Hail in July

Nothing quite like coming home exhausted after a long night at work, realizing it's the weekend so you can sleep in, and snuggling into bed...only to wake up a few hours later to hear the weather alert sirens going off.

It took a minute for my sleep-fogged brain to figure out that it wasn't the normal siren testing day, so I should probably figure out why it was going off. Turning on my computer, I woke up real fast when "Tornado Warning" popped up on my screen, next to a map with a big red danger area, with my place right in the target zone.

My parents' place out in the country was well out of danger, but by that time I was already hearing hail hitting the house hard. (Yay, alliteration!) I decided that if I was going to encounter a tornado, I'd rather do it in my nice cozy small-windowed basement than in my little featherweight Prius.

Of all the fun things I've done, sitting in a small enclosed space listening to pelting precipitation and wondering if the roof was going to fly away is definitely not one. Fortunately, after about ten minutes, I found a distraction. Water was trickling in around the edges of the front door.

There must have been a lot of water outside in the stairwell. The pressure built up fast, until there was a jet of water shooting a foot into the room from the crack between the door and the jamb. While I was watching my shoe floating gently away, the landlord knocked on the door to let me know there was several feet of water outside, and I should probably get out NOW.

The water pressure from outside was bad enough that I could barely open the door, which in retrospect was possibly not the wisest choice, since all that water promptly rushed in. What had been a puddle a couple inches deep in the living room now covered most of the apartment. At this point, the cat decided she wasn't having fun anymore and retreated to one of the remaining dry spots.

She was even less pleased when the landlord brought in a pump to start getting rid of the water. By this time, the storm had mostly died down, so I was able to go outside and see the damage.

There were white drifts of hailstones everywhere there wasn't standing water. The waterline was well above the curb in spots - naturally, one of them right next to my car. At least the doors were above water, albeit just barely, so I was able to get in.

By now, the landlord had managed to get out the standing water, though the carpet was still soaked and covered with mud and leaves. While he worked on that, I rounded up the cat and headed out for dry ground.

Overall, it could have been a lot worse. The carpet may need to be replaced, but nothing important was damaged. I'm glad I decided to pack my car for a visit to my parents before going to bed. I'm glad my cat is used to spending time with her stepsibling at my brother's place, so she has a place to stay. And I'm glad my landlord is paranoid enough about water to make everything as close to watertight as possible, so even with that much water outside, the leaking was relatively minor.

So it goes.

Puff the Drugged-Up Dragon

Found while looking through one of my old school notebooks.

Puff the drugged-up dragon smoked PCP,
And frolicked in a smoky haze in a land called LSD.
Sometimes he'd see a child, a boy made out of fluff,
Tinfoil, strings, and sealing wax, and other fancy stuff. Oh...

Chorus
Together they were tripping, on a boat with rainbow sails, 
Flying high o'er sparkling seas, where bunnies danced with whales.
Bowing kings and princes beckoned them to come
Through magic gates of rainbow clouds beneath the smiling sun.

Chorus
A dragon lives forever, but crash must follow high,
And bodies have their limits - yes, you must go straight or die.
One gray night it happened: men came to his door,
The rehab clinic took him in - oh, Puff would soar no more.

His muscles started spasming, his scales fell like rain.
Jackie Paper waved goodbye from a corner of his brain.
Without his lifelong friends, Puff could not be brave.
He learned to do without his friends, forever left his cave.
Chorus

Comes Great Destruction

Chapter 1

The peaceful, sunny afternoon in Everycity was abruptly shattered when the town hall burst into flames. Screaming men, women, and children poured through the main doors, trying to escape the figure in a silver protective suit who paced behind them, laughing maniacally as he fired the flamethrowers he dual-wielded indiscriminately in all directions.

“Fools! Cower before your new master or burn in your own stupidity, for I...AM...PYRO-MAN!” Whirling, he turned both flamethrowers full on the statue of the town’s founder that stood in front of the building.

“Not today, Pyro-Man!”

At the sound of the challenge, the silver-helmeted head turned to the sky. Hovering in a sunbeam, hands on hips, was a clean-shaven, well-muscled young man with brown hair and a blinding smile, wearing a skintight yellow-and-white suit with a long cape and a domino mask. The shield-shaped emblem on his chest depicted a fist holding a lightning bolt, on a light blue background.

The reassuring smile vanished as he loooked away from the fleeing citizens, who had stopped to applaud. He frowned down at Pyro-Man and announced, “This is your only chance. Surrender now, or I will be forced to take you down!”

“Captain Invincible!” the villain shouted back defiantly. “Your reign is at an end – this is my town now! I WILL NEVER SURRENDER!” He turned both flamethrowers on the Captain, who disappeared into the inferno.

Only for a minute, though. Then he stepped out again, perfectly composed. Not a thread of his costume was charred.

“Is that all you’ve got? I’ve had worse sunburns!” he called.

“You may be immune to my fire, Captain – but I bet she isn’t!”

With one quick movement, the villain grabbed a young red-haired woman wearing a press badge, who had tripped and fallen nearby. She flinched as he yanked her to her feet and doused her with gasoline from a nozzle on his wrist.

“What now, Captain?” Pyro-Man taunted. “Let me go free, or this pretty thing will become a lot hotter!”

“Allow me to quench your ardor, Pyro-Man!” the hero shouted in reply. He swooped down and ripped a nearby fire hydrant out of the ground, then used it to aim the resulting fountain at the two, knocking them both to the ground.

The reporter regained her wits more quickly and started crawling away. The villain looked at his flamethrowers, now drenched and useless, for a moment, then threw them away with a cry of rage and started struggling to his feet.

Suddenly Captain Invincible was there. “Let me give you a hand,” he offered helpfully, and grabbed Pyro-Man by the back of his neck, lifting him clear off the ground. As the first police cars arrived on the scene, sirens wailing, the Captain marched his captive accross the lawn to where police were waiting to take him into custody.

