Poppy pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to squeeze out the final image of the dream (his hands, reaching for her). It repeated a thousand times over as if reflected between two mirrors. Hands, teeth, dark, dark eyes. The same, but different every time.
One of her hands slid down toward the ache between her legs. She brought it up short, fisting the fabric of her sleep shirt, feeling like a fugitive in her own mind. All these years, and she had never reached the climax of the dream, as though the shame and disgust had rooted so deep in her subconscious, her mind wouldn’t let her finish.
She reached for her phone before she could stop herself. Once a year, she allowed herself a single morsel, one furtive, heart-pounding internet search when the craving became too much. She had trailed his progress over the last decade from the newspaper headlines to a realtor’s office to a marketing firm and now to an insurance agency, a different city every time.
I read a story once, where the main character turned into a cockroach. As my classmates argued about allegories and the unbearable weight of banality, I doodled a bug in my notebook. The story made no sense at all.
In the yellow light of the bathroom’s naked bulb, an overturned cockroach wiggled feeble legs. “I feel ya,” I mumbled through toothpaste foam.
Maybe I finally understood the allegory, ten years too late. I rinsed. The plastic case of floss judged me from the cracked edge of the sink.
I flicked the cockroach right side up and stuffed myself into the only clean pair of scrubs left. Mr. Denovan, a human cockroach if I ever saw one, had a notorious gag reflex and I’d drawn the short straw yesterday. He’d bucked and swayed in the chair as I inserted the tray for his dental molds, and then he’d leaned over and puked. On me. So, yeah, I was seeing the appeal of roach life.
On a muggy spring afternoon, the clouds sense a secret is about to be discovered. They crowd low, peering over a verdant bog. The sound of a pickaxe falls in a rhythmic swish-thump. The man’s fear and worry rise like perfume.
Another woman was taken yesterday. The clouds hadn’t been in attendance, but they knew that the man’s sister was there, and that she looked away for only a second. All that remained of her friend was the basket spilling red, glistening berries onto the ground.
Swish-thump. The man, Olek, drives his pickaxe into thick peat. Every time he pulls it out, it makes a squelching, sucking sound, as though the bog doesn’t want to relinquish it.
No one ever returned. None before. None after. Just him.
Until now.
A figure exploded from the edge of the forest, scattering twigs and scraps of mist. Donafel let out a sharp breath, a plume of condensation. Ghostly antlers crowned the figure’s head and, for a moment, the familiar terror gripped him. But no—the antlers were merely the crisscross of branches.
He took a shuddering breath, letting his fear and disappointment dissipate into the chill morning air. The wooden porch creaked as he shifted.
The figure spotted Donafel and careened to a halt, still shadowed by the towering trees. Mud streaked his face and clothes and he cradled his wrists, scabbed with dried blood. Donafel and the boy stared at each other.
The weight of another’s gaze—a human gaze—made Donafel feel naked. For so long his companions had been the silence of the cabin walls, the forest that crouched just beyond the fence, and the unseen watchers in the trees.
The sight of the boy brought back flashes of memory.
At the center of town, the fog dissipated until a rough circle cleared around the hitching post and the child tethered there. Out of the viscous, billowing white, a figure emerged.
His old life seemed more dream than reality. But that one night remained sharp, pungent. On the days the fog crawled from the forest, so, too, did the memories.
Once, it had been yearly; the fog would slink from the east, defying wind and sun to creep from between the trees, across the fields, through the town’s main gate.
Now… now it came far more often.
Each month, at the dark of the moon, the scars around Donafel’s wrists started to throb. The pain heralded the wall of white that oozed from the forest and occluded the cabin. When the ache in his left wrist extended to his elbow, he knew the fog had reached the town, and preparations had begun—quietly, so as not to alarm the children.
Donafel remembered the fear in his parents’ eyes. The children would be scared anyway.
The townsfolk would lock their doors, keep the children hidden beneath beds. Livestock would huddle in the farthest corner of each barn. The main gate would stand open to the abandoned streets: an invitation.
Donafel whimpered, throat too raw to scream anymore. He tugged at his bonds, frantic, until his wrists bled down his arms, but the hitching post was set deep into the ground. The figure stepped forward...
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Cool air slinks between the blankets, startling goosebumps from my skin. Tarek must have opened the window sometime in the night. I reach across the bed, expecting to feel his warm, bare shoulder. My hand meets cooling sheets.
On the nightstand, my phone buzzes and I jolt. The sound claws away the hush of the apartment.
When I pick it up, it vibrates again. My gut twists: something isn’t right.
The screen flares bright, blinding me. Half a dozen missed texts in the last three minutes. Overlaid in front of them is a gray notification box.
Image description: notification box stating “Emergency Alert: Do not look at the moon. This is not a drill.”
“What the—”
Two more texts come in. I ignore them for now and swipe on the emergency notification. ALERT: DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON. STAY INDOORS AND CLOSE ALL SHADES. REPEAT—DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON.
Fear strikes like lightning through my body. “Tarek?” I call.
Twenty missed texts. The number climbs as I watch it.
Gorgeous out tonight! check out the sky Look at the moon!
“Tarek!” I can hear the panic in my voice.
Whoa, the moon is HUGE!!! Guys, are you seeing this?
A message from my mom appears.
LOOK AT THE MOON
I jump out of bed, flinging the phone to the floor where it continues to buzz. The curtains are closed, but I yank them tighter, to be safe. Bright, white light beams in through the gaps. “Tarek!”
“Mae,” he calls from the living room. His voice sounds odd.
I’m halfway across the room before I notice the curtains are pulled back from the picture window. I shout, reaching for the nearest panel; it catches on the joint in the curtain rod and jerks to a stop.
The light is dazzling. The moon must be close. Big. How it must loom on the horizon, dwarfing the skyscrapers. My eyes make it to the sill before I realize.
Tarek stands eerily still, arms limp at his sides, chin tilted upward. His face, bathed in moonlight, is practically beatific.
I reach past him for the other curtain.
His fingers around my arm are steel. “Mae,” he says, eyes on the sky, “look outside.
“Tarek, get away from the window! There was a warning—”
“Mae. Look at the moon.”
Fear shudders through me.
Stella trots in from the kitchen, golden fur silver in the moonlight. I see the moment the change takes place. She loses the arthritic limp and steps primly to the window. Her pupils dilate, becoming a vast black mirror. The moon, a giant orb, shines from their depths. I tear my gaze away.
Stella starts barking.
“Look at the moon!” Tarek commands. He forces me towards the windows, bruising my arms.
“Tarek—please!” I cry. I am sobbing now.
Stella’s bark turns deeper, more vicious.
“Look at the moon!”
Tarek seizes my chin, turning me slowly towards the light.
