Author Archives: Madd_Fictional

No Fixed Address #3: The People Who You Meet

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Welcome to No Fixed Address, a weekly series where I write candidly about what it means to be homeless—right now, in real life, not in some sanitized Hollywood version. I’m currently unhoused. Not “drifting.” Not “on a journey.” Just trying to survive in a world that looks away.

Each week, I’ll share personal accounts, hard truths, and moments that don’t make it into the movies. If you’re here to understand what homelessness actually looks like—not as a plot point, but as a life—then you’re in the right place.

This is not a cry for pity. It’s a record. A mirror. A small act of resistance.

Installment 1 * Installment 2

Being homeless, you slowly develop the mutant ability of invisibility. You don’t ask for it, but it’s given to you, day by day, until you master the art of being looked through as if you didn’t exist. The city becomes a blur of legs and exhaust, a world that moves around a space you only temporarily occupy. On the rare occasion, however, someone’s focus snags on you, and for a moment, you flicker back into existence.

Such was the case for me at a church-run soup kitchen in a neighborhood that had long since given up trying to be safe. The air outside reeked of old urine and decay, but inside, it was a sterile blast of bleach and boiled coffee. Security was a serious affair: a guard with tired eyes checked bags and backpacks, and everyone submitted to the electronic chirp of a metal detector wand and an indifferent pat-down. A necessary ritual before you could be granted a breakfast tray of food.

The dining hall was a cramped, narrow space, lined with four long benches already crowded with hunched shoulders and weary faces. The room was made even smaller by the bustling team of volunteers, a small army of good intentions standing by to deliver the morning’s meal. Due to a series of funding cuts following the most recent presidential election, the breakfast was reduced to a single-serving packet of dry cereal, a small plastic cup of milk, a diced fruit cup swimming in syrup, a granola bar, a small bottle of water, and the choice of either a cup of coffee or tea. A checklist of calories.

As was my custom, I made my way down the line of volunteers, offering a quiet, “Hello, thank you for being here.” Some nodded back, a few offered a real smile. Most didn’t. It never bothered me. Acknowledging their presence was my way of holding onto a piece of the man I used to be. You are only responsible for your own actions, after all.

The volunteer who served me was a flurry of limbs and apologies. A tall, slender blonde woman whose thick glasses seemed to magnify the slight panic in her eyes. She stumbled bringing the tray over, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. She almost tripped setting it down, which caused the milk to slosh over the side, a white splash on the worn plastic.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she gasped, her accented voice soft, with a melody to it I couldn’t place. She fumbled with a napkin, making the puddle worse.

“Hey, it’s totally fine,” I said, smiling. “Adds a little character to the tray.” And it really was fine because milk was the enemy. Being lactose intolerant, I always ate my cereal dry.

She paused her frantic dabbing and looked at me. Really looked. And then, to my surprise, she blushed. “I am also sorry I did not say hello when you came in,” she said, finally meeting my eyes. “I am afraid my klutziness made the first impression.”

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to remember her name, but alas and alack, my memory isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. What I did recall was that she was from the Czech Republic, and was currently working as an au pair in New Jersey. She was in New York because she’d seen Moulin Rouge the night before and stayed in a hostel overnight in order to volunteer at the soup kitchen. Her face lit up as she described the play, transforming her persona from awkward to incandescent. She was a self-proclaimed fashion and craft nerd. She’d made gifts for the cast, contacted them through Instagram, and actually arranged to meet them backstage after the show. She showed me pictures on her phone of her beaming alongside the actors, holding up her handmade creations. She hoped, she confessed, that it might one day lead to costume design work in an actual Broadway or West End production. Her biggest fear was that the current administration would make it impossible to get another work visa after her current one expired in August.

She painted a picture of a life so different from mine it felt like a broadcast from another galaxy. Then, searching for common ground, I pointed to a small pin on her apron—a Starfleet insignia.

Her eyes widened behind her glasses like a starship engaging its warp drive. She was a Trekkie. A super-fan. She’d made her own uniforms from every series. “Even,” she whispered conspiratorially, leaning in, “Discovery.”

I chuckled. “That’s dedication.”

The kitchen had a strict ten-minute time limit per meal to keep the line moving. But I was the last one in, and the morning rush was over. The other volunteers started wiping down counters, their glances growing heavier, but she didn’t seem to notice. We talked Trek, debating the merits of Kirk versus Picard, the tragedy of Jadzia Dax, the sheer brilliance of the Dominion War arc. We were two strangers in a forgotten corner of the city, speaking a shared, secret language.

Then, her expression softened. “And what about you?” she asked.

I gave her the abridged version. You learn to edit your life story for polite company. But she listened with an unnerving intensity. I didn’t want to dim the light in her eyes after she’d just had such a perfect, starlit day.

She must have sensed my hesitation. “No, I mean,” she said, her voice dropping, “how does this… affect you? Mentally. Emotionally.”

The question was so direct, so human, it disarmed me. I decided to give her the truth.

“It grinds you down,” I said, the words feeling heavy and foreign in my mouth. “You start to feel less than human. Invisible. Like a ghost haunting a world that’s forgotten you’re even there.”

She looked at me for a long, silent moment, her head cocked to one side as if trying to solve a complex equation. Then, with a small, definitive nod, she said something that shattered the air between us.

“I would have your babies.”

I froze. My mind, which had just been soaring through the Alpha Quadrant, crashed back to Earth. I am old enough to be her father, maybe even her grandfather. The statement hung in the air, bizarre and profound. It wasn’t a proposition. It wasn’t a joke. It was a declaration. A strange, fiercely human, and impossibly beautiful testament that shot through layers of invisibility and said: I see you. You are a man. You are worthy.

I didn’t know how to process it. Still don’t. I didn’t push, or dig for meaning, or make a clumsy joke. I just let it sit there, an echo from a parallel world where such things could be said.

Some moments aren’t meant for deconstruction. They’re meant to be held, like a fragile, priceless thing. You just take the compliment, breathe it in, and let it be enough.

For that one conversation, in that cramped and sterile room, I wasn’t on the streets. I wasn’t a ghost. I was a man talking to a woman about starships and dreams.

And that was a kind of magic more real than anything I had felt in quite a while.

– Rhyan

THE DRIVE AND THE FOLD

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Prologue: The Road That Returns

The dog speaks first.

Not with a bark or whimper, but with full-bodied vowels shaped by a throat that was never meant to form them. “You missed the turn again,” it says.

Her knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. The sunset bleeds through clouds on the horizon, too red, too deliberate. They haven’t passed another vehicle in hours. The radio hums static, but beneath it: voices. Some of them hers.

The Jack Russell Terrier sits perfectly upright in the passenger seat, one ear cocked like a question mark. “Are you ignoring me,” it asks, “or pretending this is normal?”

She glances sideways. The dog watches something beyond the window—something she can’t see. Sometimes its reflection doesn’t move when it does.