The Captain was still nodding graciously in response to their heartfelt thanks when a scream rang out. He whipped around and took in the scene in a moment.

The reporter was hobbling along in a way that suggested a sprained ankle. Beside her, a burning tree was creaking ominously. She hobbled faster, but as the tree started to fall, there was obviously no way she was going to make it.

Captain invincible was across the lawn in a single giant leap. As the reporter stared up at the fiery tree in terrified fascination, suddenly he was there beside her, catching the burning branches effortlessly on his back. “Off you go, ma’am,” he told her, displaying his brilliant smile again.

She nodded and retreated as quickly as she could. When she was a safe distance away, he grabbed the tree and tossed it off of him. Brushing the soot off his hands, he turned to go.

“Wait!”

He turned back. The pretty reporter was waving frantically at him with one hand, and fishing for pen and paper with the other.

“Who are you? Where did you come from? Why are you here?” The questions spilled out of her as he approached.

“I’m Captain Invincible, ma’am, and I’m...just doing my job.” He nodded courteously to her.

She took a wobbly step forward and laid a hand on his arm. “You saved my life, you know,” she said with a shy smile. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you...” She pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He glanced at it as the paramedics bustled up with a stretcher. In simple gold lettering on a cream background, it read, “Sally Smith – Reporter, Everycity News”, with her contact information.

She yelled, “Thank you!” as the paramedics took her away. He responded with a salute, then sprang gracefully into the sky and soared home.

Sally Smith. She seemed like a nice girl...maybe he could see her again sometime.

Chapter 2

Captain Luke Matthews looked up at the sound of the doorbell. He opened the door, smiled at the young man outside, and exchanged a wad of cash for a pleasantly warm pizza box.

He set the pizza down on the kitchen counter, then paused and picked up Sally’s business card still lying there. He hadn’t seen one of these in a while. His fingers traced the edges of the card as his mind went back...

He’d been a returning hero, a media darling, coming home victorious from the war. He’d acquitted himself bravely, stood by his comrades, pulled off a few dangerous missions, some daring rescues. Then the war ended, and he’d come home with a chestful of medals, several commendations, and an honorable discharge.

Reporters had flocked around him for a time: the shining, all-American young star, bold symbol of victory. He’d ridden the coattails of his fame long enough to get a decent position as a construction foreman before the media got bored and moved on to newer, more exciting topics, leaving him to sink into obscurity.

What he found instead was another war.

He didn’t notice it at first – the atmosphere of fear that hung sullenly over the poor quarter of the city, where he lived. Not until, walking home late one night, he heard a woman screaming in an alley. There were several people nearby, but all they did was walk a bit faster, staring fixedly straight ahead. Horrified by their indifference, Luke found himself running straight for the sound.

There was only one attacker, who turned and ran at the sight of a very fit, angry-looking man advancing on him. But when Luke went to the police station the next day, he found no help. Their expressions grew distant and closed-off as soon as he mentioned where the attack had taken place.

“Forget it, son,” a grizzled old officer advised, patting him on the shoulder. “Criminals breed like rats down there. There’s nothing we can do about it, and neither can you.”

But Captain Matthews refused to accept that.

He started patrolling the streets, a few hours every night. Most nights were uneventful, but he did manage to break up a few assaults.

Then, one night, he went farther than usual. Rounding a corner, he saw a thrashing woman, making muffled noises of protest, being dragged into a van by two dark figures. As he broke into a sprint, the door slammed shut and the van drove off, tires squealing.

It didn’t go far. As he reached the corner where it had turned, he saw it turn into a driveway in the distance. Without hesitation, he raced after them.

The van was parked at an old, abandoned factory. He quietly moved around the building until he found a window that hung slightly open on rusted hinges. When he tried to open it, it snapped off in his hands. He winced, but no one came running to investigate the noise.

Climbing in, he found himself in a dark, dusty hallway. He followed a strange cacophony of sounds in the distance to a large, brightly lit room filled with cages. He halted, shocked.

The cages were full of...things. Unholy mixtures of every creature known to man, no two alike. The worst were the ones who looked like they had once been human – many with the light of intelligence almost drowned by unspeakable horror behind their misshapen eyes.

Luke didn’t know how long he stood frozen at the sight. After a timeless moment, a scream from somewhere on the far side of the room jolted him back to his senses.

He ran through the monstrous zoo, silently promising them that he would come back to release them from their misery. Bursting through a double doorway at the far side, he saw a nearly naked girl lying on an operating table with a man in surgical garb standing over her, next to a tray of mysterious medical instruments.

The man looked up, eyes widening above his mask. He gestured to two goons standing in the back of the operating theater, who obediently ran to tackle the intruder.

Menacing as they looked dressed all in black, complete with masks and gloves, they were lousy fighters. Luke knocked them unconscious with two quick blows, then turned to release the girl, politely averting his eyes as much as possible.

When she was free, he glanced around, but the scientist was gone. The girl pointed to a doorway in the back of the room. He muttered a quick “Thank you” and headed that way.

Going through the door, he found himself on a rickety catwalk running over several open vats of mysterious chemicals in a massive room. Picking a direction, he raced along it, until a shrill cackle brought him skidding to a halt.

The scientist, now in a traditional lab coat and with the cap no longer hiding his shock of white hair, rounded a corner ahead of him. At his side was something furry, eight-legged, and slavering that looked like a cross between a wolf, a tarantula, and a scorpion. He reached up to pet two creatures sitting on his shoulders – they looked like lab mice, one small and squat with a giant head, and one long and skinny with large ears.

“I am Dr. Recombinant! I neither know nor care who you are or why you are here, but I’m glad you came – my pets need some exercise!” He cackled again and gestured to the creature at his side, which bounded forward, snarling.

Luke looked around hastily. He was cut off on all sides. Behind him, another goon urged a second of the creatures on. Below him, a vat of glowing, sickly green goo bubbled.

