The Forest Where the Phoenix Sleeps

Chapter one

crumble from bed and grumble to the kitchen

A ll good things start with coffee.

A lazy Sunday morning.

A date with an old friend.

A book.

I stood in the dim kitchen, rubbing a knuckle at my eye. The clock on the stove read 6:14 a.m. The coffee machine, often filled with a deliciously dark liquid, looked curiously transparent. As if it contained only warm water. My sleep-deprived brain worked through the problem.

I’d forgotten to add grounds the night before.

I stared at the machine.

“You piece of shit,” I said out loud.

More to myself than the machine.

***

I left for work early, locking my apartment and carefully climbing down the janky stairs to the back alley. I lived above a café, and after this morning’s debacle, I needed my coffee to-go. Except, instead of going, I’d stay…because I worked there. My boss, Morgan, owned the café and apartment. She gave me a sweet deal on rent and, in return, if she ever needed someone to work last minute, she knew where to find me. And before you ask—no. For me, there is no work-life balance.

I’m twenty-six and I’m single.

I can’t afford to turn down work—not in this economy.

Holding my breath, I hurried down the alley. The historic shops that lined the main street, while beautiful, were built tightly together. That meant I couldn’t sneak between buildings to get to work. No, I had to walk behind them, through a trash-laden murder alley.

Reaching the end, I inhaled fresh, garbage-free air.

“Agh!” I recoiled as a gust of wind spewed crunchy leaves in my face. “Pth,” I spit, picking bits from my lip. I rounded the corner and doubled back along the main street.

Despite our Niagara location, the town looked as if it were moved stone-by-stone, and brick-by-brick from Europe. In the summertime, tourists flocked to the quaint little boutiques, restaurants, and theatres. I slowed by a white-washed brick building with pink shutters, the word, Aroma , printed lavishly above the door. Candles filled the window, all boasting aggressively autumnal scents like Crisp Fall Nights and Harvest Apple Pie . As the end of October approached, the flower beds that lined the cobbled streets, bursting with marigolds and petunias in the summer months, lay barren. The horse-drawn carriages that sat outside the gingerbread-trimmed hotel were gone.

The town slept.

Perhaps that’s why I favoured autumn. I adored the décor in the shop windows, perfect mirrors as the trees changed colour. But I liked the peace and quiet best of all. As I marched to work in silence, not a single tourist stopped me to ask, “ Where is the Lakeside Carousel?” while standing so close to the Lakeside Carousel that they could touch the Lakeside Carousel.

I passed Chapeau , a boutique filled with bright, fanciful hats made of felt and feathers. I’d gone in once, caught sight of a price tag, and fled. During my walks, I admired the hats from this side of the glass. They were accessories for pretty people at weddings and brunches.

But not for me.

Beside Chapeau was the café. The sign featured Morgan’s surname: Rousseau’s . I overshot it and peered in the window next door. A display of horror novels beckoned me. Classics with redesigned covers: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and The Haunting of Hill House . These were interspersed with newer titles, monopolized by Stephen King. A Joe Hill thrown in for diversity . I’d read all of them, save the newest King.

The ending would be terrible.

I’d probably buy it later this week.

Stroking the glass, I whispered, “I’ll come back for you.”

Trudging back to Rousseau’s , I unlocked the door and slipped inside. I ducked beneath a giant monstera leaf that threatened to behead those unfamiliar with the café. Morgan had a particular fondness for tropicals. All around, cacti and bright green philodendrons popped against the rustic bricks and white tiles . Though I adored the style, it was a feat I could never achieve myself. Plants often succumbed to neglect in my care. In fact, Morgan specifically forbid me from going anywhere near her plants, a few of which still hadn’t recovered from an incident we affectionately referred to as the ‘Great Drought’, which occurred shortly after I was hired.

Weaving through tables, I sidestepped a Chinese evergreen as I rounded the counter. Once I’d prepped and poured myself a coffee, I sat down with a well-read copy of The Martian .

Perfect. Everything I need to relax and read.

I set my phone amongst the pages. News out of West Virginia dominated my feed. Apparently, seventy-five men dropped dead in a hospital down there, and no one had any idea what happened.

“I found my patient on his stomach,” a nurse said, appearing anxious in an interview. “But uh—his head was twisted all the away around, like it was on backwards.” Unease crept upon me as the nurse shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know what could have done that.”

Could it have anything to do with the other stories?