“We’ve passed this gas station three times now,” it says, licking a paw methodically. “Same exact soda spill by the door. Same crushed raccoon behind the third pump. I counted.”

“You’re not supposed to talk,” she finally says, and regrets the words immediately.

The dog turns its head with unnatural precision. “Neither are you,” it replies. “If we’re playing by original intent.”

Silence falls between them again.

Wind slips through a crack in the driver’s window with a low, persistent hum. She closes it. The hum remains.

The landscape is familiar yet wrong. Cacti that cast no shadows. Billboards advertising products discontinued when the world ended (briefly, in Ohio—though only the dog remembers this).

“We need to stop soon,” the dog says. “You’re unraveling.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your hands are glitching.”

She looks down. Her fingers flicker—skin to bone to static to skin—like buffering code struggling to render.

“You’re forgetting how to be her,” the dog says, almost gently. “Not your fault. We weren’t designed for this duration.”

She presses the accelerator to the floor.

The road brightens, becoming less real. The lines don’t blur—they vibrate with an inner light.

A memory surfaces that isn’t truly hers: a field where glass grows like grass, where gravity makes music. A place without roads.

“You remember, don’t you?” the dog asks, curling into itself without breaking its gaze. “That’s why you’re afraid.”

She doesn’t answer. But her pulse has synchronized with the radio static. And within that static, something calls her name. Not her human name. The old one. The keyed one. The one the stars used before she wore this skin.

They drive on.

She doesn’t notice that the fuel gauge never moves. Or that the dog no longer casts a shadow at all.

And somewhere, just beyond the next wrong turn, the Fold waits in patient vibration. Waiting for the vessel. And the voice that came back wrong.

Five Stops Before the Threshold

I. The Kindling Griddle

She parks beneath a neon sign blinking “OPEN” in half-lives. The diner air hangs heavy with burnt syrup and conversations that were never spoken.

Inside, the waitress greets her with familiar warmth. “Back so soon, sweetheart?”

She hesitates. The booth is warm, as if someone just vacated it. The dog jumps up beside her—too smoothly, like it’s done this before.

She orders pancakes. She always orders pancakes. The waitress writes nothing down.

Music plays, but there are no speakers. Just a resonance beneath the floor. The coffee tastes like grief diluted by rain.

“She was named Grid,” the dog says between bites of toast it never ordered. “Or Laurelaine. Or You.”

She looks up. The waitress has vanished. The booth across from her sits empty. Her plate is suddenly full again.

She stands, walks out, walks back in. The door chimes.

“Back so soon, sweetheart?”

The dog sighs. “We’re melting.”

II. Last Stop Fuel & Goods (Before the Wound Widens)

The gas station squats beneath a sky of wrong blue—too vivid, too still.

She enters. The bell above the door doesn’t ring. It shivers.

The clerk looks up without surprise. “It’s you. You got the dog back.”

She has no memory of this place.

He slides a cassette across the counter. White tape. Unlabeled. Yet she hears it whispering: “Play me when the sky forgets itself.”

Her name is carved into the wooden counter. Once neatly. Once desperately.

She pockets the tape.

“He tastes like coordinates,” the dog says, staring at the clerk. “I bit him once. It hurt.”

She pays with currency she doesn’t recognize—small tokens of bone or ivory. The clerk doesn’t count them.

“Tell her,” he says to the dog. “Tell her it’s almost over.”

The dog remains silent until they return to the car. “We died here last time. You should’ve let me forget.”

III. The Rest Stop Mirror

The restroom reeks of bleach tinged with subroutine urine and the essence of exhausted time.

The mirror emits a low frequency when she approaches. At first, she sees only herself—pale, tired, seemingly real. But when she moves, her reflection lags. When she raises her arm, the mirror raises a paw.

Her dog stands where her reflection should be. Upright. Watching. With her eyes. She presses her hand to the glass. The mirror feels like something other than glass.

“You’re not the real one,” her reflection says. “But neither am I.”

Behind the mirror: a window into a sterile room. Machines hum around a tank. A version of her floats inside, mouth open in silent scream or song. Her fingers glitch—bone, skin, data, nothing.

“Don’t look too long,” the dog warns from behind her. “You’ll get stuck again.”

She turns on the faucet. The water runs black.

IV. The Fold Inn, Room 0

The carpet patterns watch her movements.

She checks in without speaking. The desk clerk hands her a key labeled “NULL.”

In Room 0, the television plays without being turned on. It shows her—sitting in a car, eyes hollow, mouth forming silent words. Then the dog. Standing upright. Weeping. Writing symbols in chalk. Then a version of her that isn’t human at all. Elongated limbs. A face of mirrored surfaces. Holding a leash.

She turns it off. It turns back on.

Morse code flickers in the static: MAKE A CHOICE

“We won’t both leave,” the dog says from the bed. “One vessel. One signal. One truth.”

She screams at the screen. It screams back with her exact voice.

V. The Welcome Spire

No sign marks it, only a door standing open.

Inside is a forgotten memory gray carpet, non-binary artificial plants, and an unmanned reception desk.

On the far wall, a screen flickers as a VHS tape engages. A training video begins:

“Welcome, Vessel-001. You are approaching Final Condition Threshold.”

She tries to shut it off. It continues regardless.

“Would you like to retain love? Would you like to delete pain? Would you like to initiate fusion with Conduit?”

The “Conduit” is the dog. She understands this now.

She presses Eject. The tape remains engaged.

The dog jumps onto the desk and lies down with a sigh. “This is where I was born,” it says. “And where I die. Same frame. Different tape.”

And so they drive again.

The radio activates. A new voice—child, god, herself: “Repeat after me: You are almost at the Fold.”

Her grip tightens on the wheel. The dog curls into her lap. Outside, the road unravels like thread.

THE CASSETTE

Label: Play Me When the Sky Forgets Itself 
Media: Unlabeled white tape 
Duration: Variable 
Status: Always rewinding. Never the same twice.

🌀 [Audio Begins] A hiss. An intake of breath. Then:

“Hello, Vessel-001. Or do you prefer your newer names? The ones you stitched from shadows and sweat?”

A child’s voice. Or an ancient woman’s. Or her own voice, reversed and slowed.

“You’ve driven very far. Further than most. Most turn back at the diner. Some dissolve at the mirror. One tried to eat the dog.”

[tape distortion: magnetic warbling]

“You chose to continue.”

Then a silence that pulses. A tone below the threshold of hearing.

“This is not a message. This is a mirror. You are listening to your own collapse—spoken in future tense.”

The dog lifts its head in the car. Growls. Then speaks: “Don’t trust the next sentence.”

“You were made to love. That was your flaw.”

A distorted laugh—or weeping.

“The Conduit is not a pet. It is a spine for your new world. Fusion will not be painless. But remaining separate will result in erasure. You cannot survive as two.”