Dr. Recombinant caught his glance and called, “I wouldn’t try it, if I were you! The previous tenant used to dispose of his radioactive waste in there!” His giggles redoubled at the thought.

Just then, the first monster hit. Only Luke’s arm thrown up in instinctive defense saved his throat from being torn out. He cried out at the pain of the fangs buried in his arm, with mandibles scraping bloody furrows alongside. The staggered back against the rusty guardrail, which snapped under the impact. He hung in midair for a second before falling towards the vat waiting hungrily below. His arm tore free of the creature’s jaws as he fell, and he had a moment to wonder how it was possible to hurt even more, before he hit the fluid’s surface and found out.

Pain.

Every cell on fire.

Pain.

Can’t breathe.

Air.

Pain.

Arm over the edge.

Falling out.

Hit the floor.

Pain.

Blackness.

He woke up in the hospital. Apparently the girl had had the presence of mind to call the police, who arrived in time to catch Dr. Recombinant and destroy his “pets”.

Over the next few weeks, he explored his new abilities. Super-strength. Flight. And of course, complete invulnerability to anything short of a nuclear bomb – the DoD wouldn’t let him test that one.

Finally he had a purpose. He put on a new mask, a new uniform, and a new identity.

Protector of the helpless. Captain Invincible.

Chapter 3

That had been ten years ago, and he’d been wearing the mask ever since. Captain Luke Matthews finished off the last slice of pizza and stood to go to bed. It was a good life.

Next morning, he settled down with a hot cup of coffee to read the daily paper. He smiled to see that his capture of Pyro-Man had made the front page, and noted with interest that police were said to have uncovered some vital new evidence in the case.

He skimmed the rest of the paper quickly. Pop star caught using drugs, rash of unexplained spontaneous human combustions the previous day, celebrity wedding coming up next week. Nothing special.

Luke dutifully put in his eight hours with the construction company before becoming Captain Invincible once again and heading to the police station. The receptionist nodded in friendly greeting and told him the chief was in.

The chief looked up as he walked in. He was a grizzled, weatherbeaten man of about forty, and looked older. He nodded towards a chair and said gruffly, “Evening, Captain. I’ve been expecting you.”

Without waiting for a response, he picked up several folders and started flipping through them as he continued, “Want your take on this. We thought the Pyro-Maniac case was just your basic mad-villain-rampage sort of thing, but looks like he was hired to retrieve somethings from city records.” He passed the folders to the Captain, who started looking through them. The chief went on, “Why anyone would send a fire guy to fetch papers, I don’t know. No clue why he started flaming out, either. Covering his tracks, or just got bored? You can never tell with these world-domination types...Anyhow.”

The Captain looked up. “Why these records? They’re nothing important, just old lawsuits.”

“Property disputes along the Wiatonga River, yeah.”

“Who hired him?”

“That’s the thing, he doesn’t know. All we have is this.” The chief handed over a scrap of paper with a single 16-digit number on it. “This is how he was supposed to get in touch with the buyer.”

“Address? Phone number?”

“No idea. We were hoping you might have some ideas.”

The Captain nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll let you know if I find anything. Mind if I keep this?”

“Go ahead, we’ve already scanned it in.”

“Thanks. Was there anything else?”

The chief shook his head. “No, that was all we had.”

“I’ll see you later, then.” The Captain stood to shake hands, then headed out.

His next stop was the hospital, where a very flustered duty nurse pointed out “Miss Sally’s” room. He politely signed her autograph book before going in.

Sally’s eyes lit up at the sight of him, and she quickly closed her laptop. “Come in, Captain, come in!”

He came forward to shake her hand, commenting, “I’m surprised you’re still here. Is anything wrong?”

She brushed her bangs aside to reveal a small bandage. “I hit my head when I fell. They wanted to keep me for a while for observation. I was actually just leaving in a few minutes.”

“Glad I caught you, then. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sally blushed. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“My pleasure.”

She said hastily, “So did you find out anything about the guy who did it?”

“Only that he was working for someone else. We don’t know who – all we’ve got is some sort of encrypted contact info.”

“Can I see it?”

He hesitated. She caught it and smiled playfully. “Hey, I’m a reporter, remember? Getting information is what I do. Maybe I can help.”

The Captain threw up his hands in mock surrender and passed her the paper. She stared at it intently for a few moments, then absentmindedly flipped open her laptop and started typing furiously, with a look of rapt concentration on her face.

A few minutes later, she shouted, “Got it!”

He was at her side in an instant. “You did?! What is it?”

“GPS coordinates.”

He blinked. “Aren’t those usually...shorter?”

“Yeah, I had to run it through a – never mind. Anyhow, the coordinates lead to the Wiatonga Dam.”

On impulse, he hugged her. “That’s amazing, Sally! I have to let the chief know.”

She was looking at him with a slightly dazed expression. “Th-that’s the first time you’ve used my name...”

He reddened and drew back. “My apologies, Miss Smith.”

“No! It’s fine. I mean – I don’t mind.” She shook herself. “You’re going to check it out, right?”

“Of course. If you’ll excuse me –“ He turned to go, but her hand shot out and clamped onto his wrist.

“Take me with you. Please.” She gazed into his eyes with unnerving intensity.

“It will be dangerous. “You’re” – his eyes flicked to her ankle – “hurt.”

“I’m a reporter. Danger is my job.” Her voice held iron-hard determination.

“And protecting you is mine. A job I can’t do if you go rushing off half-cocked, trying to get yourself killed.”

“But – “

“No.” His tone left no room for argument.

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

He hesitated for a moment, then left.

A minute later, Sally picked up her phone and dialed a number. “Hey, boss? How quickly can you get me to the Wiatonga Dam?”

Captain Invincible went back to the police station to let the chief know what they had found out. The chief was surprised to see him back so soon, and delighted to find out they had the answer already.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” the Captain cautioned. “He may have already escaped, since we caught his partner.”