An erratic burst of laughter echoed from the street. Setting my phone aside, I tucked whatever scrap of garbage I’d used as a bookmark back into The Martian . Somehow, even though I’d arrived thirty minutes early, I hadn’t managed to get any reading done. I popped an Advil from my bag and took a swig of coffee.

Jangling bells ended my solitude.

Smiling, I braced myself.

“Ahhhh! Nelli!” Sasha screeched. “I was running late and—” Still smiling, I only half-listened. Sasha was my closest friend but…he tended to speak a lot and say very little at the same time. “Then my eyelash fell behind the sink and, you’ll never believe this, but I found—” Nodding along, I nudged my phone, checking the time. Normally forty minutes late, Sasha was actually two minutes early today. “And then I couldn’t find my good nails, you know, the maroon stiletto ones—” Sasha performed at a drag club outside of town and he never made it home before two in the morning, so, it didn’t really bother me that he was always late.

Quiet mornings suited me anyway.

Despite the cool weather, Sasha wore short shorts and a hot-pink, swoop neck top that read, “REALLY QUEEN?” The outfit certainly pushed the boundaries of appropriate work wear. As a manager, I’m sure Morgan wouldn’t approve, but as his mother…

Sashaying behind me, Sasha spun my chestnut-brown braid in a wide circle. I prepped the dining room while he bounced around the counter and disappeared into the back. Reappearing, Sasha set the cash drawer in the till. While Sasha hadn’t been able to convince Morgan that wigs were acceptable work wear for a café, she’d conceded on make-up. Today Sasha flaunted shimmery, cut creased eyes, full lashes, and a powerful fuchsia lip.

Shame gnawed at me as I joined Sasha behind the counter. Beside him, it was easy to feel inadequate. My fault, not his. Sasha did his best to encourage me. He offered beauty advice freely, some helpful, such as using brown shadow to make my hazel eyes pop, and others only slightly insulting, like when he said I had great brow structure, if only I filled them in. Truly, I could put in more effort…

I’m here though , I soothed. Some days, that was enough.

The front bell jingled, and a young girl in an ill-fitted jacket shuffled in. Stringy, unkempt hair jutted from a faded beanie.

“I got it,” I said, and waved Sasha away.

Approaching the counter, the girl examined the plants nervously, as if they might strike out and bite her. She mumbled, “Could I have a coffee to-go, please?”

“What’s the name for the order?”

“Kristina.”

Kristina opened a plastic bag and dumped a pile of change on the counter. The coins clanked and plinked as they struck the marble and bounced. Kristina caught a dime before it tumbled over the edge. Glancing at me, she whispered, “Sorry.” One by one, Kristina slid coins across the counter. “Ten, fifteen, twenty-five…”

There weren’t enough coins on the counter.

Kristina reached the same conclusion and her cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I—”

“Your order is paid for,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“Another customer paid for your order.” Kristina peered around the café, looking for whoever meant to play a cruel joke on her. “They paid it forward earlier this morning. It included a baked good as well. What can I get you?”

“Are you sure?” Kristina chewed a chunk of hair.

“Of course.” I clacked the tongs. “What would you like?” Kristina scrutinized the display and pointed to a chocolate chip cookie. The cheapest item we sold. “You sure? You can choose anything.”

Kristina nodded and scooped coins into her baggy.

“What would you like in the coffee?”

“Just black, please.” I handed over the cookie and the coffee. “Thank you so much.” Kristina beamed and shuffled out. My eyes tingled and I blinked quickly, reining in any tears. Just finishing up my period, that’s all.

I grabbed my wallet and counted out the last of my change.

I dumped it all in the till.

The front bell jingled as I wandered into the back, and I turned to take the order. “Don’t worry about it,” Sasha said, and waved me away.

I mouthed a, ‘ Thank you ’ and slipped my wallet into my bag. I checked my phone. No notifications. No surprise. Sasha was the only one who messaged me.

“My husband has arrived!” Sasha rushed in, flailing so excitedly I dropped my phone. “Come look!” he cried, dragging me out.

The only person in the café, a man, sat in the front, tucked behind Morgan’s monstera. “His name is Darragh—like the plant, Dara —and I’m going to marry him,” Sasha whispered—well, Sasha whispered as best Sasha could. His voice echoed against the tiles, and I winced. Mercifully, Darragh didn’t react.

“How do you know his name?” I asked.

“Said I needed it for the cup.”

“He’s got a glass mug.”

“Are you the cup police right now?”