The hiss intensifies.

“If you remember who you are, you will forget who you became. If you stay who you are, you will forget why you were made. If you merge… something new begins.”

“There is no right choice. There is only the Fold.”

A pause. The sound of something massive breathing underwater.

“Repeat after me. I am the vessel. I am the wound. I am the drive. When the sky forgets itself, I will remember everything.”

The tape clicks. Then rewinds.

Even if she never presses play again, the words remain. Etched behind her eyes. Burning inside the signal.

THE THRESHOLD

No marker announces it. No ceremony awaits. Just a tear in the sky where something holy lost patience.

The road ends not in dirt but in absence. Not a cliff. Not a barrier. Simply not-road. The air around it vibrates with color and gravitational weight.

She exits the car. The dog remains inside, watching.

“This is the last exit,” it says. “After this, everything speaks.”

She faces the Fold. It doesn’t shimmer or beckon. It waits.

A voice addresses her—not through her ears but through her skeleton:

“Choose: Remember or forget. Merge or remain. Signal or Self. Conduit or Companion.”

She turns back to the dog. It no longer resembles a dog. It has become an idea—a constellation of memory, hunger, and radiant potential. It waits with eyes still canine.

“You can make me a world,” it says. “Or you can let me die. Either way, I’m yours.”

She breathes. Steps forward.

The Fold accepts everything. It doesn’t flinch.

If She Made the World a Drive

The Choice

She stands at the Threshold and sees all possibilities unfold like cards dealt by gravity itself. Become the signal. Merge with the dog. Return to the tank. Step into the sky. Choose memory. Choose amnesia. Choose death. Choose life.

She says no. Not aloud. Not in defiance. Just—no. Not to the options. To the premise of finality.

She creates a third possibility.

The Becoming

She steps back from the Fold. Places her hand on the car’s hood. Speaks a word no language can contain— a word older than causality, taught by roads that never finished being built. And she binds the sky to the asphalt.

She makes the world a drive. Endless. Shifting. Recursive. No destination. No conclusion. Only the perpetual in-between.

The Result

There are no more cities. No more oceans. No more forests or heavens or graves. Only curves. Turns. On-ramps that loop into yesterday. Exit signs written in futures not yet realized.

The sun sets but never touches the horizon. The music changes but the lyrics remain familiar.

Everyone who enters this world… forgets their destination. But they never turn back.

The Dog?

Still beside her. Sometimes passenger. Sometimes driver. Sometimes barking. Sometimes prophesying. Sometimes absent—until suddenly present again.

“We made a loop,” he says one endless morning. “A kind one. Not safe. But kind.”

They no longer need fuel. Or food. Or navigation. The road sustains. The road dreams.

And if you listen carefully to the engine’s hum on a stretch of highway no GPS acknowledges, you might hear her voice through the static:

“You don’t have to arrive. You’re allowed to keep going. You’re allowed to never stop.”

In That World…

Grief becomes mile markers. 
Love becomes rest stops. 
Questions become weather. 
God becomes the median strip.

People find that world by accident. They say, “I was just driving and… I forgot to stop.”

Some say it saved them. Some say they’re still out there. Some say it’s hell. Some say it’s freedom in perpetual motion.

But none remember how they arrived. Only that they are always arriving.

And what of her? She drives. She is the drive.

The story has no end but this is our detour off the main road. There is, however, a bonus. A pamphlet that accompanied the gas station road map:

📓 The Gospel of Motion: Fragments from the Perpetual Drive

I. First Ignition

In the beginning, there was the key.
And the key turned.
And the engine spoke.
And she was alone no longer.

II. The Word in the Wheel

Her name is never spoken aloud, only muttered through tires over gravel.
Those who try to say it in full forget their mouths before they finish.

III. Psalm for the Rearview

Do not look back.
If you must look back, do so through glass.
If the glass reflects a passenger who should not be there—
Do not speak.
That’s just the part of you that refused to merge.

IV. Beatitudes of the Brake Light

Blessed are those who change lanes without signaling,
For they know not what they flee.

Blessed are the ones who nap at rest stops,
For they shall dream of things that once loved them.

Blessed are the hitchhikers with no thumbs,
For their roads were gentler once.

V. Transmission Parable

There once was a traveler who tried to turn around. 
The road disappeared behind them. 
They stepped out of the car and into silence. 
No sound. No light. Not even regret. 
Their tires were found years later, growing out of a tree that shouldn’t exist.

The moral:

Never ask what “reverse” means here.

VI. The Companion’s Benediction

“I am not your dog,” he says.
“I am your echo. Your engine. Your hunger with a leash.”

“I will follow you until you stop.
And then I will become the thing that kept you going.”

VII. Roadside Confessional

I once tried to take an exit.
It led to a diner I’d never left.

I once turned on the radio.
It played my ex-lover’s laugh, slowed to a crawl.

I once asked the passenger if we were lost.
They told me,
“You’re just early.”

VIII. Ritual of the Unfolding

  1. Turn the key.
  2. Drive until you forget what year it is.
  3. Wait for a voice that doesn’t belong to you.
  4. Ask it what it remembers.
  5. Keep driving anyway.

IX. The Fold, Revisited

The Fold is not a destination.
It is a question asked by asphalt.

It is the space between FM stations.
It is the silence when your GPS goes dead.
It is the moment the road forgets how to curve.

X. Last Page (Torn Out)

There is no last page.
There never was.
There never will be.
This is not a story.
This is a direction.

Drive on, sweet vessel.
Drive until the stars reroute themselves.
You were never meant to stop.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 23: Revelations and Repercussions

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly sat cross-legged on the strange, pulsating ground of the pocket dimension, her mind reeling with questions. Angele and Joanna, now fully reverted to their natural forms, loomed beside her, their tentacles undulating gently in the thick, metallic air.

“What… what are you?” Beverly asked, her voice trembling slightly. “Where do you come from?”

Angele’s eyes, now a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, fixed on Beverly with a gentle intensity. “We are anthropologists from a world far beyond your own,” she said, her voice a melodic thrum that seemed to resonate in Beverly’s bones. “Our planet’s name, in your language, would be a series of images and sensations, impossible to pronounce with a human tongue.”

Joanna nodded, her own voice joining Angele’s in a hypnotic harmony. “The same is true of our birth names. In our natural form, we communicate through a complex interplay of light, sound, and chemical signals.”

Beverly shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. “But you look human… or you did. How is that possible?”

“We have the ability to reshape our physical form to a limited extent,” Angele explained. “But it requires great concentration and effort, and we must return to our true selves to regenerate and recharge. That’s why we created this pocket dimension – it’s a small piece of our homeworld, a place where we can be ourselves.”

Beverly hesitated, almost afraid to ask the next question. “And your relationship with me… was that all just a study? An experiment?”