“More like dupe, I’m guessing. Still, it’s worth a look,” the chief responded cheerfully. “By the way, while you’re here, you want to take care of transporting Pyro-Maniac to the state supervillain detention facility?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll head over to the dam to check things out after that.”

Convict transport was easy. Most of them complained at first, but by the time they were a thousand feet in the air, dangling by one arm, they tended to shut up.

After his fiery captive was dropped off and all the appropriate forms signed, Captain Invincible took off again, soaring through the night to the dam.

Chapter 4

He made a graceful touchdown on top of the dam. No one was around, but a door was slightly ajar nearby. He quietly entered and began moving down the hallway.

How the dam stood up, he had no idea. The place seemed to be riddled with corridors running every which way. He moved through them largely at random, always moving further down.

Finally he found a trail of damp footprints, slowly drying under the corridor lights. He followed them down to the bottom of the dam. Opening the last door, he found himself in a room with all four walls covered in TV screens, scenes from all over the world flashing by every moment. A tangle of wires ran everywhere, converging on a thin bald man in a long robe sitting quietly in the middle of the room, facing away from the entrance.  A large bundle of wires seemed to be attached to the base of his skull.

“A pleasant base, this,” he said conversationally without turning around. “All the electricity I need at my fingertips, and plenty of warning if...unexpected visitors should come calling.” At some unseen signal, the section of floor he was sitting on rotated, turning him to face said visitor. His face was as hairless as his scalp, and cadaverous in its leanness.

“I am Datamaster. Welcome to my humble abode, Captain Invincible.”

The Captain crossed his arms. “Are you the one who sent Pyro-Man to steal those files?”

Datamaster inclined his head. “I am. A regrettable necessity. I am glad you were able to find your way here – I was uncertain if I had provided enough clues.”

“Then you are under arrest. If you come quietly, no harm will come to you.”

His opponent chuckled. “I am afraid I cannot do that. Yes, you certainly have the advantage as regards brute force” – he indicated his gaunt form with a sweeping gesture – “but if you take me in...you will never know, will you?”

The Captain paused, then asked quietly, “Know what?”

Suddenly the wall of screens behind Datamaster lit up. Sally was manacled to a chair in a small room with a damp floor. A small pipe in one corner, near the roof, was slowly dripping water.

There must have been another monitor in the cell. She looked up sharply and cried, “No, Captain! It’s a trap! He wants – “

The sound cut off abruptly, though her lips were still moving. The villain commented casually, “That was just to get your attention. I have something much more important to tell you.”

In a flash, Captain Invincible’s hand was around his throat, lifting him so his feet dangled above the floor. “Where is she?! Let her go at once!”

Datamaster couldn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. On the screens, the pipe in Sally’s cell suddenly started pouring water. His suffused face managed an expression that was clearly a smirk.

The message was clear. With an effort, the Captain released his grip and took a step back, clenching his fists at his sides. The pipe slowed down, though it did not stop entirely.

The man on the floor took a deep breath, massaging his throat. After a moment, he said, “Much better. Now that we are in agreement, I have something to show you.” He paused. “Did you ever wonder how, exactly, your powers work? I have, you know. I make it a point to investigate any potential enemies thoroughly. And, as should be evident, I have the resources to do it.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile, as he gestured towards the screens surrounding them.

The image of Sally shrank, moving to a side wall. The first screen now displayed an image of what appeared to be people, connected by a spiderweb.

“They say that any two people in the world are connected by only six degrees of separation. My theory is that you have a much, much closer connection – with some of them, at least.

“Did you ever read the news after one of your battles? I did. Exhaustively. If you would look over here...One of your early opponents, I believe. MerLord. Lived in an underwater lair.” The screens flashed images of headlines from around the world, dated the following day, each describing a bizarre incident where someone drowned on dry land under mysterious circumstances.

“84 deaths that I know of. Or how about the Lance? Gravity powers. His enemies tended to turn up as flattened discs. Except for you. You were immune.” Datamaster paused, while the screen displayed images of people crushed out of nowhere, by nothing. “Weren’t you?

“Only 13 deaths from that one. The Lance was a quick learner. Even Pyro-Man didn’t do much worse – 18 died last night.” Images of deaths labeled “Spontaneous Human Combustion”, including the one that had shown up in the Everycity News that day. “Some of them were fairly spectacular, though. Remember the Blademaster? 163. How about Stellar, with that plasma cannon of hers? She achieved 394 deaths, I believe.”

Captain Invincible was shaking his head in horrified denial. “I – I didn’t do all that...did I?”

“Oh yes, you did,” the calm voice continued relentlessly. “Not directly, naturally. I postulate that the magic links you to a random person, somewhere in the world. Any damage you take is inflicted on that person. When he or she can take no more...the victim dies, and the magic claims someone else. Not all of them die – immediately, at any rate. Some of them seem to have survived, albeit with severe injuries, until your next fight.”

The Captain backed away, step by step. “No! It’s not true! It can’t be!” But he remembered. All the headlines that he’d thought nothing of. It was true. He had been killing the very people he sought to protect.

He was a murderer. A destroyer of the innocent.

He was the very evil he had sought to remove from the world.

“But...what about the rest of it?” he almost whispered, trying desperately to find a shield, something good in the ruin his life had become. “The strength, the flight?”

“There is a noticeable upswing in the number of people admitted to the hospital for unexplained muscular dystrophy after each demonstration of strength. This was a bit harder to track, but I was able to find the hospital records.” The records flashed accusingly on the wall, key words and phrases highlighted. “The flight...I have not found anything I would consider conclusive, but there have been a few mentions of whole flocks of birds dropping from the sky. It is usually put down to a flux in the Earth’s magnetic fields.”

The Captain was huddled in the corner, shaking his head in vain denial. He dared one glance at the corner of the screen where Sally still watched. The water was up to her waist by now, but she wasn’t paying attention. Her face held an expression of sheer horror that seemed to rip his heart out.