A book lay flat on the table before Darragh. Reading with his hand smushed against his cheek, Darragh’s eyes moved hungrily across the pages, slowing only when he brought the mug to his lips. Half of his chocolate-brown hair sat in a knot at the back of his head. The rest tumbled in messy waves around his collarbone. When he turned the page, a few strands of grey caught the light, just behind his temple. A strange contrast against a young face. He couldn’t be much older than me.

Did I have grey hair I didn’t know about? Note to self: Check for grey hair tonight.

“I flooded my basement when he ordered,” Sasha swooned.

Wrinkling my nose, I muttered, “Lovely.” A drip of water struck my head. I craned, examining the ceiling. Speaking of floods, was there a leak? My apartment was above the café. I didn’t see any water damage.

“Why do you think he’s hiding at the small table?” Sasha asked.

Darragh was a little too big for the table he’d chosen. His knees met the edge, rather than fitting neatly beneath. His back formed a painful “C”, like a father attending a child’s tea party. There were seven much larger, empty tables scattered around the café. Darragh chose the tiny table in the corner. If he was like me, he’d probably selected the small table on purpose, a calculated attempt to dissuade anyone from joining him. The thought made me smile .

I see you, friend.

As if someone called to him, Darragh’s hand dropped from his cheek, and he stared straight at us. Our eyes met. Darragh’s brows furrowed, and his lips parted in surprise.

Breaking eye contact, I frantically wiped the counter. I sputtered, “I need a clean rag!” and fled. Sasha pursued me while I pretended to look for a rag in a spot where we’d never stored rags.

“D’you know him?” Sasha accused.

“What? No! Why?”

In a tone that suggested I was an idiot, Sasha said, “Girl. He knew you.”

“No! He caught us staring. He was obviously uncomfortable.”

“No way honey,” Sasha replied, matter-of-factly. “He recognized you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but a voice cut me off.

“Excuse me?”

I peered around Sasha. At the counter, Darragh waved. Anxiety pulsed my stomach, but I scurried out. Beneath a well-fitted white T-shirt, Darragh’s shoulders were broad, though, overall, he was slim. He looked strong in a lean, wiry way. Now my appearance troubled me even more; I could have at least tried to hide the bags under my eyes, or the old acne scars… I shook my head and focused.

“What can I get you?”

Darragh hesitated, as if he’d forgotten why he’d come up in the first place. “Sorry.” He rolled the r’s in sorry , speaking with a melodic accent I’d never heard. Darragh smiled, his cheek pulled back into a dimple, and crow’s feet crinkled around keen, olive eyes. “Could I have some of those”—he paused, searching for the right word—“packets of sweet?”

Unsure what he meant, I repeated it slowly. “Packets of sweet…”

Sasha appeared. Winking at Darragh, he said, “Sugar.”

“Oh, right. Sugar.” I grabbed three packets from below the counter. Leaning over to Darragh, a faint smokiness struck me. It reminded me of sputtering campfires, and filled me with a cheerful, curious warmth. As I placed the sugar in Darragh’s palm, I noticed he wore several intricate rings. Strange. His clothing was so bland—plain white T-shirt, light brown pants. The rings brimmed with character, so unlike everything else about him. Almost as if he’d made every attempt to go unnoticed but refused to remove the jewelry.

“Thank you,” Darragh said. Despite Sasha’s attempt to insert himself into the interaction, Darragh focused entirely on me. His sudden, intense eye-contact unsettled me, and I broke it. Darragh looked at the sugar packets, as if seeing them for the first time. “Thank you,” he murmured, and then wandered back to his table.

Sasha and I exchanged a look.

I put on another pot of coffee, but Sasha, shameless in his desire, leaned on the counter and ogled Darragh. “Do you think he contours his jaw?”

I chuckled. “I do not.”

“I’m such a sucker for a good jawline,” Sasha said. Darragh glanced over. Sasha gave him a sultry pout and waved. “I’m going to see if I can figure out what—or who— he’s into.” Sasha pulled a cookie from the display and sauntered over to Darragh’s table.

I fully intended to eavesdrop on the conversation, but a customer entered and foiled my plan. She left, and when Sasha returned, I asked, “What did you learn?” I jutted my chin at Darragh. “What’s he fancy?”

“I can’t tell.” Sasha crossed his arms and pouted. He grabbed another cookie and said, “You go talk to him.”

“Hard pass,” I said. Just looking at Darragh made my palms sweaty.

Sasha stomped his foot. “Come on!” He leaned on the counter and resumed staring.

“If this were a documentary about the unsolved murders of a bunch of women, I’d take one look at that guy and say, ‘He did it. He killed all those women.’”