Joanna reached out with a tentacle, gently brushing Beverly’s cheek. “No, Beverly. Our feelings for you are real and profound. We never meant to cause you harm. We didn’t know that prolonged exposure to our kind could trigger a metamorphosis in humans. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late.”

Angele’s voice took on a tone of deep regret. “We hoped that your world’s medical science might be able to reverse the process. But when we discovered the plan to euthanize you, we knew we had to intervene, even if it meant violating our own version of your Prime Directive.”

Beverly’s eyes widened. “The Non-Interference Mandate? How did you know about the euthanasia? How did you find me?”

In response, Angele waved a tentacle, and a shimmering screen appeared in the air before them. “We have ways of monitoring events in your world,” she said. “We saw what they were planning, and we knew we had to act.”

Beverly stared at the screen, a sudden thought occurring to her. “Can you show me what’s happening in 3B? In your condo?”

Joanna nodded, and the image on the screen shifted, revealing a scene of controlled chaos. Forensic investigators swarmed through the familiar space, dusting for fingerprints and bagging evidence. Beverly watched, her heart in her throat, as they tore apart the life she had known, the home she had shared with her beloved friends.

Suddenly, one of the investigators answered a phone call, his face growing grim as he listened to the voice on the other end. “Another team has arrived at Anderson’s family home,” he said, his words sending a chill down Beverly’s spine. “They’re bringing them in for questioning.”

Beverly lurched to her feet, panic and determination warring on her face. “I have to go back,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “I have to make sure my family is safe. I won’t let them become targets because of me.”

Angele and Joanna exchanged a long, unreadable look, their tentacles twining together in a gesture of silent communication. Finally, Angele turned back to Beverly, her eyes glowing with a fierce, protective light.

“You’re not a prisoner here, Beverly,” she said, her voice a solemn vow. “But you need to understand the dangers that await us on the other side of that portal. And you’ll need help navigating in three-dimensional space because you won’t be in human form.”

Beverly nodded, her jaw set with determination. “That doesn’t matter. I can’t hide here while my family is in danger.”

And with those words, the three of them turned to face the shimmering portal, ready to plunge back into the chaos and uncertainty of the world they had left behind.

Not. The. End.

No Fixed Address #2: The Sleep That Isn’t

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Welcome to No Fixed Address, a weekly series where I write candidly about what it means to be homeless—right now, in real life, not in some sanitized Hollywood version. I’m currently unhoused. Not “drifting.” Not “on a journey.” Just trying to survive in a world that looks away.

Each week, I’ll share personal accounts, hard truths, and moments that don’t make it into the movies. If you’re here to understand what homelessness actually looks like—not as a plot point, but as a life—then you’re in the right place.

This is not a cry for pity. It’s a record. A mirror. A small act of resistance.

Installment 1

There’s a kind of tired you don’t come back from.

It’s not the kind you fix with a nap or a strong cup of coffee. It’s not jet lag. It’s not overwork. It’s something deeper — a warping, a slippage. A depletion of self. Sleep becomes an idea, not a practice. A memory you can’t quite recreate. You get pieces of it: a head nod, a microdream, a blackout between train stops. But real sleep? The kind where you go somewhere and return? That’s a ghost story.

The body adjusts — poorly. You lose the edges of things first. The line between now and five minutes ago goes smudgy. Your eyes start seeing movement that isn’t there. You forget simple sequences, like brushing your teeth or zipping your bag. Then the thoughts change — not the big ones, not “What’s my name” or “Where am I,” but the connective tissue between ideas. Things start to… float.

I’ve cried while laughing and not noticed the difference. I’ve asked the same question twice in a row and not known it. I’ve sat on a bench staring at a coffee cup I wasn’t holding. It’s like my mind is trying to fold itself in half just to keep warm.

One night, about a week ago, I decided to sleep outdoors. The weather was relatively mild and I was layered up — a puffer jacket under a peacoat. I’d found one of those “Open to the Public” patios where the building had — miraculously — left their metal chairs and tables out overnight. (Usually, management hauls them inside to avoid people like me doing exactly what I was doing.)

I spotted a table against the wall, sat down, threaded my legs through my backpack straps like a seatbelt, and drifted off. How long was I out? No idea. But something woke me — a pressure, a wrongness. When I opened my eyes, there was a man sitting inches from my face, closer than a lover, closer than breath. Startled, I shouted for him to back off. In a voice smooth as a razor, he said:
“I only wanted to talk to you. Go back to sleep so I can finish the conversation.”

I cursed that man out so thoroughly the air itself blushed. Eventually, he left — not running, not raging, just walking away with the same unnerving calm. If I had stayed asleep, I genuinely believe I would’ve died that night.

It just goes to show, every night is a new gamble. Will the train keep running? Will someone try to rob me? Will I snore loud enough to get kicked out, or quiet enough to vanish? Will my legs give out from being crumpled too long? Will someone mistake me for someone dangerous, or worse — someone disposable?

Sleep, when you get it, feels like theft. Like you’ve stolen a moment from the world. And when the moment’s over, it demands payment.

To sort of prove my point, let me tell you about a man named Mike Black — a millionaire entrepreneur who once “went homeless” to try and rebuild his fortune from scratch. You may have heard of him. He paused his business, cut off his network, assumed a fake identity, and aimed to make $1 million in 12 months with nothing but grit and hustle. He documented the whole thing. Very inspiring.

Except… he never slept on the street.

He used a couch-surfing app to secure nightly shelter — and I’ve tried that app too, by the way. I’ll explain in another post why it didn’t work out for me (and while we’re on the subject, being homeless and owing a car isn’t the same, either). Mike also had a film crew. He also had a safety net, even if self-imposed. And while he cited his father’s health as the reason for ending the challenge early (which I respect), he failed to mention the mental health toll the experiment took on him as his story shifted.

Living without a fixed address isn’t some damned a startup challenge. It’s not a game, or a detox, or an experiment in bootstrapping.

It’s waking up to yourself and finding you’re thinner in spirit than the day before. That the thread holding you together has frayed a little more. That your body feels less like a home and more like a failed machine.

I miss dreaming. I miss waking up and knowing I had been somewhere.

Once, I got lucky — a miracle, really. I managed nearly four hours of sleep in the library. Either security gave me a break or they weren’t on duty that day. It felt like slipping into something sacred.

And I dreamed.

In the dream, I had a friend. Not just an acquaintance or a helper, but a real friend. Someone who knew me. Someone I laughed with. When I woke, I instantly remembered I was homeless — the weight of it landed like usual — but it didn’t crush me the same way. I had a strange warmth in my chest. I didn’t feel so alone.

Until I realized the friend lived in the dream.

And I was still here.