“And there you have it.” Datamaster spread his hands. “Now, what are you going to do about it? Arrest me? I have killed no one. Put yourself in custody, perhaps? But what will that do to atone for all the deaths you have caused? Maybe you can request the death penalty. How, precisely, will that be accomplished, I wonder?”

The Captain’s thoughts seemed to be circling inwards in a black spiral. He was a murderer. He needed to be punished. He deserved to die. But he couldn’t. Because the attempt would just cause more death. He was a murderer. He needed to be punished.

He deserved to die.

Death would bring more death.

Never again.

Blood on his hands.

The horror staring accusingly from Sally’s eyes.

So many lives.

Never again.

He had to die.

He couldn’t die.

Had to.

Couldn’t.

NEVER AGAIN.

NEVER.

NEVER...

In the corner, the shell that was once Captain Invincible rocked back and forth. He didn’t notice when, on the monitors, Sally – water now up to her neck – suddenly looked offscreen and began yelling silently, nor when the water level dropped suddenly and policemen rushed into the room. He saw nothing when Datamaster uncoiled himself, unplugged the wires from his head, and sauntered out of the room. And he knew nothing when police rushed in, yelling questions he didn’t hear, looking at him with concerned faces.

They say you can still find him, hidden away in a mental ward somewhere. They can’t use needles on him, and pills have no effect. All day long he rocks, staring into the distance with glazed, unseeing eyes. He mumbles under his breath. They say, if you lean very close and listen carefully, you can hear what he’s saying:

Never again...

The End

The Black Cat

#2 in the Dream series. (Or possibly Nightmares.) #1 is the Factory.

Under the dim moonlight, the manor looks haunted. The windows are shuttered, and the once neatly trimmed lawn grows wild and ragged. The paint is weathered and peeling. It looks like no living being has set foot here since the previous owner left.

This is almost true. One person has.

An ancient man hobbles along the edge of the house, peering at the ground and occasionally stooping to pick something up. His bony face and ragged clothing give the impression that he has nothing in the world beyond the clothes on his back, and a small, worn velvet bag he carries. This is perfectly true.

The old one stoops again, to pick up something he has spotted by the wan light of the moon. He lifts it to his eye to examine it: a pinkish crystal, like rock candy. Satisfied, he drops it into his pouch, which is already half-full of similar crystals.

As he continues his search for the crystals, his mind drifts back over the years, to the mansion's previous owner. A good old boy, the man thought. Until he'd been killed.

The hobo's mind flinches from the memory. Even so, he isn't quick enough to escape the images flashing before his mind's eye: The argument, just the two of them. Heated words, angry gestures. A sudden, blinding flash of magic. The owner freezing into a pink statue. The blow that the hobo had been unable to recall in time landing on the motionless body, shattering it into countless crystal shards.

The old man glances down at the new crystal in his hand, a mute reproach for that long-ago flash of anger. He stifles a shudder and tucks it away.

More images. The first time he saw a curious pigeon fly down and peck a crystal. There was a sudden, soundless explosion, the crystal disappeared, and suddenly there was a new, pigeon-shaped statue on the ground.

The next bird wasn't so lucky. It left a red mist coating the ground for ten feet around.

He had decided that the effects of the magic were random, and confined to animals. Plants and insects were unaffected. Animals were usually transformed, one way or another, often to a lethal form. Though he'd seen one squirrel that seemed unaffected, until it started to write out quantum equations with an abandoned chalk stub. Pity it had chosen to write in the middle of the road. Two lines in, a truck had come along and ended its promising career.

That was when the man had begun his self-appointed quest: to collect all the remaining shards, before anyone else got hurt. He seems to be immune to their effects, probably due to his role in creating them.

He hasn't been finding nearly as many lately. He hopes he is coming to the end.

He glances up at the house, wondering idly when the house will be purchased and someone will move in. He hopes it will not be for a long time.

As it happens, a family has just moved in that very day.

He picks up another crystal and weighs it in his palm for a moment. He stands lost in thought for just a moment, but that is enough.

A young voice asks, "What have you got, mister?" He looks to see a five- or six-year-old boy, fair-haired and dressed in a set of pajamas with a colorful animal print, reaching for the shard.

Reflexively, the old man's hand starts to close over it. But it is too late.

The child touches the crystal. There is a sensation of motion, a sudden disorientation.

Frantically he pulls out another crystal and shoves it in the other's hand, but what has been done cannot be undone.

The hobo staggers back in horror, looking at the child, then at his own hands. He clasps his hands over his mouth, then stumbles blindly into the house, through the door the child left open. He turns at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, looking once again at the young boy standing in the moonlight. He flinches away again in horror, losing his balance.

For an instant, he balances precariously at the top of the stairs. Then he topples.

He falls down the stairs for endless moments, hitting the bottom with a sickening crunch. He does not move again.

The child seems equally frozen in horror. He stands rock-still for a time. Gradually, he comes back to himself. He examines himself as well as he can by touch, then bows his head. A tear falls, glimmering in the moonlight.

Then he picks up the velvet pouch from where it had fallen on the ground, and goes back to collecting crystals. He mourns for the child who used to wear this body, but the task must go on.

Twenty years later, a young man is celebrating with his friends. He is rich, carefree, and has just graduated with honors from an Ivy League university.

After his friends are gone, he stays up, absentmindedly petting his cat and thinking about the future. For the first time in years, his mind turns to a small, worn velvet bag, hidden in a drainpipe in the basement, long since filled and the quest completed.

The cat grows bored and trots off. The young man begins writing a cover letter for an application to a prestigious firm, but cannot concentrate. He gets up and leaves the room, leaning on the railing at the top of the stairs.

For a time, he stands there, watching his family below in the sitting room. He feels the brush of fur against his leg and absentmindedly reaches down, but his cat isn't there.

His skin starts to prickle. Suddenly he longs for the comfort of a human voice. He calls down to his family, eager to tell them the good news and hear their congratulations, but they do not respond.