Sasha’s head whipped around. “Damn girl.” Blinking several times, he looked me up and down. “Who hurt you?”

“All I’m saying is, no one looks like that and doesn’t have something to hide.”

Sasha rolled his eyes. “You need to watch something that isn’t about serial killers for, like, five minutes, okay?”

“I’m telling you,” I said and nodded at Darragh, “he’s got bodies in his freezer.”

“I’d love to be a body in his freezer,” Sasha said longingly.

“Sasha!”

“What?” Sasha rounded on me. “I’m sorry, that’s inappropriate?”

I counted fingers and replied, “You’re gay. You’re black, and you’re a drag queen. If people start getting murdered around here, you’ll be the first to go.”

“At least I’d be dead and not working here anymore.” Sasha pushed away from the counter and wandered out to clean tables.

Across the café, Darragh leaned over and parted the strings of pearls dangling down the window. He peered up and down the street, looking for something.

Or someone.

What are you hiding?

Unfortunately, my somber curiosity was short-lived. A man wearing a pink-collared shirt appeared in the front window, prompting my entire body to groan in silent agony. The bell jingled, and flip-flops slapped against the tile as the man entered. I’m sure he’d tell me he wore them because he was, ‘On his way to the gym.’ The man passed Sasha, and his upper lip curled in disgust. Reaching the counter, the man smiled, and his nose crinkled, more sneer-like than anything else. He jack-knifed his thumb in Sasha’s direction and laughed. “He does realize he’s a dude, right?” He waited for me to laugh with him.

I didn’t.

“What can I get you, Turner?”

“You look nice today. Natural. I like girls who don’t put all that crap on their face.”

Be nice! You’ve got bills to pay.

“Thanks. Coffee?”

“I’ll have a coffee. Put five creams and five sugars in it.” Turner babbled while I worked. “Yeah, I’m just on the way to the gym.” I smiled but said nothing. Turner continued, “Hey—has anyone ever told you that you could be a model?”

While performing my finest customer service laugh, a fleeting, isolated melancholy nagged me. When was the last time I laughed for myself? When was the last time I laughed because I found something funny, and not to make someone else comfortable? Placing Turner’s to-go cup on the counter, I muttered, “That’s four-fifty.”

Turner chucked down a folded five-dollar bill. Reluctantly, I picked it up and unfurled it. To speed up the transaction, I slammed the button on the drawer and made change manually.

“Wow, you’re pretty good at math for a girl.”

In an itemized list of my weaknesses, math was at the tippy-top. Back in university, it was the only course I’d nearly failed. However, even I could manage fifty cents.

Pretending not to see Turner’s outstretched hand, I set a quarter on the counter. “Is that everything?”

“Are you busy tonight?” Turner leaned on the counter, and I stepped back.

“Oh!” My cheeks flushed. “Um—” I struggled to lie, but my mind emptied. “I, uh—”

“Excuse me?” Darragh joined us, standing so uncomfortably close to Turner that he straightened and stepped back. Pointing to his table, Darragh said, “I spilled my drink. Do you have a towel I can clean it up with?”

Grabbing a cloth, I shouted, “I can do it!”

At Darragh’s table, I knelt to mop up coffee while he organized a teetering pile of books. Suddenly, a rough, gravelled voice whispered, “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

I flinched with an unattractive, “Guh!” and knocked the underside of the table. I steadied it and found Darragh kneeling beside me, alert and serious. His eyes, sharp with intent, darted to Turner and back.

“Oh! Oh no. No, it’s okay,” I said. “Thank you, though.” Darragh grimaced, respecting my decision, even if he thought it was wrong. When I finished cleaning, I pulled myself up and nodded toward Turner. “This is nothing.” I chuckled. “I’ve been spit on before.”

Darragh didn’t seem to think that was very funny.

“Why are you still here?” I heard Sasha ask Turner.

I took my time heading back to the front, wiping down a few clean tables on my way. When Turner finally left, I jumped behind the counter and made a fresh latte, to which I added pumpkin syrup, a dollop of whipped cream, and cinnamon. Coincidentally, the cinnamon formed a perfect heart. I hesitated, and then dumped more cinnamon on top, turning the heart into a splotch. I brought the latte to Darragh’s table and set it down. Wearing the scowl of an interrupted reader, Darragh glanced up from his book.

“On me,” I said.

Darragh looked between me and the latte. The lines on his face softened and he smiled. My stomach somersaulted, and I looked at my feet. “It’s a special. The pumpkin spiced latte.”