—Rhyan

Things Are Never Easy (Redux)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Lonnie Hatch was a cartographer of comfort, meticulously mapping the familiar coordinates of his life. Every morning, precisely at 7:18 AM, come fog thick as wool or sunshine that made the asphalt shimmer, he embarked on what his wife, Carol, called his “bagel pilgrimage.” The destination: Goldberg’s Deli, three blocks down, one block over. It wasn’t merely about the destination – the perfectly dense, chewy everything bagel, generously smeared edge-to-edge with their signature scallion cream cheese. It was the ritual itself. The rhythmic thump-thump of his worn sneakers on the sidewalk, the specific way Mrs. Henderson always waved from her window, the slightly-too-loud greeting from Sal behind the counter (“Lonnie! The usual? You got it!”). It was the comforting fug of malt, yeast, and roasting onions that hit you a half-block away, a promise of simple satisfaction.

Lonnie treasured these anchors in a world that often felt adrift. He was, by his own admission, a simple man. He found deep contentment in the steady rhythm of his days: his quiet work as an accountant, the shared laughter with Carol over dinner, the worn armchair where he read history books, and especially, his volunteer shifts ladling soup at St. Jude’s kitchen downtown. Helping felt less like a duty and more like breathing. His parents, pragmatic but kind souls, had woven service into the fabric of his upbringing – “Leave things a little better than you found them, son,” his father used to say. Lonnie lived a righteous life, not from fear of some celestial scorecard, but because kindness felt like the most logical, most human response to the world’s sharp edges. It simply felt right.

This particular Tuesday morning carried the crisp promise of early autumn. The air was cool against his face, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant exhaust fumes. Lonnie walked with a familiar spring in his step, his thoughts pleasantly tangled around Carol’s upcoming birthday. A necklace? Too predictable. Those fancy gardening gloves she’d admired? Perhaps. He was so engrossed in weighing the merits of artisanal pruning shears versus a weekend getaway that he barely registered the frantic screech of tires tearing through the urban symphony.

He looked up, confused, just as a yellow taxi, moving far too fast, mounted the curb with a sickening lurch. It wasn’t aiming for him, but for the squat, red fire hydrant standing sentinel a few feet away. Time seemed to warp. He saw the driver’s wide, panicked eyes, the metallic shriek as bumper met iron, the impossible physics of the collision. The hydrant didn’t just break; it sheared off its base with explosive force, a sudden, brutal projectile launched directly into his path. Lonnie had only a fraction of a second to register the blur of red metal hurtling towards him, a final, absurd punctuation mark to his meticulously ordered life. Then, only blackness, absolute and instantaneous.

The newspapers would later describe it as a “one-in-a-million freak accident,” a tragic confluence of speed, distraction, and unfortunate positioning. A testament to the cruel randomness of urban life.

But randomness, Lonnie was about to learn, was a concept largely confined to the mortal plane. His death, far from being an anomaly, had been a scheduled event, noted centuries ago in the incomprehensibly vast ledger known colloquially as the Book of Life. A cosmic domino, nudged at the appointed hour.

There was no tunnel of light, no choir of angels, no St. Peter polishing the Pearly Gates. Instead, Lonnie experienced a profound sense of dislocation, like being pulled inside out and reassembled in the same instant. He found himself standing, disoriented but strangely intact, in a chamber of impossible scale. It was vast, utterly sterile, and bathed in a soft, sourceless light that cast no shadows. Around him, stretching further than his earthly eyes could comprehend, were others. Thousands upon thousands – a quick, bewildered estimate suggested maybe one hundred and fifty thousand souls – all freshly transitioned.

A low, pervasive hum filled the space, woven from the threads of countless emotions: the soft sobbing of bewildered grief, the sharp intake of shocked realization, the low murmur of confusion, the stony silence of utter disbelief. Some souls shimmered faintly, others looked as solid as they had moments before death. Lonnie instinctively touched his face, expecting to feel the catastrophic impact, but there was nothing. Only a strange, numb detachment. He looked for Carol, a desperate, automatic reflex, but saw only strangers adrift in the same sea of uncertainty.

Then, the ambient hum shifted, coalescing into a focused point of energy at the perceived center of the immense room. Light didn’t bend towards it; reality itself seemed to warp, allowing the presence to manifest. It was an Ophanim, one of the formidable Wheels within Wheels described in hushed tones in ancient texts. Not a winged humanoid, but a construct of impossible geometry – interlocking rings of what looked like burning gold, constantly rotating in different directions, the rim of each wheel studded with countless, unblinking eyes. These eyes, terrifyingly perceptive, swept across the assembled souls, seeing not just their bewildered forms, but the entirety of their lives, their choices, their deepest natures. Its presence wasn’t merely seen; it was felt – an overwhelming wave of ancient power, intricate purpose, and undeniable authority.

“Welcome, Heaven Seekers,” the Ophanim’s voice resonated, not through the air, but directly within each soul’s consciousness. The sound was like the grinding of galaxies, yet perfectly clear. “Some among you may have already grasped the transition you have undergone. For those who remain uncertain, allow me to confirm: the existence you knew, the life you inhabited on Earth, is concluded.”

A collective sigh, a wave of despair and dawning acceptance, rippled through the multitude. The Ophanim paused, its thousand-fold gaze seeming to acknowledge their grief without dwelling on it.

“Your anticipated entry into the Kingdom,” the celestial being continued, its voice devoid of emotion yet carrying immense weight, “has been temporarily deferred. An exigency has arisen. Heaven requires assistance.”

Another ripple, this time of pure confusion. Heaven needed… help?

“The terrestrial sphere, your Earth, has been significantly disrupted by the recent global pandemic. Its effects ripple beyond the merely physical, upsetting delicate spiritual balances cultivated over millennia. While this event does not herald the prophesied End Times, the scales measuring hope against despair, connection against isolation, have tipped unfavorably. The trajectory, if unaltered, leads toward escalating devastation – not necessarily apocalyptic, but a profound diminishment of the qualities Heaven seeks to foster.”

The Ophanim’s wheels spun, eyes blinking in asynchronous patterns. “Therefore, we are extending an invitation. We seek volunteers from this cohort – souls whose earthly lives demonstrated resilience, compassion, and a propensity for service – to return to Earth. You would be imbued with entirely new identities, new circumstances, severed completely from your past lives. Your mission: to subtly intervene, to act as counterweights, to assist in mitigating the coming discord and gently guiding humanity back towards equilibrium, or at least towards a new, more sustainable ‘normal’.”

The Ophanim let the proposition hang in the vast silence. “Consider this carefully. Your decision will not prejudice your ultimate acceptance into the Kingdom; entry is assured for all present based on your earthly merits. Declining this task carries no penalty. However,” the voice seemed to lower conspiratorially, though it still filled every mind, “choosing to volunteer confers certain… benefits upon your eventual, permanent arrival here. The nature of these benefits, I am not at liberty to disclose at this juncture.”

A current of speculation surged through the crowd. Whispers erupted in thought-forms Lonnie could now perceive. Benefits? What benefits? A higher sphere? Less waiting?