They do not move at all. He sees his father frozen in mid-gesture, his sister's pen motionless above her notebook.

He feels eyes upon him. He turns to see an unfamiliar cat staring at him. The cat has pure black fur and glowing yellow eyes.

Irresistibly, his mind is drawn back to that fateful night two decades ago. He recalls a different set of eyes, an old man's misty ones, with a child's uncomprehending terror behind them.

And he knows what the cat is. Vengeance.

He backs away, almost stumbling over the first step. He moves slowly down the stairs, not daring to look away from the cat. The cat follows him unconcernedly, without haste. Each graceful, measured pace indicates wordlessly: You may run, but you will never escape. If you flee to the ends of the earth, you will find me there, waiting. I am your destiny.

The man reaches the bottom of the stairs. An unexpected flash of relief goes through him as his own cat stalks past him to stand in front of the black cat, fur bristled. He begins to move faster, towards the basement stairs. If he can reach the bag, he may be able to – do what? Stop the cat? Reverse the long-ago body transformation? Even he isn't sure.

As he moves, so does the black cat, striking at him in a blur of speed. With a furious yowl, his own cat springs to defend him.

His cat is a brave fighter. But the black cat is better.

At the sound of a feline cry of pain, he turns. He cannot leave his ally to die alone.

At the expense of some skin, he grabs the black cat. In a sudden fury, he kneels on the furry chest with all his weight.

It goes flat. Then suddenly, impossibly, it rises. The black cat inhales with unnatural strength, lifting a full-sized human off the ground.

In terror, the man rises and backs away, then turns and flees for the basement. Fear seems to have robbed him of his own breath. He sees the stairs approaching, behind a dark haze starting to cover his vision.

He is at the top of the stairs. The haze fills his vision.

There is darkness. Then nothing.

The Factory

Based on a dream. Aside from minor modifications to clarify the story and larger sections to fill in gaps that made more sense before I woke up, this follows it exactly. Sometimes my subconscious alarms me.

The factory hummed like it was alive. It was large, made of brick that might once have been red, but was now a sooty reddish-brown that reminded the viewer, had there been any, oddly of dried blood. Dozens of smokestacks oozed thick columns of black smoke in which the same viewer, if he watched long enough, began to imagine contained hints of a sickly green. The place was surrounded by a good-sized yard, bare except for a few straggling yellowed strands of grass struggling to survive. Around this was a high wall, also brick, topped by barbed wire; there was one gate, through which traveled a sporadic stream of trucks containing unnameable substances, heading to unknown destinations. It was guarded day and night by half a dozen ill-shaven, scowling, almost simian-looking beings one hesitated to grant the dignity of the title “soldier”.

The child crouched furtively over a book ignored the hum, the distant groans and clatters of machinery at work. It was part of her life, part of all their lives, as long as any of them could remember. Sometime in the distant past, some executive, in a fit of – what? Stinginess? Generosity? Efficiency? – had decided that children of factory workers would be raised in the factory itself, in a wing built especially for the purpose. Possibly their true purpose was as hostages; all that was known was that the children were kept to themselves, in a sort of large crèche, guarded and obtensibly taught by a handful of surly men and women who, for whatever reason, had failed in the factory itself.

The one good part of the children’s wing was the library, a large room which doubled as a study hall. Pitifully few and generally poor its books were, but they  were books, a way to escape into a better world. Beyond that, there was a dormitory, a kitchen, and some bathrooms.

The child gave a start at the sound of a particularly shrill, nasal voice approaching. This belonged to an officious female overseer who was more or less in charge of the whole wing. Gathering her book, the girl hastily darted around a shelf of books. Too hastily – she nearly ran into the arms of a pair of older boys, who, at her abrupt entrance, looked up with identical slow, nasty grins.

She tried to back up, but one was already behind her. They began to circle her with a predatory stalk. The slightly taller one purred, “What have we here?”

“If it isn’t our little troublemaker,” the other responded, in a well-practiced duet.

“I wonder what she’s up to now.”

“I wonder where she thinks she’s going.”

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere, do you?”

Suddenly they lunged and grabbed her, each expertly twisting an arm behind her. Simultaneously a shrill voice startled them all.

“What’s going on here?”

It was the overseer. The boys turned to face her with quick bobs of their heads, never loosening their grip on the girl.

“Nothing, ma’am. This creature was defacing Company property. It’s being taken care of.”

“Very well. I know you boys will deal with it appropriately.” The woman strode off as the boys turned back to their prey.

She made no attempt to defend herself. It was futile and would only make things worse.

When they finally left, she lay facedown for a moment, gathering her strength before picking herself up. She took a quick inventory – no broken bones, good. She slunk off, trying to avoid everyone. Crowds were no guarantee of safety.

She heard the sound of laughter coming from a large conference room. That was right; by employee request, the Company had brought in some sort of comedian to entertain the kids’ wing. She edged closer to the door, trying to determine if the audience was sufficiently entertained to ignore her.

The man seemed to be pointing at different audience members. She heard a few phrases: “…face like a donkey’s backside”, “…mother’s so fat that…”, “…too stupid to come in out of…”

She wasn’t watching where she was going again. Suddenly she tripped on some mysterious object, stumbling into the room. She was vaguely aware that the man was now pointing at her, spewing forth vitriolic phrases that sent the audience into gales of tinny-sounding laughter, but none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. She turned and fled blindly, no longer caring whether she ran into someone.

Possibly her enemies sensed there was nothing they could do to her. She reached her goal unaccosted – the bathroom. She huddled in her favorite corner, one of the few spots not covered by a security camera.

What was this place? It was all so pointless. The children had no useful purpose, the adults who watched them had no useful purpose; as far as she could tell, the factory itself had no useful purpose. Yet there must be some reason, or they wouldn’t be there. But what?

Her friends found her there, two girls of nondescript age and appearance. They were as powerless as she, but the three of them could and did hold each other, silently offering what comfort they could against the darkness. In the dingy, foul-smelling corner, her decision crystallized.

