in exhaustion. Sweat mixes with the fluid on his face. “He ran away before you came. I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep him here.”

“Were the doors not closed?”

Panting, Christopher searches his memory. He did close them, didn’t he? Or has this one been open when he stumbled through it just now?

“Yeah, whatever, Chris,” Stephanie says tonelessly. She doesn’t look at him when she adds, “Not funny. What kind of fucked-up party trick is this?”

Christopher gasps for air. “No, no! It was real! It was a real dog, a man brought him in here.” His vision blurs. “I’m not tricking you, I swear! I’m sorry–”

“Okay, it’s fine!”

After that yell, Stephanie studies him for a while. From under her coat sparkles the outfit she has worn for this Saturday evening that Christopher just ruined for her. She smells of sparkling wine.

He wishes she would speak again, or just let him sit here.

“Fine,” she repeats after a terribly long time. “It’s fine. I can take it from here and look after the other dogs. And clean up. You can go home, Chris. Get some sleep.”

The poisonous tint of frustration in her calm voice does not escape Christopher, no matter how battered he is. “I’m really sorry. I screwed up,” he whispers. Tears complete the mess on his face. Mentioning the earthquake and light problems now would only sound like a bad excuse, he thinks. The pain of his arms and head has him in its tight grip now. His clothes stick to him like a second skin. He sits motionless behind his wheel for a quarter-hour before starting the engine.

This is right, he should get the hell out of here, he thinks. His panic made that poor animal lose so much blood, that his boss now has to clean up – he does not deserve to be at a dog shelter, let alone work there.

Christopher often has thoughts like these. The extraordinariness of what he just witnessed is entirely lost on him, in favor of just being another one of his mistakes. That happens rather often. When there is nothing more to hold onto, he punishes himself for whatever he thought was his fault. He will do so tonight too, and the next days, while Doctor Stephanie Miller will have forgotten about the whole thing by next month.

Punishment means retaking control and being at the helm of the body he’s living in. And it’s just convenient to cut your thighs when you’re already in the shower; two birds with one stone, that’s what Christopher thinks. He thinks about that rather than the surreal pink fluid washing into the drain.

It is needless to say that he cannot sleep that night. The pain in his body is too strong. His head throbs and his ears ring. He won’t take any painkillers.

An innocent being will have died in the storm because of his failure, he thinks. Because he wanted to be lazy tonight. Because he is a despicable person, who deserves to be yelled at and have a headache, he thinks, and who has never prepared for the case of an earthquake in Hillsburg, Massachusetts.

Christopher often has thoughts like these.

DREAMER

WOULD IT BE WISE to return?

How strange that place had been…

But it is faraway now, gone into the realm of memories.

And yet, the mass of shadows and flesh struggles to focus its energy on healing its wounds and drying its blood. Just like its body and everything in-between, its mind wanders.

What a strange dimension of solidity and rigidity. And yet so fast, it remembers. Unforgiving and yet full of life.

Lost in thought, it shifts and shifts, it flows and changes, defying description.

It has always been this way and knows nothing else.

But when it thinks back to the trees and their bark, its skin hardens and freezes its movements. The pain stings but is not as sharp as the branch that has pierced this body and nested inside of it, stiff with fear.

It was not only the branch that has been scared.

Fear is a powerful smell, a powerful energy and spell. There is no need to master its use. It does it all by itself.

The creature wonders if fear has infected itself, too.

Its blood has soaked the dimension where it has crashed into it, the creature remembers. It has drenched those bipedal lifeforms, those Humans – drenched in scent and energy from beyond their world.

A feast for hunters.

Has this incident opened a new hunting ground? An entire dimension, previously unknown, ready to be shredded.

The creature shudders to think. But is it scared for those otherworldly lifeforms, it wonders, or simply following its duty?

Indeed, it muses, it is not a matter of wisdom. It is its duty to return and protect those it has endangered.

That world’s energy is still in its body. That will guide it back, to that time and place where it has crashed from outside that universe.