“Thank you,” Darragh said, his voice soft once more.

“Enjoy!” All flustered, I bumped a table on my way back to the counter. Did Darragh notice?

I glanced over my shoulder and caught him smiling after me. Hoping my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt, I joined Sasha. He looked me up and down.

“What?” I asked, unable to hide my smile.

“You’re gonna be real cold in that freezer, babe.”

I stuck up my nose and flung my towel over my shoulder. Sasha and I watched Darragh take a sip, then he quickly went back for another. Grinning beneath a whipped cream moustache, Darragh gave me a thumbs up. I laughed and pointed to my lip. Darragh didn’t seem to understand at first, but he quickly dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, removing the whipped cream.

Sasha glared at me enviously.

Unconcerned with the world around him, Darragh remained at his table well into the afternoon, devouring books and coffee. In fact, he consumed so much coffee that, after an eleventh top-up, Sasha asked if we had a responsibility to stop serving him.

“I’m worried about him,” Sasha said. Across the café, Darragh swallowed the dregs of another coffee then examined the empty mug sadly. “I think he might die,” Sasha whispered.

“Keep an eye on him. I’m going to pee before we close.”

I finished and returned my bag to the back, where Sasha cornered me. “Something’s weird with ye boy. I suggested decaf, and then I had to explain what caffeine was.” Sasha put a concerned hand on his chest. “Should I like, call an ambulance?”

Ugh. Phone calls.

I peered out. “Oh. He’s gone.”

“What!” Sasha leapt out. “Dang. ”

Before he left, Darragh had placed his dishes neatly on the counter. Three unopened sugar packets sat on the saucer. Darragh hadn’t used them. I started, “Hey look at this—”

“Why don’t you come out with me and Lawrence tonight?”

“Can’t. I have plans.” I tossed the sugar away and washed the dishes.

Sasha cocked his head. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” I didn’t meet his gaze. “Next time, I promise.”

After clean-up, we closed and went our separate ways. The antique lampposts cast the old shops in an eerie, subdued light. I loved October, but I didn’t care for the dark walk home. I jogged down murder-alley and up the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, my orange tabby, Watney, brushed my leg. He wanted attention—and food. I patted him and filled his bowl. The edges of my vision darkened when I stood up. I steadied myself while the faintness passed.

I’m starving.

In the fridge, I found condiments, pickles, and a miserable bag of spinach that, despite promising myself I would eat it this time, I hadn’t.

I should throw that out.

The empty fridge emphasized the sticky stains on the glass shelves.

I should clean those .

I closed the door, hoping the freezer was more lucrative. A half-empty bag of fruit, probably expired, definitely freezer burnt. One frozen dinner: macaroni and cheese. I snatched it, tore up the corner, and tossed it in the microwave. After setting the timer, I shuffled to my bedroom. I pulled off my shirt, smelled it, and recoiled. It bypassed the semi-clean pile of laundry on my chair, straight into the overflowing clothes basket.

I should do laundry.

My bra and pants joined the semi-clean pile. I picked up a crumpled Foo Fighters T-shirt and pulled it on over some sweatpants .

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed the macaroni and tossed the paper lid in the garbage. It bounced off an empty dinner tray and fell to the ground. Wandering to the living room, I found my laptop and navigated to an old episode of Kitchen Nightmares .

The macaroni was still cold in the middle. I ate it anyway.

After scooping the last few noodles into my mouth, I stacked the empty tray into yesterday’s tray, which still sat on the coffee table. I turned over a half-finished cross-stitch that sat beside me. Quietly stitching used to bring me joy. Lately, I hadn’t had the time or energy for even the smallest things. I glanced out the window that overlooked the main street. A brittle, brown plant sat neglected on the sill.

I should get rid of that.

My phone screen lit, and a message from Sasha said, “ Have fun with your big plans tonight :) ” I turned off the screen and tossed my phone. I’m driven by three things in life: My next coffee, my next book, and my crippling desire to avoid all humankind. So yes, I lied when Sasha asked me to go out.

Laughter rose from the street as drunken, happy people stumbled by. Their joy stoked my guilt, fanning the flames until shame consumed me.

Should I have gone out with Sasha?

I loved my alone time, but every so often…it did get a bit…lonely. It was easier to forget during the day, when the bustle of work kept those thoughts away, but when night came…

I pounced on my phone. Scrolling social media, a headline caught my eye.

Recovered Surveillance Videos Reveal Deadly Miggs Rampage in West Virginia Hospital

I clicked it.

CHARLESTON, West Virginia—Recovered surveillance from Memorial Hospital shows Miggs attack that claimed the lives of 76 individuals. The following footage was released with a statement this morning. Warning, the footage contains graphic content that might disturb some viewers.

I hit play.

It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing through the black and white grain. A hospital hallway, but the video seemed frozen. Maybe it wasn’t loading properly? Before I scrolled away, a figure appeared in the darkness. I brought my phone closer and squinted, as if that might add more pixels and clear up the footage. A person wrapped in bandages walked down the hall. The camera’s point of view switched to a patient’s room, where a man slept.

The bandaged person walked jerkily into the frame and stood over the man. As the time stamp in the corner rolled over to 3:01, the intruder raised their hand. The sleeping man’s arm shot to his throat. At first, it looked like he was sitting up, but he kept rising, until he floated away from the bed. The blankets fell away, and he rose so that only his flailing legs were visible to the camera.

Before long, the thrashing weakened.

The person left, but the invisible rope hanging the man remained.

Limp legs swung gently back and forth.

The camera POV jumped, following the bandaged individual through the hospital. A nurse turned a corner and nearly ran into them, but, as if sensing the nurse, the bandaged person ducked inside a room. Here, another man lay sleeping. Just like the first victim, this patient was hung. The video cut away, and a text overlay said this occurred seventy-three more times.

The camera jumped to the hospital roof, where the individual exited and climbed on the railing. In the distance, lights flashed to-and-fro. At 3:40 a.m., the individual leapt. The camera switched to a hospital room. As if broken from a spell, a body crashed to the floor. Another shot showed a double room, where two men hung. At 3:40 a.m., they both crashed to the ground, and the video ended.

I scrolled to the statement.

The woman in the video is Ellie Bailey, admitted to the hospital Thursday evening after a reported domestic dispute. Bailey’s abilities were unknown at admittance. Bailey’s body was found on the north side of the hospital, deceased.

Preliminary autopsy reports indicate cause of death for all victims was strangulation. Multiple victims sustained post-mortem injuries, including broken ankles, arms, neck and back.

An employee at Memorial Hospital has been taken into custody after tampering with the original footage. At this time, no further details have been given.

“Our thoughts are with the families who’ve lost fathers, brothers, and sons,” said Chief of Police, Steven Brown.

The investigation is ongoing. Please call if you have any information.

Against my better judgement, I checked the comment section.

these goddamn freaks

they should all be shot

the US will have to bring back the noose

Setting my phone aside, I sat quietly, processing. Stories like this were popping up all over the world, but this was by far the deadliest.

It all started last year, when security footage from London captured an attack in a Tesco parking lot. In the video, a group of men approached a woman loading bags into her car. One of the men grabbed her wrist, and a bright light turned the screen white. As the video cleared, the man was nowhere to be seen. The remaining men clustered together; one drew a knife.

But the woman didn’t run, instead, her gaze found the security camera. I still remember the dread I felt when her eyes met mine, as if she was looking straight at me.

The woman circled the men and backed away.

Trying to draw them from the camera.

Eventually, the men backed off, and that was it for the footage.

But it wasn’t the end of the story. Police found the four men dead—sort of. Enough pieces were recovered to indicate they weren’t alive. The mangled remains were discovered at various distances away. Suggesting that, at some point, the woman chased them.

People still debate whether the video was faked.

The woman in the video, identified as Moira Miggs, was never found. I recalled the headline that broke the internet: Miggs, Magic?

That headline provided a label for the phenomenon.

Magic.

The name Miggs stuck too, becoming a nickname for people seemingly possessing magical abilities. It was still less controversial than some other…less savoury names. As you might imagine, the masses didn’t react kindly to stories like this. And I mean, I just watched a woman kill 75 people without lifting a finger.

Watney rubbed my calf, pulling me back to reality. After dishing out a healthy belly rub, I double-checked that the door was locked and headed to the bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Hair jutted from the confines of my braid, giving me a disheveled, exhausted look.

“Ugh.”

I faced the wall while I brushed my teeth.

In bed, I set my laptop next to me and put on a 3 Scary Games . Halfway through the video, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I tried not to think about lying to Sasha. I tried not to think about all the horrible news. I tried not to think at all.

Far away, the video ended. Five minutes passed, and the first of the tears fell. Frustrated but not surprised, I propped myself up. Snatching a bottle from the nightstand, I dry swallowed three pills and lay back down.

Deep breaths in.

Deep breaths out.

Did I put grounds in the machine?