That night, she wouldn’t go meekly to the dormitory to get locked in as usual. She would go exploring, find the executive’s office, look for any sort of a rational explanation. In quiet, terse sentences she explained to her companions; they smiled, but shook their heads. They would help cover for her, arrange her bed so it looked like she was there, but they would not go with her. She had not expected them to.

She went to the sink and looked in the cracked mirror above it. Her reflection stared back, a face that might have been called vaguely Oriental, if anyone had known or cared. She had the beginnings of two black eyes and there was a trail of dried blood from her nose. Mechanically, she began washing it away.

Her friends had followed her. One silently offered her most prized possession – an old water bottle she had found somewhere, and carried so she wouldn’t go thirsty if someone stole her drink ration at mealtimes.

The door burst open, and an overseer walked in, a woman far too young to be so bitter. Spotting the bottle, her lip curled and she grabbed it, hurling it against the wall hard enough to shatter it. “Keep that trash out of my bathroom!” she bit out, and stalked off.

The two girls looked at their companion and shrugged fatalistically. These things happened, and there was no way to stop them. The two friends darted off like wary deer, leaving the third to curl up in her secluded corner again.

The last hours of the day seemed to pass in a slow blur. She missed dinner. She was hungry, but that was nothing new. Soon the curfew buzzer sounded, and she heard the guards make a final round, checking for strays. One looked perfunctorily in the bathroom, but didn’t see her in her dark corner. Finally the lights went out, leaving only the dim red emergency lighting. Even the cameras turned off. From outside, she heard the grinding of the gate opening, letting everyone leave except the guards at the gate and one more inside. Deciding it was as safe as it was going to be, she crept out of her hiding spot.

The building is bad enough in daylight. At night, it is eerie. The constant background noise of distant conversations is gone, leaving a silence only underscored by the never-ceasing sound of poorly-oiled machinery. The moaning, grinding sound is made even more unnatural by the night; at a time she instinctively associates with peace and quiet, it brings a sense not of life, but of unlife, a grotesque parody of natural movement where there should be none.

As the girl tentatively creeps through the factory floor, a small speck inching between giant rusting pipes and vats full of mysterious substances, she notices something else. The lighting seems stronger than the dim, flickering red bulbs can account for; the giant room seems lit by a faint, unhealthy phosphorescence, bringing the open maws of machinery and lever claws out of the merciful darkness into her sight. They seem to crouch, motionless while she looks at them, but merely awaiting the opportunity to jump at her the moment she turns her back.

She ascends a steep set of metal steps, flinching as they groan ominously under her feet. She knows where she is going; the children are given regular tours of the working areas of the factory, their guide extolling the virtues of working for the Company. But the executive areas are at the top of the building, and she has yet to traverse the maze of ladders and catwalks.

She flinches as a rustle passes swiftly overhead, like the wings of a bat. Her imagination conjures up a bloated, winged fiend, fangs glistening as it waits to pounce. It could not be a normal bat; surely no healthy creature could exist in a place such as this. But when she dares look up, she sees nothing, only vast metal surfaces lit by the unnatural glow. She does not know if this is better or worse than the feared monster.

Halfway up, she pauses for a moment beside a control station, a large vertical panel filled with unlabeled buttons and switches interspersed with flickering colored lights. Suddenly there is a clanging approaching from an intersecting walkway ahead, heralded by a circle of light so healthy and normal-looking that she involuntarily takes a few steps towards it before the guard emerges, turning towards her.

As the beam from his flashlight hits her, she jerks back to her senses and begins backing away uncertainly. There is no challenge, no demands of “Who are you, and what are you doing here”. He simply draws his gun and points it at her.

She dives down the nearest hallway and begins running. She hears the sound of boots pounding metal as he pursues. Her heart hammers, her breathing is ragged, her feet hurt from the metal surface, but she cannot stop; he follows behind, each step as inevitable as her own. She turns down one walkway, up a set of stairs, from one passage to another, down a ladder. She makes each decision instantly, instinctively, yet it seems she is being herded by unsensed beings, each step guided, predestined.

At last she is brought to bay. The walkway dead-ends in a circle around the lip of a giant vat. Frantically, she looks around; failing to see any way out, she backs up against a large pipe coming down from unknown reaches above. The ominous figure approaches, slows as it sees she is cornered. Deliberately, menacingly, it raises its gun once again – pulls the trigger once, twice, three times.

She does not pause to see where they land. In terror and desperation, she leaps off the walk; hits, stumbles, regains her balance. She glances down only long enough to see that the pipe took a right turn not far below the catwalk, before running for her life along the perilously curved surface. As the pipe runs under yet another walkway, she scrambles up and turns back to see her implacable pursuer.

He stands beside the pipe. He must have hit it; it leaks thick smoke that appears bile-green, partially concealing his shape. He appears to be inspecting the pipe where she ran. Slowly he looks up; his unseen eyes fix on her. Once again the gun’s muzzle rises. Terrified beyond terror, she is still too fascinated, almost hypnotized to move. He fires.

There is a loud explosion. She jerks her arm up, protecting her eyes. As the smoke clears, she sees a large hole where the pipe used to be. Of the guard, nothing remains but a few blackened chunks.

Her reason gives out for a moment in shock. Slowly her mind clears. She finds herself curled up on the cold metal, sobbing. Her feet hurt, her lungs hurt, her heart is still racing. She feels sharp pains in her chest, and dimly remembers gunshots. Was she shot? Was it merely a nightmare? She raises her head, half-afraid of what she might see, but there is nothing. She cannot see the pipe, cannot see the guard, or whatever remains of him.

Slowly her shuddering sobs subside. Weary, she forces herself to get up. Terror or no, she must know what it means. She will not be cowed.

At the top of the tower, there is a door, marked “Executive”. She does not know what is behind it; none of the tours included it.