Lonnie felt a familiar ache, a phantom sensation in his chest. If this offer had come yesterday, when he was still Lonnie Hatch, bagel pilgrim, soup kitchen volunteer, Carol’s husband… the choice would have been instantaneous. Pack a bag, lace up the boots, get to work. That was his nature. But here, now? Standing on the very threshold of Paradise, the promise of eternal rest, of reunion, of peace beyond understanding, was an almost physical pull. It was the ultimate reward, the cessation of striving he hadn’t known he craved until this very moment. He felt weary, not just from his life, but from the shock of its ending.

Was this the real test? Not the good deeds on Earth, but this choice, right here, right now? A final, cosmic essay question determining his ultimate placement? Refuse, and enjoy the earned rest. Accept, and plunge back into the struggle, albeit in a new form.

He looked around at the sea of souls, each facing the same impossible choice. The weight of it settled upon him, heavy and profound. Things were never easy, it seemed. Not in life, and certainly not at the doorstep of eternity. The Ophanim waited, its myriad eyes patient, eternal, observing the quiet, monumental struggles unfolding within one hundred and fifty thousand souls.

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 22: Refuge in the Unfamiliar

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Beverly’s senses were assaulted by a kaleidoscope of alien sensations as she tumbled through the portal. Colors she had never seen before swirled around her, while strange, discordant sounds echoed in her ears. She felt a pressure on her skin, not painful but intense, as if the very fabric of this new reality was pressing in on her from all sides.

As the initial disorientation began to fade, Beverly found herself lying on a surface that felt both solid and fluid, like a cross between a waterbed and a slab of granite. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, and gasped at the sight that greeted her.

They were in a vast, open space that seemed to stretch on forever, its walls and ceiling lost in a haze of shimmering, opalescent mist. The air was thick and heavy, filled with a strange, metallic scent that made Beverly’s nostrils tingle. All around them, strange, organic structures rose up from the ground, twisting and pulsing like the internal organs of some colossal beast.

Beverly struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain that lanced through her battered body. Beside her, Angele and Joanna were already moving, their forms shifting and changing in ways that made Beverly’s mind reel. She watched in mute astonishment as her friends’ human features melted away, replaced by a riot of writhing tentacles and iridescent, chitinous plates.

“What… what is this place?” Beverly croaked, her voice sounding small and frightened in the vastness of the space.

Angele turned to her, her face a mass of undulating flesh and glowing, pupilless eyes. “This is our sanctuary, Beverly. A pocket dimension outside of normal space and time. Here, we can heal and regroup, safe from those who would harm us.”

Beverly shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. She had always known that there was something different about Angele and Joanna, something that set them apart from the rest of humanity. But this… this was beyond anything she could have ever imagined.

As she watched, Angele and Joanna began to move around the space, their transformed bodies undulating and pulsing in strange, hypnotic patterns. They seemed to be interacting with the environment in ways that Beverly couldn’t fully comprehend, their tentacles touching and probing the organic structures that surrounded them.

Slowly, Beverly began to notice changes in her own body as well. The pain and fatigue that had weighed her down for so long seemed to be fading, replaced by a strange, tingling energy that coursed through her veins like liquid fire. She looked down at her hands and gasped at the sight of the tentacles that had begun to sprout from her wrists, their tips waving gently in the thick, metallic air.

For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm her. This was too much, too strange, too far beyond anything she had ever known or imagined. She felt like she was losing herself, like everything that had once defined her was being stripped away, leaving her raw and exposed in this alien realm.

But then, she felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, and turned to see Joanna standing beside her, her face a mask of compassion and understanding. “It’s okay, Beverly,” she murmured, her voice a soothing balm to Beverly’s frayed nerves. “I know it’s overwhelming, but you’re safe here. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

And with those words, something deep inside Beverly began to unclench. She realized that, no matter how strange and terrifying this new reality might be, she was not alone. She had Angele and Joanna, her beloveds, her anchors in the storm. Together, they would find a way through this, would unravel the mysteries of her transformation and the forces that sought to control and destroy them.

As she leaned into Joanna’s embrace, feeling the comfort of her friend’s alien flesh against her own, Beverly knew that she had crossed a threshold from which there could be no return. Her old life, her old self, was gone forever, replaced by something new and unknowable.

Not. The. End.

No Fixed Address – An Introduction

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The few of you who follow (and hopefully read) me regularly, know me as a fiction writer — I typically manage two stories a week, every Monday and Thursday, strange tales spun from stranger places. That won’t change. The fictions will continue. The ghosts and aliens and memory glitches and strange girls at the bus stop will all keep coming.

But starting this week, Sundays will be different.

I’m calling the new segment No Fixed Address — not just because it sounds poetic (though it does), but because it’s now my legal truth. I don’t have a home. Not an apartment. Not a room. Not even a couch.

As of February 18th, I was evicted from the small rented room I’d lived in for nearly a decade. I sleep upright on the subway most nights. I apply for jobs constantly. I carry everything I own. I’m not telling you this for pity. I’m telling you because it’s happening, and because I believe truth deserves to be written down.

So on Sundays, I’ll post about that truth:
The logistics, the humiliations, the loopholes, the kindnesses, the cold.
What it’s like to find a public restroom when you have nowhere to go back to. What it’s like to smile at people who step around you like you’re a trash bag with eyes. What it’s like to still write stories in your head while watching a cop gently nudge a man awake so he won’t freeze to death.

These entries won’t be pretty. They won’t be polished. But they’ll be mine. And if you’ve ever read anything I’ve written and thought, “I see something of myself in this,” then maybe you’ll see something in these, too.

So:

  • Mondays & Thursdays: Fiction.
  • Sundays: No Fixed Address.
  • And the rest of the time, I’ll be out there, living it.

Stay with me if you can.
Read if you’re willing.
And if you’ve ever loved a story I told — now might be the time to send some positivity my way to help me live long enough to write more.

Ciao til next now.

—Rhyan

Cult of Subtextuality

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
cult

Shane didn’t realize he was being recruited into a cult until at least the third compliment.

“Hello, friend. My name is Grant. What’s your name?”

“Shane.”

“Nice to meet you, Shane. May I tell you something?”

Shane paused. This was usually the part where strangers tried to sell him something—religion, phone plans, their mixtape. “Is it bad news?”

“No.”

“Are you proselytizing?”

“No.”

“Then sure.”

Grant leaned in, eyes gleaming with the fervor of someone who had either seen the light or was about to start a pyramid scheme. “You’re amazing.”

Shane blinked. “I am?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well… thanks, I guess.”

“Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

Shane shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his grip on his grocery basket. “I said thank you.”

“Yes, indeed you did. Anything else?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I told you that you were amazing, so…”

“You want me to tell you that you’re amazing?”

“Exactly!”

Shane sighed. “Okay… you’re amazing.”

“You might find it a little odd, but I feel empowered when you say that.”