The question of wisdom flickers awake once more when the world around it solidifies in all its horrors. But even if this is unwise, it is right.

The mass does not percolate by the trees though, and not by the metal or in the sparks of electricity. Instead, its body oozes onto warm flesh. Heaving, breathing. Crying. Its tears are different from the rain. They are warm and salty and hard to escape from, pulling at the mass’ mind.

What is this connection?

The flesh is not unknown. The creature remembers it from its state of pain, when kindness provided security in the face of death and noise and brightness.

It will guard this flesh, this Human, as it always guards those in need. If this connection is as stable as its dimension, they will find their ways back to each other with but a wish.

This is not fear.

Certitude sinks into the mass, its body and mind and everything in-between.

With that, it leaves into the dark on its search for hunters.

SPINNER

THE SUNRAYS ON Monday morning are kinder than the entire weekend has been. Christopher realizes the irony in liking Mondays, the time everyone returns to the bleak working world and universally hates it. Christopher looks forward to the routine. Going to work on Monday gives him a productive distraction.

Because, and Christopher knows this, cutting his thighs is not particularly helpful. It is an outlet for the immense pressure that creeps out of his mind’s shadows. Physically hurting himself has become an effective technique in temporarily regaining control. But Christopher would not call that ‘helpful’. It’s a means to an end.

It has worked reliably well this weekend though.

Really, Saturday night has been quite uneventful after his dramatic shower, at least in his view. No breakdown or actively hurting himself afterwards. Just lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Existing in a small box and hoping that it won’t implode before his train of thought reaches Monday Station.

Monday. Transfer here.

Though the pressure of having to leave his home for social performance weighs on Christopher down, he likes it better this way. He enjoys getting dressed and packing something to eat, and planning on actually eating it, because that’s what you do in the company of your colleagues during lunch break.

He also likes the rush of air outside. The wet streets, lazily reflecting whatever light fell onto them. He likes the air smelling of rain and the green and golden September colors on the trees. He likes that things move and don’t do it too fast.

Then he arrives at Main Street and transforms into a blank nerve. The quick pace unfolds a painful pressure in his chest. But Christopher needs to walk fast. He tries mimicking the effect of a horse’s blinders by looking only at the ground. Never into faces. Crowds are an open sea to him.

The sea does not stare back, but he doesn’t know that. When Christopher Ennington is outside, the world simply sees a White, bearded man with his dishwater blond head down. At the rare chance one would get a straight look at him, you could see that he is approaching forty. But the lines in his face betray just how young he is. His pastel-colored shirts, including the light blue one from the post office, are too big even for his broad shoulders. He leaps, pulled relentlessly by his train of thoughts. He meticulously keeps it on track, lest a catastrophe arose from the derailment.

Some do think it strange that he only drives his car to places out of town. But that would not be the strangest thing about him, he finds.

Christopher just keeps on walking. Movement is better than stillstand, he thinks. It is far from perfect. He still hurts, but he is moving towards one of the four islands outside his home.

Hillsburg’s post office is the first island. As his workplace, it is the one he visits the most frequently. It gives him the desired routine and pays the bills. It is a good place.

“Wow! New glasses, Chris?” Richard Shea’s enthusiastic greeting hits like a whip. It cements, just maybe, the post office as Christopher’s least favorite island.

“Morning,” he greets with his smile on autopilot.

“No, seriously. You’re trying something new?” Richard asks, leaning against the counter. His deep-green eyes are quick with double-edged interest.

“Oh, you mean these? I, uh, lost my regular ones on Saturday. These are the spare pair.”

“Huh,” Richard says loudly, putting his tongue in his cheek. “I’m hearing rimless glasses are making a comeback.”

“Hardly,” their coworker Tammy Wilburg coos as she walks into the backroom. “They make you look like a nerd.” She looks up from the files in her hands. “Oh. Hi, Chris.” She grimaces. “Sorry!”

“Good, ‘cause I took that personally,” Christopher jokes.

Richard frowns. “You didn’t, right?”

Christopher snaps around to face him. “I didn’t. Sorry.”

“Ha.” Richard bares his impossibly straight and white teeth in a grin. They bore into Christopher from the front while Tammy’s eyes sting him from behind. “Good,” Richard says after a glance at her. “Good to hear you’re in a playful mood, Chrissy-Man. You do lean more into the, y’know – the IT guy look. I dig it. Great.”

He leans in further and lowers his voice so drastically that Christopher needs to step closer. “Hey, um, how long do you plan of being here today?”

Christopher shrugs. “As long as you want me to.”

“Oh, great. ‘cause I got a thing at three and I wondered…”

Another autopilot-smile. “No problem. I can be here all day,” Christopher says. He loves days like this. Two birds with one stone: Making himself popular by taking on his colleague’s work and not going home to be free for any stupid ideas. Winwin. Not that he gets the salary of a clerk for those hours, but hey – can’t have everything.

Richard gives him another grin and a pat on the shoulder. “Thank you, man. I knew I could count on you,” he says, and he completely means it. Richard Shea is a man working almost entirely through his charisma, which many people easily buy into. He would never expect a wallflower like Christopher Ennington to go against any of the social contracts he weaves into his conversations – especially not Christopher Ennington, who has nothing better to do than work all day ever since his divorce half a year ago. Right? Not doing sports, not going out on dates. Especially not going out on dates. Richard is convinced that him talking to this loner, no matter how condescendingly or exploitatively, means doing the Lord’s work. Reaching out to the poor souls that no one cares about. Especially not him. He is the type of person to call someone who knows nothing about computers ‘the IT guy’.

Christopher is aware of this, because Richard’s shark smile cannot conceal how little he truly cares about his conversational partners. But he doesn’t mind it. At least Richard is talking to him. Christopher does not want to appear shy. Speaking with other people helps conveying that he is just like them.

Christopher gives Richard another smile and then excuses himself. Throughout conversations like this, his sling bag is like a lifeline to hold onto.

And so starts his Monday. The work at the post office is monotone, but Christopher appreciates its meditative qualities. Sorting parcels and letters, preparing the right stamps, carrying around mail and packages – repetition has made Christopher experienced, and experience allows him to do these tasks smoothly and without stress. Even Richard’s work at the counter, too. It’s not the job in Christopher’s contract, but it’s all sanctioned by their manager, ironically. Thankfully.

His heart only sinks when he leaves the island to walk home. He decides to make a detour via his second island.

Grocery stores can be loud and stressful. But Christopher finds them quite relaxing when willingly blocking out everything else. Here too, he moves through the aisles like a horse with blinders. He buys one carton of oat milk and a bell pepper. He tells the teenage cashier the dogs at the Helping Paw shelter are fine. He squints. His head hurts from the unfamiliar glasses. When the corner of his eye flashes pink as he leaves the supermarket, it’s a sign to go home, he thinks.

Some evenings are spent on Christopher’s third island, with his mother. Sometime during his marriage, she moved in with her new partner in Park Street. Tony Morrissey’s house has a porch with flower boxes and carpet in the bedroom. Christopher thought it unfitting to join this idyll after his divorce.

He does like to visit, if only to see his mother again.

“Chris, come on in.”

“Hi, Tony. Got your pea soup.”

“Oh, may you be blessed! Can you believe I forgot to buy it?” Tony asks him with a leery grin.

“I sometimes forget things, too,” Christopher comforts him. “Sometimes even when they’re on the shopping list.”

“Ah,” Tony laughs, “I haven’t used a shopping list in the last twenty years. Maybe I’ll start again in my old age now!”

Tony does smile a lot, but it’s not without silent remorse. Growing old is not easy for an energetic man like him. But his generation is not the type to talk about such fears.

Christopher does not push the subject, not even with his mother Mary. He quietly checks for her medicine. The chemotherapy bills.

When not in bed, she is sitting at the kitchen table. An old habit. Tony’s dining room with its lace doilies would be cozier. Then again, it has shotguns as wall decoration.

Tonight, Christopher is visiting Mary in the bedroom.

“You got the pea soup?”

“Yes, already delivered.”

Mary nods. “Thank God. His Friday dinner would be ruined without it.”

“Everyone has their routines,” Christopher smiles.

“They do,” his mother answers, grabbing his hand. She makes an effort to hold onto it tightly but cannot hide from her son that she has grown weaker. He guards his tongue to not point it out.

“What about you?” she asks innocently. “Food-wise?”

Christopher inhales. This unexpectedly loaded question is not about him deliberately skipping meals. His mother does not know of that. She is asking if he can live without a wife. He cannot answer to that.

She shakes her head when she says, “I can cook for you.”

“Mom, no–”

“Yes! I will! In fact, we still have some noodle salad. Tell Tony to pack that for you.”

Christopher averts his eyes and gathers all his strength for the crucial statement: “I’m fine. Really. I’m doing really good.”

Mary tilts her head. “Are you sure?” she asks, thankfully in a light-hearted tone.

Christopher nods and gives her a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

She returns the smile and lets go of his hand. But as she directs her gaze into the middle of the room, she sighs. “Such a shame it didn’t work out. Are you sure you don’t want to… you know, talk it out? For Ally’s sake too, you know.” She gives him a hopeful look, but this time Christopher cannot bring himself to lie.

“No.” He looks down and feels cruel in doing so.

When his ex-wife, a former classmate from high school, had approached him romantically after his thirtieth birthday, his mother had been overjoyed. Finally her son would be safe in a relationship – a marriage even! And then with child!

It has been far from Christopher to rob her of that illusion. It has been for seven agonizing years. And it still is. He won’t start now.

“Is that a new pair of glasses?” Mary wants to know on his way out.

Christopher smiles. “Yeah. I’m trying something new.”

“I can buy you another pair, if you want to.”

“No, thanks. You don’t need to do that.” The exhaustion of constantly navigating and evaluating what you can and cannot say weighs him down. Managing different lies on top of one another can be tricky. Christopher knows it would be far easier to just always say the truth. But his psyche allows that only with those who do not judge him and are never disappointed by him, imagined or real.

The dog shelter is his fourth island. His favorite. If he had more cynicism in him, he’d say it was because it combined the perks of having both a productive distraction and no need for disguise. Nightshift volunteering, though officially not longer than midnight. Spending the time sorting food, towels and toys, keeping an eye on the dogs…

Being there for emergencies…

And then there was also playtime, the dogs’ favorite. Lucky for Christopher, they are also very much content with lying on the floor and staring at a wall. “Today was exhausting,” he whispers.

Shelly looks at him through brown eyes. A large mongrel, already ten years old. Her chances of getting adopted dwindle every day, without any fault of her own. She cannot comprehend the injustice but feels it nonetheless.

“You’ve had a rough day, too?” Christopher sighs. “Chief still giving you trouble?” Chief is a husky – not dangerous to Shelly, just annoying. He was thrown away, probably after his owners realized just how much energy he had. Typical sled dog story.

From the kennel next to Shelly, Pebbles sniffs as if to agree. She’s a chihuahua down on her luck as well. Having only one eye is apparently reason enough to disqualify for adoption.

Christopher tilts his head on the floor. They’re a sad bunch, but at least not of the seventy million stray animals in the country. He’s grateful for that and loves them to bits.

“I should be setting up the tables for the charity sale tomorrow. You know that?” he asks Shelly.

If she had her way, of course, he’d never do that and just continued tickling her ears for the next eternity or so. She licks his arm. “I know,” he smiles. “But the sale’s gonna be good for you guys, too. Think of all the donations we’ll get. So many toys, and snacks, and more towels.” He talks with a child-like emphasis as he ruffles her fur. “And with the money, we can buy even more toys, snacks and towels. That sound good?”

She puts a paw onto his arm.

“That’s what I thought. So…” He sits up with a groan and looks at her through tired eyes. “I’m afraid I’m gonna get to work now.”