Hesitantly she touches the handle. It does not move. Locked! She grasps it in sudden fury, rattles the knob, kicks the door, tries with all her strength to turn it – and there is a crack, and the knob turns. She pushes the door open.

The corridor beyond is more elegant than anything she has ever seen. The faint luminescence seems stronger here; it reveals a long corridor, with pale walls with delicate wooden trim, the floor covered in a luxuriously thick carpet with an abstract geometric pattern. At regular intervals the wall is broken by elaborately carved wooden doors, all closed. Some bear a golden plate inscribed with, presumably, the occupant’s name.

The girl jumps nearly through the roof as a light turns on in a room with an open door she hadn’t seen before. Hollow voices float down the hall.

“What are you doing? What kind of cigars are those?”

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting you, sir…”

“Let me see – are those dollar bills in there?!”

“I…well – sir, I can explain…”

“Your problem is that you think too small, boy. Those should be $100s!”

“…Sir? You think so?”

Fascinated by the conversation, the girl has drifted down the hallway, just beyond the stream of light from the door. Gradually the light fades away, as do the voices. Cautiously, she peers around the doorframe. The office beyond, while elegant, is as empty and as dimly-lit as the rest of the factory. There is no place a person could hide, except behind the desk. But her nerves fail; she backs away from the doorway, half-running down the hall, towards the door at the end labeled “Chief Executive”.

The double doors seem immense. The rich, dark wood is carved with what appear to be human figures, but it is oddly hard to identify them or what they are doing. They seem to shift in the corners of her eyes.

She cautiously, almost reverently pulls down on the golden handle. The door opens, its silence almost eerie. She flinches as the door swings closed behind her. This office is far larger than the other, with a massive chair behind an even more massive desk. She feels like an insect crossing the vast expanse of carpet. The walls are lined with enormous bookshelves and grand paintings of stern-faced old gentlemen.

The desk is almost bare. There is nothing but an expensively engraved fountain pen in a stand on one corner and a gleaming nameplate on the other. The drawers are empty too; there is no sign that anyone uses this office.

She whirls at the sound of a knock at the door. She has no time to hide before a robot enters, a tall, angular humanoid figure. Its movements are subtly wrong; there is nothing definably off, but no one who saw it move would mistake it for human. It speaks. The tone is a warm, comfortable baritone, but the words are jarring.

“Good afternoon! I am a Good Humor robot. Is this a good time? I hope I am not intruding. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Would you like – “

Suddenly, shockingly, it smashes its head against the corner of the desk. It lifts, comes down, again, and again. Slowly it comes up. There is a deep groove in the metal skull. One eyedisk has come off, leaving a glowing, bloodred socket. It turns its head, its eyes boring directly into her.

“Afternoon – Good Humor…bzzzt…pleasure to meet, would bzzzt like – “

The now entirely inhuman voice continues, but she no longer hears it. Her eyes glaze as a long-forgotten memory resurfaces. She hears the metallic, erratic voice, sees the glowing eyesocket…sees blood, blood everywhere, hears screaming. She dimly identifies it as her own. She sees a kindly older face, receding in her vision. The same face, a mask of blood. The crackling of flames, a bonfire shrinking, dying down. And over it all, the ghastly broken robotic laughter.

She has forgotten where she is. She is once again in the past, reliving that terrifying time. She is not aware that she is hunched over, shambling in grotesque imitation of that awkward uneven tread. Eyes glazed and unseeing, she follows the creature through the door, the elegant hallway, the maze of catwalks beyond.

The pair approach the gate. The guards take no notice, eyes staring ahead seemingly as unseeing as the girl’s own. The gate looms ahead of them, closed and locked for the night. But the robot walks through them unheeding, and behind him the girl. The gate flickers, and for a moment, had she looked, she would have seen a bare patch of ground. But she does nothing, sees nothing.

The robot continues down the pitted, broken concrete. The girl follows blindly. Abruptly her foot lands in a hole; she falls, twisting her ankle. Her head lands hard on a fragment of pavement. Coming to herself, she looks around in confusion. It takes her a moment to recognize the gate behind her; she has never seen it from this side before. She approaches tentatively. Again, the guards ignore her. Suddenly terrified, she only wishes to be safely in bed again. She tries to take hold of the fence, to climb the gate, but there is nothing under her hand; she falls through.

The factory now glows almost blindingly with the greenish phosphorescence. She walks back to the children’s wing. Strangely, it seems much dimmer. By habit, she approaches the door; but when she walks through, she finds the door as insubstantial as the gate. Inside, nothing is real. She touches the walls, the shelves; she tries to pick up the book she had been reading, cast aside and forgotten during the beating. It seems to gain substance under her hands. She draws them out quickly, oddly afraid they would be trapped in the materializing book.

She is startled when she tries to walk through the dormitory door and bangs her nose. Inside, the room is filled with the quiet sounds of breathing, refreshingly wholesome. She flicks the light on. Rows of startled faces appear in the beds. She speaks. Her voice is empty, exhausted, drained of emotion.

“The factory is a lie. There is nothing real here except us. I am leaving. Maybe I can find people who exist, a life that is real. You may stay, or you may go. I am leaving.”

She turned and walked out. She did not look back. But behind her were the rustling of many footsteps, the murmur of hushed voices. As she walked through the gate at the entrance once more, the susurration rose in astonishment, falling behind for a moment. She turned at last. First one, then another child stepped through. In the end, every last one of them had come through. Even the bullies looked strangely subdued. The murmuring rose louder, growing into real voices, filled with awe and a strange new tone – could it be hope?

She turned forward and began to walk down the road. It must have led somewhere once. Maybe it still did. Behind her, the children marched.

The dream ended here. Maybe once they walked far enough, they found normal humans, who told them the story of the haunted factory, and how its ghostly minions raided anyone who settled too close for children whose belief could maintain some level of reality. Or maybe the children are ghosts too, doomed to repeat this cycle of suffering, realization, and escape, only to be drawn back into the rut, forever. Who knows?