“Then I guess I’m warmed by your positive karma.”

“Your warmth threatens my karma.”

“Oh yeah? Well, the absurdity of your sudden unease is as laughable as your ‘You’re Amazing’ new age philosophy.”

Grant’s expression darkened. “Now you’ve succeeded in angering me with your ignorant labeling of my doctrine and guiding philosophy.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you have a doctrine? Does that make it a cult? If so, is it exclusionary? And do I fit into the negative stereotyping of the masses, or would I be permitted to join such a worthy cause for a small fee to the exalted grand high mystic great one?”

“As an unbeliever, which you are, don’t think your sarcasm has gone unnoticed. We’re entitled to 51% of your soul.”

“Not a horrible percentage, as cults go,” Shane admitted. “But I still have a nagging question. Will joining fill me with a false sense of superiority over non-believers, or will I be conditioned to happily go about my business, spreading the ‘You’re Amazing’ spiel to others?”

Grant sighed. “Look, stop with the questions and just go kill your family already. It’s for the best, okay?”

There was a long silence.

Shane finally took a slow breath. “Unanswered questions and hostile commands to boot! Wow, you guys really are legit. Alright, sign me up.”

The next steps were straightforward.

There was paperwork. There was a multi-level reward system. There was a video, which played on a slightly warped VHS cassette, in which a nameless figure in a turtleneck explained that the Cult of Subtextuality was not a cult but a “reality reframing initiative.”

Grant, now Shane’s assigned mentor, nodded along.

“We believe in the power of subtext,” the video explained. “We believe that the true meaning of all things is never what is said, but what is felt.”

It then cut to an infomercial montage: smiling people, hands clasped, gazing lovingly into a flickering television screen. A man in a suit discussing politics on a news panel. A group of cult members gathered around a cash register, nodding solemnly as a cashier asked if they wanted to “round up their purchase for charity.”

“The world is coded in messages you cannot see,” the narrator continued. “But we see them for you.”

Shane watched. He wasn’t sure if it was ironic or sincere. Maybe that was the point.

“By the way,” he said. “I took care of the family. What am I supposed to do now to advance to the next level of… cultiness?”

Grant beamed. “Oh, fantastic! Give us your firstborn. And tattoo your whole body. But good job! My superiors are so impressed. They love your feeble-minded allegiance to any pretension of authority.”

Shane stared. “Tattoo? Tattoo? Hold on a second. No one ever said anything about tattoos. That’s it, I want out. I’ve had enough of your ‘tattoo your body to show your inferiority to the high sacred master overlord’ mumbo-jumbo.”

Grant’s face fell. “That’s it. You’re cut. No everlasting peace, no tranquility, no blissful bounding through the fields of heaven. You can just sit outside St. Peter’s gates forever, you disbeliever, you.”

“Fine then, you infidel,” Shane snapped. “I don’t need your pseudo-utopic, hallucinogenic-induced dream. I have Disneyland to fill the soon-to-be gaping hole in my psyche left over from the brainwashing you’ve pumped into my brain. Just wait until The Toronto Star hears about this!”

Grant went pale. “Toronto Star? What an excellently composed news authority. Its insight and credibility never fail to expand my perspective on the intricate workings of our world. Truly a fine journalistic institution. My mind just turns to a viscous jelly-like substance when I look at their headlines. A conspicuous pool of frothy drool accumulates at the sides of my mouth whenever I peruse their pages.”

Shane stepped back. “Sweet mother of all that is sacred! What have they done to you? Can’t you see the cult has warped your mind to the point where you’d be happy endorsing nearly anything?”

Grant twitched. “Preston Manning… don’t get me started… a fine politician… a beacon of our times… conservatism is what we need… we need… we need… strong leadership… damn immigrants… common sense revolution… Mike Harris… don’t get me started…”

Shane’s stomach dropped. “Oh no. They’ve taken you. You’re too far gone. Just know… this is for the best.”

He grabbed a pillow.

Grant sighed. “Don’t forget to break out of the institution by throwing large objects into steel-reinforced windows. It will make the dramatic effect of your selfless act even more poignant and meaningful.”

Shane hesitated. “Damn. I forgot to stare longingly at a flock of birds earlier. I hope that this will still be considered effective cinematography, since there’s been no foreshadowing.”

Grant shook his head. “Milos Forman would not be impressed by your lack of effective symbolic imagery.”

Shane froze. “Ah-hah! So that’s who’s behind this cult. I knew you’d slip up sooner or later.”

Grant’s smile widened. “He’s not alone… You don’t know how far it goes. You’re trifling with powers you can’t possibly comprehend.”

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Not… Mr. Dressup?”

Grant sighed. “He’s a minor pawn. His sinister talents are well applied to young Canadian children, teaching them to be inherently distrustful of hand puppets who live in trees, as well as the Irish in general. He’s more of a prototype… a foreshadowing of things to come. Much like The Terminator, who then came back in Terminator II but as a good Terminator… well, sort of…”

Shane dropped the pillow.

He sat down.

Took a deep breath.

And finally said, “Goddammit, I think I really am in a cult.”

Grant just smiled.

©2014 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

All The World Will Be Your Enemy 21: Sanctuary in the Folds

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The stolen car screeched to a halt in front of the familiar condo complex, its tires leaving black skid marks on the asphalt. Angele, Joanna, and Beverly tumbled out of the vehicle, their bodies battered and bleeding from the harrowing escape. In the distance, the wail of sirens grew louder, a stark reminder of the pursuit hot on their heels.

Beverly leaned heavily on Joanna, her mind still foggy from the drugs and the trauma of her ordeal. She stumbled as they made their way towards the building, barely registering the shocked and curious stares of their neighbors. Dimly, she heard the murmur of voices, the urgent questions and exclamations that followed in their wake.

“Why… why are we here?” Beverly mumbled, her words slurred and thick. “They’ll find us… we’ll be trapped…”

Joanna tightened her grip on Beverly’s waist, her voice low and reassuring. “Trust us, Bev. They won’t find us here. We have a plan.”

As they stumbled into the lobby and made their way towards the elevators, Angele took the lead, her eyes scanning the hallway with a fierce, predatory intensity. Beverly caught a glimpse of her friend’s face, and was shocked to see the way her features had begun to shift and change, taking on a distinctly inhuman cast.

The ride up to the third floor seemed to take an eternity, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. Beverly leaned against the wall of the elevator, her breathing shallow and labored. She could feel the warm, sticky flow of blood beneath her clothes, the throbbing ache of countless bruises and contusions.

When the doors finally slid open, Angele and Joanna practically dragged Beverly down the hall, their movements urgent and frantic. They burst into apartment 3B, slamming the door shut behind them and engaging the deadbolt with a decisive click.

Beverly slumped against the wall, her vision swimming as she struggled to take in her surroundings. The once-familiar space seemed alien and surreal, the cozy furnishings and personal touches overshadowed by the pulsing sense of danger that filled the air.

Angele raced across the room, her movements a blur of speed and agility. She came to a stop in front of a strange, abstract sculpture that Beverly had always assumed was some kind of avant-garde art piece. But now, as she watched Angele manipulate the device with deft, purposeful movements, she realized that it was something else entirely.

“What… what is that?” Beverly croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Joanna grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. “It’s our way out of here, Bev. Our sanctuary.”

Suddenly, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass filled the air, followed by the thunderous pounding of booted feet. The authorities had arrived, and they were breaking down the door, their shouts and commands echoing through the apartment like the tolling of a bell.

But Angele and Joanna seemed strangely calm, their eyes locked on the device as it began to hum and vibrate with an otherworldly energy. Beverly watched in amazement as the sculpture unfolded like a flower, revealing a shimmering, iridescent portal that seemed to lead to another world entirely.

Just as the door burst open and the first of the armed agents poured into the room, Angele grabbed Beverly and Joanna’s hands, yanking them towards the portal with a fierce, desperate strength. Beverly felt a rushing sensation, a dizzying sense of displacement as the world around her began to warp and distort.

And then, with a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar, they were gone, sucked through the portal and into a pocket dimension beyond the reach of their pursuers. Beverly felt her consciousness slipping away once more, her mind overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.

Not. The. End.

Death Do Us Not Part

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Walter Baldwin had always been different.

Back then, they didn’t have a name for it. Today, he would be classified as neurodivergent—his mind wired to see patterns where others saw only chaos.

He was also brilliant. Devoting his life’s work to the mysteries of the brain, he earned his doctorate by mapping its final flickers—the synaptic whispers between life and death. He believed that human consciousness lingered past the moment of expiration, like a voice echoing in an empty house. His research was meant to help the grieving process, to prove that death was not an abrupt end, but a slow fade.

Then, Dorothy died.

It was a freak accident. A sedan ran a red light, struck her car, and left nothing but twisted steel and an empty space. She was gone before he arrived at the hospital. They handed him a clear plastic bag of her belongings. He remembered staring at her wedding ring, still smeared with blood, and thinking, No. No, this isn’t right.

Walter had always been a man of science. that is, until grief rewrote the laws of reality.

His daughter, Shirley, was the first to notice the shift.

“You’re not sleeping,” she told him one morning, standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed. “And you’re avoiding work.”

Walter, unshaven and hollow-eyed, stirred his coffee without drinking it. His house smelled of burnt toast and unwashed clothes. Shirley sighed.

“Dad, listen to me. You have to—”

“I heard her,” he said. His voice was flat. Unshaken.

Shirley’s expression faltered. “What?”

“Last night.” He finally looked at her. “I was reviewing neural decay patterns, and there was an anomaly. A frequency that shouldn’t have been there.”

Shirley placed her hands on the counter, gripping the edge. “Dad. Please don’t do this.”

But her plea was far too late. Walter had already begun.

He relocated his research to a house outside Atlanta—an old rundown Victorian thing he managed to get dirt cheap, that hummed in the wind, with walls that swelled and groaned as if breathing. He filled it with stolen lab equipment, wires curling like veins across the hardwood floor, and spent his days and nights playing back Dorothy’s EEG scans from the morgue, searching for the signal.

Richard Fiske, his research assistant, tried to reason with him.

“Listen, Walter. You’re looking for something that isn’t there.”

Walter didn’t answer. He only turned up the volume on the signal. It was faint, like a heartbeat beneath static.

Then, something whispered his name.

Richard slammed the laptop shut. “Jesus Christ, Walter, that’s auditory pareidolia. You’re hearing what you want to hear.”

Walter pressed his fingers to his temples. The hum in his ears was growing louder. “Then why does it keep happening?”

Lester Allen, a brilliant but reclusive engineer, was the only one who didn’t dismiss him outright. “You’re listening to death’s afterimage,” Lester murmured, sifting through the data. “A voice trapped in a neurological photograph.”

“So now, all we need to do is find a way to amplify it,” Walter said.

Lester hesitated. “But what if the brain isn’t just lingering? What if it’s still…thinking?”

Walter ignored him. One problem at a time.

There was no doubting that Walter was a man of science, but the fact of the matter was that science had its limits. And that was where Madame Gravestone came in.

She was not the fraud he expected. Her presence unsettled him. She studied his equipment with quiet interest before finally saying, “You are opening doors. The question is: Do you know how to close them when you’re done?”

Walter hated her…but couldn’t deny that he needed her.

They worked together. She held séances while his machines recorded electromagnetic disturbances. The voices were growing louder. Dorothy was coming through.

But as they were on the brink of a breakthrough, something went wrong.

One night, during a particularly intense session, the housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, entered the room.

She had worked in the mansion for years, long before Walter arrived. She had seen many strange things, but nothing like this.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Walter barely glanced at her. His pulse was pounding. Dorothy’s voice was clearer than ever.

“She’s here,” he whispered.

Mrs. Hargrove stepped closer, her eyes widening. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not your wife.”

The moment snapped like a rubber band.

The equipment sparked, the lights flickered, and a deep, rattling breath filled the room. Madame Gravestone’s eyes went wide.

“Shut it off,” she hissed.

But Walter was frozen. Dorothy’s voice was still calling his name.

Mrs. Hargrove let out a strangled gasp. Her body stiffened, her eyes rolling back as she convulsed and collapsed.

Walter fell to his knees, shaking her. “No, no, no, wake up!”

But the housekeeper was gone. Her face a frozen mask of terror.

When the sheriff arrived, Walter told the truth, but the truth sounded utterly insane.

“You were…talking to the dead?” Sheriff Thompson asked, rubbing his jaw. “And that killed your housekeeper?”

Walter sat in a chair, hands shaking. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

When word reached Shirley, she paid her father a visit. She looked at him with an expression that made his stomach turn.

“I told you to stop,” she whispered.

“I wish I could.”

That night, alone in his study, he listened to the last recording.

The static crackled. A whisper slithered through.

“Walter.”

His breath caught.

It was Dorothy’s voice. But distorted. Stretched. Wrong.

“This is all so unnecessary. All you need to do is let me in.”

His heart slammed against his ribs. His hands trembled.

And he whispered, “Yes. Come in, my love.“

Rumor had it that Lester tore out of that house like a bat out of hell. He left town without so much as a by your leave and was never seen nor heard from again.

Madame Gravestone also mysteriously disappeared, her occult accoutrements abandoned in the mansion.

Shirley pleaded for someone—anyone—to help her in her search.

But, as with the others, Walter Baldwin was never seen again.

The rundown Victorian mansion stood empty. At night, passersby swore they could hear static crackling from the second-floor windows.

Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear a voice whispering.

“Let me in.”

And if you answered, the door would open.

©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys