your hatred and anger and the desire for revenge are a kind of fire that continues to burn your body and your mind, and you are in hell

-Thich Nhat Hanh

∞

           You’ve passed the house before. It’s a damp day when you walk around the wide puddles and down the steep, overgrown driveway. Some chickadees are singing and water is dripping from the overhanging trees – so you pull up the hood of your jacket – and the highway to Canada is humming a few miles away. You minimize the crunching of gravel by walking on the bare patches of driveway, keeping your eyes fixed on the seemingly vacant house. You can’t say what made you decide to check out the house: maybe it was the fact that no one ever came or went or maybe it was morbid curiosity or maybe you’ve read too many ghost stories and have a need to live one.

         You are a curious one.

         The center of the driveway is dead grass surrounded by ruts on either side. You walk along the side, carefully pulling sticker bush vines from your sleeves, all the time watching the small house as it approaches. A Chevy sedan has, over time, grown into the shrubs and vines and moss and bent, auburn blades that overshadow the yard. It’s hard to see the front door, so you step on the rusted bumper of the sedan to gain some perspective, but see only blackberry bushes running up to the side of the house. You’ll need to tunnel your way through them, if you wish you to reach the house.

         If you do not wish to reach the house, please close your book now.

         It’s a good thing you wore a sturdy coat today, otherwise these thorns would shred you. An archway of vines guide you onward, on your hands and knees, to the rickety wooden steps – seasoned beyond repair – leading to a tiny front porch which does not appear capable of supporting itself, let alone you. So, you move along the least overgrown side of the house, where you find a spigot. You’re thirsty, so you turn the handle, which emits an agonizing screech. The water is brown. You turn it off.

         It’s then that you notice something is moving inside the house; you can feel it shifting and creaking. Then you hear a dull thud. Again, shifting and creaking, followed by the dull thud. Over and over. It’s coming from under the house.

         Following the cinderblock foundation, you squat down and pull some grass away from the basement window. The window is dirty. With your flannel shirtsleeve, you try to wipe away the years of filth, but are unable to see clearly into the cellar. A handkerchief that your mother gave you a long time ago might work better. Wetting it with the brown water from the spigot, you return and set to work cleaning. It is slow going, but you can soon make out movement in the shadows of the cellar. With a little elbow grease you’re able to see more – something sliding along the floor and hitting the wall.

         What is that? you wonder.

         And so then you cup your hands to block the outside light and your own reflection in the glass, and you see someone there: face down on the concrete floor, sliding forward and backward, as if on a track, and something shining wet on the wall.

         You instinctively pull back while what you just saw scuttles to the dusty corners of your mind – like a mouse, haha! - to be later dreamed about, processed, and maybe understood. As you move back, you get caught in the brambles, which you momentarily think might be someone grabbing ahold of you. You whimper – for to scream at this time and place seems quite foolish. You pinch the blackberry vine between its thorns and pull it away from the hood of your jacket.

         It’s now that you think, should I do something, sensing something awful is happening below. Or maybe you just want to find out what it was you saw in the basement.

         You are an adventurous one.

         So you crawl in through a shattered window on the ground floor, carefully avoiding the shards of glass as you enter. The air is stale inside. Chipped paint gathers in piles along the walls. You’re surprised to find the place furnished: an old reading chair and lamp, a tramped down rug, a bare mattress in the far corner, a kitchen table, and a vast bookshelf along the wall.

         You hear a woman’s voice coming from behind a door to your right, but cannot make out what it is she is saying. You move to the door and put your ear to it: you think you hear a heart beating, but it must be the furnace. Moving away from the door, you walk into the bathroom to get a drink of water, for you are still thirsty. The faucet shoots brown water; you let it run. You look in the mirror and see your plain old face, and you make that silly face you make to yourself in the mirror all the time.

         Who is this? you wonder, Is this me in the mirror? I look so old. 

         Let me assure you, dear reader, it most definitely is you.

         And you look fine.

         The woman’s voice is chattering in the cellar again; it sounds rough and piercing and you find it unbearable to listen to her any longer, so you listen to the water. Her voice fades behind the hum of the faucet. The water runs brown to rust red to orange and then it grows slightly yellowish and then clearer and clearer until it looks potable to you. You lean over the sink and relish the feeling of cold water on your lips and tongue, gulping as rapidly as you can – feeling much trepidation and haste to get out of this house, after all.

         A telephone rings in the living room and you pull yourself up quickly from the sink, shuttering and dripping water down your chin. You’re reminded of the time that you were at your friend’s house in the summertime, when no one was home, and you heard someone knocking at the front door. You turn off the water and walk softly into the living room. By the worn out reading chair, on a small table is a rotary-phone. Next to the blaring phone is an ashtray. There is a smoking cigarette in the ashtray. Your stomach drops.

         You make for the door, top speed, but trip over a book on the floor by the reading chair, and – as you were moving in a panic – you go down hard on the compressed rug, sending up a cloud of dust. You cough, retch, and curl up into a ball. The phone stops ringing and an old tape machine clicks on,

         A droning, masculine voice speaks, “Leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back to you when I can.” Then it beeps.

         There is a lot of shuffling of the receiver on the other end, some breathing, and then a click. The machine stops the tape and the room is silent. Your ears ring.

         You don’t move for moment, still stunned by your fall, but then you get yourself together and reach for the book on the ground – the one that took you down. It’s a leather-bound volume, no title on the cover or on the binding. Sitting up cross-legged, you place the book in your lap and open it, but find no title pages, author information, or publishing dates. Something tells you not to read the book.

         If you do not wish to read the contents of this found book, please stop reading now.

         However, you continue – you are a persistent reader - and find the following on what might have been the title page:

You turn the page and find the following typewritten text there:

         You’ve passed the house before. It’s a damp day when you walk around the wide puddles and down the steep, overgrown driveway. Some chickadees are singing and water is dripping from the overhanging trees – so you pull up the hood of your jacket – and…

         You drop the book and stand up abruptly, banging your head on a lampshade, knocking the lamp to the ground. The ceramic bursts on the hard floor and scatters on the trodden rug. The room is very cold. Then you hear the woman’s voice call out from the basement again: “Can I come out now?” she asks. You shiver and kick the book away, again running for the door, throwing it open and plunging your foot deep into the rotten wood of the front porch. You struggle and somehow pull your leg out and nosedive into the tall grass below. You’re disoriented and momentarily stunned, but you keep moving away from the house, soon crawling as fast as you can through the tunnel of thorns, catching and tearing your coat as you push yourself up and sprint through the puddles in the driveway and run all the way back to your home before you throw up behind the bushes by the front door. You swear to yourself that you’ll never go back there again.

         But, of course, you will go back. You are an uncanny one. 

∞

         You dream of the house and the man in the basement. The dream makes no sense and you wake up, momentarily uncertain you’d gone to the house at all. Upon reflection, you conclude that it did happen, as your arms are scabbed, your thigh is bruised where you fell through the porch, and your jacket is torn. You feel sick as you stumble through your day in a haze, unable to think of anything other than the grey house. You try to distract yourself, but fail. You try to call a friend, but they don’t answer. It’s hopeless. You’ll have to go back.

         You pack a backpack with a few items: a hammer, a handheld camera – borrowed, a lighter, a flashlight, a Ouija board – not sure why, but you it seems to make sense to you, a road flare, some snacks, and some binoculars.

         Again, you try to call a friend – more of an acquaintance, really – but again, nobody answers. So you head for the house.

         You are a brave one.

         When you arrive at the end of the muddy driveway, you pull out the hand-held camera, beginning an awkward narration over the video. The footage filmed during this sequence has, apparently, never been seen by anyone, aside from you, for reasons still under investigation.

Scene 1: cloudy morning. wooded road.

Voice from behind camera narrates: This is the driveway at the, um, grey house at the end of [         ] street, just west of town.

         (indistinguishable hissing)

      Camera moves over muddy driveway, shaky, blurred.

      (breathing)

Narrator: I’ve um… I… went here, I came here yesterday, but… what’s that?

         Camera angles down, its reflection in muddy water, blinking red light

(black out)

Scene 2: close up concrete.

      Narrator: Okay, so…

         (breathing, swallowing)

      Narrator: Yeah, so it was down here

         A hand points to something off screen. Camera shifts over,  viewer blurs momentarily, automatic focus adjusts incorrectly,

      colors darken before reflection of camera in window becomes visible, red light blinking.

      (breathing)

      Narrator: Hold on a second…

         (microphone brushed, audio lost momentarily)

      Narrator: …’s down there, if I can get…

      (microphone brushed, audio lost momentarily)

      (breathing)

      The basement below is barely visible, but movement can be seen.

      Narrator: Shit, lemme try the window

         The camera’s view drops downward

(loud breaths from behind the camera, followed by a screech and a deep groaning)

      Camera adjusts to low-lighting, nothing visible momentarily

      Auto-focus attempts to adjust and motion become clearer

      (a zipper sounds from behind the camera, rustling sounds   

      followed by a click)

      Camera readjusts to sharp white light coming from behind  

      camera

Auto-focus attempts to adjust, again focusing on the motion below. Light shimmers against something on the wall.

      Narrator: Oh!

         Camera tumbles and settles on the windowsill

      (quick footsteps on gravel)

After a moment of autofocus blur, there appears, lying face down, with arms and legs inert, sliding forward and backward on the concrete floor, as if on a track, a man bashing headfirst into a mouse-sized hole in the wall rhythmically.

      Blood gathers on the whitewashed walls around the hole.

Video continues, focused on the man’s body shifting forward against the wall, forcefully, and then pulling back and repeating, until a enigmatic young woman’s face appears up close, her skin is beautiful and her somber almond shaped eyes blink. She’s crying.

      (black out)

∞

         You get home and try to calm yourself – distracting yourself with video games and television and drugs all day – but as the blanket of the night covers the sky, you find it impossible to sleep. You pretend to be dozing but get nervous about having your eyes closed, for each time you allow it, your mind drifts closer and closer to the book and what you saw in the basement of the grey house. A creeping sense of déjà vu moved like a shadow through your body, making you sit up and check the window behind you repeatedly – finding those familiar sights of the yard and the trees behind and the cars and the barking dogs and wondering what it all means.

Was the book about me? you wonder, piecing together the whys of your initial flight from the grey house and then, unavoidably falling back into dreadful thoughts and morbid visions of the man being blasted into the wall in the basement. Should I go back? you ask yourself, feeling like a coward, but also feeling foolish for getting involved. Why did I go there? you ask yourself, and the question echoes in your mind. You find no answers and it makes you question whether you can control yourself at all or if your curiosity will always get-the-better of you.

You hope for solace, but peace does not come out to find you, so you watch TV until it gets dark, snacking endlessly on Goldfish and soda-pop.

Around midnight, you go into the bathroom and find the book from the grey house on the counter-top. A sinking feeling chills your skin, goosebumps appearing all over and the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. You’re inquisitiveness, however, gets the better of you and you pick up the strange book. A surge of sweetness catches your nose, like the scent of flowers, and a curious rippling sensation runs up your arm and through your entire body – reminding you of the day Jenny arrived as a new student at your elementary school, sat down near you, and your heart fluttered.

You open it and find that there is nothing about you in the book, and, instead, you find another blacked out title page. You wish you could put the book down.

If you wish to put the book down, please put your book down now.

You keep reading. You are an independent one.

Within, you find the following:

Petals of pink shower dropped from the trees as Ái tore past the tall grass, in fields of exquisite splendor, past the lovely Buddhist temple, Phú Xuân Tinh Thât, and entering a copse of teak trees, hustling her little legs. She wished to reach the avocado orchard – where she might speak with Phan Liễu Liên, to inform her of the visitors that presently journeyed to the family’s farm! Ái’s heart raced; she soared over fallen logs and forced her way through the wild brushwood, ignorable cuts appearing here-and-there as she rushed. Her classmates habitually teased her that she acted more like a boy than a girl, but today she felt the excitement of early-womanhood clamoring through her tiny body – brought on by a newly discovered understanding of love. The love was not her own; the love was of Dương Ái Dung and it belonged to his one-and-only, Phan Liễu Liên – which was what had made little Ái run away as her mother called out that lunch was ready: to deliver the news of Dung’s mother and father’s trip through the village! Ái had hidden behind her mother’s legs while the two women gossiped; she’d watched the grey haired Mr. Toai closely as he apprehensively stood near the fence line, trying to hide a wooden cage. Spying from behind her mother’s dress, Ái could see two golden birds inside the cage, singing and fluttering against the wooden bars. She’d never known such magnificently, brilliantly golden birds before and would never see birds of this kind again – or any other kind for that matter.

         The air was thick with stale rain and the girl’s dress was soggy. She slowed when she saw the flame tree at the edge of Mr. Phan’s farm; climbing it nimbly, Ái rubbernecked to see over the dense green avocado trees, and upon seeing Liên carefully sweeping the pathway to her family home, Ái sped down one of the shaded rows, whooping and hollering for the older girl to prepare for the guests.

         “Phan Liễu Liên!” she yelped over and over and tripped over a branch and toppled like a rag-doll. She stood up as the older girl noticed the little one, soaking wet and filthy – as always – and squawking, “Phan Liễu Liên! Tình yêu đang đến [Love is coming]!”

         The sight of the grubby little girl in such a hurried state made Liên laugh, “Làm chậm một chút [Slow down a bit].” The older girl said, “Bạn đang nói gì vậy [What are you saying]?” She caressed the girl’s hair and hunkered down, smiling at the little one, and attempted to calm her.

         Ái would not be calmed. Her breath was missing and her words came out in sputtering, indecipherable phrases.

         “Gì [What]? Nó là gì [What is it]?” Liên asked. “Điều gì đang làm phiền bạn [What is bothering you]?”

         The little girl clutched her scraped knee, inadvertantly smearing mud and blood into the fabric of her dress. “Tình yêu đang đến [Love is coming],” she declared, grimacing – now becoming fully cognizant of the damage she’d done to her knee.

         “Ý bạn là gì [What do you mean]?” she asked the red faced little girl.

         “Ông bà Toại [Mr. and Mrs. Toai]!” she said, cradling her damaged leg. “Họ mang theo những con chim vàng [They carry golden birds].”

         Liên blushed heartily, turning away and covering the smile she could not help but smile. Birds sang from afar and the world came to life! The amber radiance of the afternoon saturated her heart with childish dreams of the furthest horizons; her breast constricted and her breath grew short; she considered the state of her home and the things she must do before their arrival – she did not want them to be scared away by dirty dishes!

         The little girl caught the joyful blush and continued, “Gia đình bạn sẽ đồng ý chứ [Will your family agree]?” she asked.

         Phan Liễu Liên did not respond, but instead said goodbye to the little girl and started toward the house – followed close behind by Ái – and upon reaching her family home, she saw that the girl was correct: Mr. and Mrs. Toai stood before her family’s front door! She nearly got sick to her stomach at the prospect of it all – it was all so fast, it seemed! – and she hid behind the trunk of an avocado tree – the little girl gripping the back of her áo dài [dress] and giggling.

         Liên shushed the little one and unsuccessfully pushed her away. The grubby little one struggled to stay close to the beautiful older girl.

         The door opened and the families greeted one another, the bird cage was held aloft – her father then nodded and took the cage! – and then Mr. and Mrs. Taoi entered. Liên tip-toed across the yard to the side of the house – followed closely by Ái, of course – and peeping through the window, she saw the elder ones pouring tea, conversing, and smiling.

         Her heart dropped and following a sudden urge, Phan Liễu Liên ran from the house and out through the orchards, down the rows – again followed closely by the tom-boy, Ái – and they galloped through the teak trees and the field of tumbling pink showers and turning toward the tiny pond that no one ever visited – as it was rumored to carry a curse. She was fretting and tearful and Ái called out, “Tại sao bạn chạy [Why do you run]?”

         Liên’s red eyes scared the little girl. She did not say anything in response to Ái’s question, but instead removed her áo dài and left it carelessly upon the shore. The little girl grew excited by the sight of her beautifully full and fit body – a farm-girl’s muscles and stark tan-lines. Stepping forth into the muddy water, Liên cried-out as her feet sank deep into the muddy bottom, and then she fell face-first into the water. She came up gasping and sober.

         “Why are you swimming?” Ái asked.

         Liên dug her hands into the muddy bottom and smeared the mud in her hair.

         “What are you doing?” the little one continued.

         “Come into the water,” Liên invited.

         Ái undressed and presently joined the older girl in the pond. She was unable to resist the call of the cool water, and since the curse had already been unleashed and nothing bad had happened, she could think of no reason to avoid it any longer. Her feet squished in the mud and she giggled. Liên splashed the little one and soon they were both laughing.

         “You know my sister, Mỹ-Duyên?” the older girl began.

         “Yes, of course,” replied the little one.

“She was married more than a month ago.”

         “She is very lucky,” responded Ái.

         “Do you think so?”

         Ái smiled and nodded.

         “Now she is forced to work and live and make children with her ugly, American husband. Does that sound lucky to you?” asked Liên.

         “Children are a blessing,” the little said, sounding a bit rehearsed.

         “But making children is awful,” Liên declared, turning away and covering her bare breasts. “I will never do it.”

         Ái swished her hands through the water and blew bubbles with her mouth. “Why?” she asked.

         “Mỹ-Duyên is forced at night. Every night!”

The little one gasped.

“Do you know what that means?” she asked the little one.

Ái frowned and climbed out of the pond. “My mother told me to stay away from you, and now I know why.” The little girl dressed herself, while Liên wallowed in the water. Ái was soon dressed and turned to leave, but paused, saying, “You must return to your home. You should count your blessings while you have them.”

“Blessings!” Liên’s voice filled the valley and a flock of black birds sputtered out from the trees above. “It’s a curse!”

It was at this moment that a low rumble was heard by all – known by all to be the sound of the Americans. The little girl screamed out to Phan Liễu Liên, and she stood up at the sound – covered in mud – and scrambled out of the pond. She shoved her head and her arms into her áo dài and clutched the little girl to her wet breast. The rumble grew exponentially.

“I’m sorry, Ái.” It was the last thing she would say in this world.

The fiery bombardment overtook the girls and obliterated them, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

∞

         You throw the book into the sink and leave the bathroom, heading for the phone. This time you call your favorite person, your comfort person, your support person. Their face appears before you, in your mind’s eye, and you’re filled with anticipation. The line rings twice and their familiar voice answers:

         “Hello,” they say and you feel a warmth run through your body and you smile before asking how they are. “Fine, just eating lunch,” they say.

         “Oh, sorry, I can let you go,” you say, hoping they don’t go.

         “You okay?” they ask.

         You tell them about the books and the grey house, but leave out the fact that a book inexplicably appeared behind your bathroom mirror. They listen patiently as you try to explain the situation, but then you start hearing them moving dishes and opening and closing cupboards.

         When you get to the part about leaving the camera on the windowsill, they say, “Well, you’d better go back and get it. That’s an expensive thing to just leave there.”

         You ask them if they will come with you, but they just laugh.

“Please?” you plead with them.

         “No way. That place sounds creepy.”

         “That’s why I need you to come with me,” you explain.

         They think it over for a moment, taking a bite of their lunch and chewing into the receiver. “Fine, just let me finish eating and I’ll meet you there in, like… {chewing and breathing} how ‘bout an hour?”

         Greatly relieved, you thank them, and tell them to meet you at the end of the driveway. “Fine,” they say. You thank them again, but they don’t say anything and hang up the phone. You’re left feeling reassured. Eating would be a good idea, but you don’t feel hungry, so you turn on the TV, but then you can’t focus on what you’re watching and it starts to make you feel more anxious, so you turn it off and begin pacing the room. Your mind is spinning and soon you need to pee, but you’re afraid to go into the bathroom again.

         But, as previously implied, you are an intrepid one, so you use the toilet, grab the book, and sit on the edge of the bathtub with the book in your lap. You flip through the book, finding this story after a blacked out section that used to be the story and drawing of Ma Lai:

         You’ve passed the house before. Near the center of a border-town, lost in the overgrown shrubs -where chickadees winter- it grows its own camouflage, moss on the roof and lichen on the siding and a wooden fence around the back that is turning grey. There’s a hole where a knot used to be in one of the boards, but no one ever peeks through it, not even the neighborhood kids. The grass is frosty today, twinkling in the sunrise; around the back of the house, the raised garden-beds are bare; a well-organized tool shed, made from the same wood as the fence and the house, leans slightly with the northern wind. Stones walk to the sliding glass door, where an olive skinned old man sips a cup of coffee, watching the little birds outside.

         The sunrise sends shadows deep into the wrinkles of his face; cancer spots growing bigger, imperceptibly. His eyes are caves. There is no sound at the moment, aside from the softly ticking clock. Past the sunroom, up a step and down another, awaiting on vast shelves, crowded all together, are the broken spines of many books. Some are old, some older, some strange, some stranger, hardback, soft back, plain, ornate, and complex; and look! there’s our book,

         The grime on the shelves goes with the furniture; trails of clean here and there tell us which books we, sorry, he prefers. Their spines bent and wrinkled, like the man.

         Twirling dust is illuminated by a golden glow coming off of a saxophone in its stand. Its fingerings rubbed dull and its reed soggy and crumbling.

         A woman’s voice can be heard calling from the cellar, but what she’s saying is unclear. The man sets down his coffee and moves to the cellar door, opening it and pulling the string for light. He keeps one hand on his hip and the other gripped to the rail as he stomps down the steps. Everything takes longer than it used to.

         The groans of the steps are in tune with the man.

         Below, a tennis racket has fallen off the shelf. The man picks it up, turning it slowly in his hands. Gripping the handle, he brings his arm back and swings it, “Plock!” the man clicks his tongue. He adjusts the strings with shaky fingers. Tears well up in his eyes and he throws the racket into the corner of the basement. He walks up the stairs and turns out the light.

         He drops into place in his chair and tries to stop thinking. He can feel the cold in his joints. He sips his lukewarm coffee. The clock is ticking in the kitchen, and he wonders what it says. He shivers as he downs the dregs of the coffee. Sighing and standing up, he says, “Okay.”

         He crumples newspaper and piles it inside the iron stove; atop the ashes within, sticks across logs over wads of paper; flick, flick, flick, he lights the paper in three spots: the back, the middle, the front. Whoosh, the paper burns - a tiny sun rising before the canyons of his face. The wood crackles, and with two stiff breaths, the fire’s roaring and the man shuts the iron door part of the way.

         Sitting in his chair, he’s captivated by the particles in the air spinning in the daylight from the window, and listening to the rain and the crackling of fire; the place is as peaceful as it ever was, so the man takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, then opens them and snickers, almost laughs, walks to the shelf and searches for a book. He runs his fingers across the edges of each book, mumbling, and stops here. He goes pale at the sight of us. “Oh,” he murmurs, sliding our book out of its place, leaving that telltale trail in the dust. He wipes the cover with his sleeve. Did you feel his hand?

He sits down and puts on his readers and[1]

The rest of that page and the pages that follow are blank - white.

∞

         You pause, look at the clock and realize that you’re going to be late. Your legs are pins and needles from sitting on the edge of the tub too long, so you shake them out, and start getting ready. You stuff the book in your backpack and are presently running out the door. It’s about a mile to get there, so you move fast, now sure that your favorite will get there before you.

         You don’t want them to be there alone and hope they haven’t gone inside.

         But so then you get there and no one is at the end of the driveway and it’s way past the time you agreed on. “Shit,” you say, your breath coming out as steam. You make your way past the big puddles and crawl through the stickers up to the house.

         There they are! your favorite! climbing into the window! “Hey!” you yell. They turn; they fall.

         “YAA-GGH!” their voice echoes through the green valley. You watch their ankle twist and you hear it crack. Your favorite rests there momentarily before they get up and limp back up to the window.

         “Hey, sit down! That sounded bad!” you say, but they wave you over to follow them inside.

         “Give me a boost!” they say. 

         “Are you sure?” you ask, surprised by their audacity to enter the abandoned house, but then you realize, you too found the pull irresistible and did not think twice about entering yesterday.

         “Come on,” they say, holding their foot aloft for you to boost. You boost them up and they carefully move past the broken glass of the windowsill. They hold out their hand and pull you up into the house. “This place is great!” they say, running up to the big shelf in the living room and running their fingers along the spines of the books. “What’s up with these?”

         “What?” you ask.

         “I mean, none of these books have anything on them,” they continue, “No titles or anything.”

         “None of them?” you ask, absently watching them pull a book from the shelf, and before you can say anything further, your favorite opens the book. “Wait!” you shout, but they’re already reading. A few seconds later they drop the book on the floor, a tiny mushroom cloud of dust bursts from the rug.

         They look at you with fear in their eyes. The phone rings. You jump. You are both sweating now. Your favorite is quite cavalier, however, strolling over and picking up the receiver, “Hello?” they say. You can hear the tinny tones of the voice on the line, and the conversation is knitting your favorite’s brow. The voice stops and your favorite opens their mouth, but says nothing. Their eyes wander up to you in supplication. They hold out the phone to you.

         If you do not wish to take the call, please close book now.

         You take the receiver in your hand; you are an imprudent one.

         “Hello?” your voice sounds small.

         A hoarse-throated woman speaks, “Can I come out now?” she asks. You hear the dull thudding sound again, but now it’s coming through the telephone line.

         You drop the phone and step backward onto something round on the floor, nearly falling again. You pick up the object, “Where did that come from?” you ask, but your favorite doesn’t reply – they’re looking quite terrified by now.

         “What is it?” they ask, turning on a flashlight.

         You hold it up.

         Your favorite states the obvious, “It’s a tennis ball.”

         Turning the ball, you find a spot of blood on it. You drop it. The ball rolls – unnaturally – across the room and toward the cellar door, which opens with a whine of the hinges, and it bounces down the steps.

         “What is this place?” your favorite whispers, but doesn’t make any moves to get away, instead, they stand as if they’re bracing for a fall. It’s then that you notice the floor has slanted, not a lot, but noticeably toward the cellar door.

         “We should go,” you suggest, but your favorite has this manic gleam of curiosity in their eyes, and with a sideways grin, they pick out another book from the shelf. “Don’t!” you say, but they don’t listen.

         “What’s with this book? It’s like someone blacked everything out… oh wait, here we go,” they read aloud: “He sits down and puts on his readers and clears his throat… Who sits down?” they ask.

         Your eyes are watering now and you feel dizzy. “The man in the basement,” you say; your chest grows heavy with dread. You rummage through your backpack.

“Who’s the man in the basement?” they ask.

         “I don’t know,” you say.

Pulling out the book, you now find that the unfinished lines continue where you left off. You read:

He sits down and puts on his readers and clears his throat, flipping past many pages, and finally stops at this page of the book:

While I was rocking him back and forth, and shushing, and as the baby’s eyes drooped closer to sleep, I saw a woman’s face in the window. Pale and with a hint of sadness in her eyes, the woman stared at me. The baby began to cry and the woman’s face vanished. Startled, I hurried down the hall, put the baby in my wife’s lap, and was out the door without a word.

I could hear her across the road, pushing through the tall grass, under a new moon. She sobbed as she moved through the night. Stars and two tiny lights illuminated the outside stairs; it was enough for me to set out at a desperate sprint: down the wooden steps and accidentally sliding onto my side as I hit a patch of gravel, my feet still trying to push forward. I got up and ran.

I followed the sound of her crying and the moan of her gravelly breathing as she rounded the pond and went into the forest, pushing her way through the bushes. I paused for a moment, hoping that my eyes might adjust, but the flashing remnants of my baby’s nightlight streaked across my pupils. I ran toward the sound of snapping branches and some vaguely audible music. She sang a song in Vietnamese as she fled through the woods. It was a mournful song.

Brambles slashed at my arms and knocked me around. I squinted to keep my eyes from getting poked out. My footsteps were high and slow, once being struck by the edge of a fallen branch and once falling on a fallen log, and with all the rustle of my travel through the thick forest, I lost track of where the woman had gone. I stopped and looked, but I could neither see where I was going nor where I had come from. I was turned around and out of breath; I’m not what I used to be; I stopped and gasped for air. My eyes saw nothing, aside from the tiny sliver of moon that peeked through the treetops. Then, her singing cut off abruptly, and the croaking frogs were all I could hear. I had lost her.

I just needed to retrace my steps, I thought, and make sure not to lose my head in the darkness. Just like the time at boot camp when we got too high and had to walk back to our tents in the middle of the night. We’d had no flashlights. Laramy had started screaming, which had then sent the rest of us into a panic.

I was alone in the dark, and a sinking, shameful fear filled me up to my throat. I tried to picture my baby smiling, but now I couldn’t even recall his face. This sent me deeper into the fear. I flailed around desperately, trying to hum my favorite song, Proud Mary, but just ended up humming nonsense.

Then the sharp, gravelly, woman’s voice rang out, reverberating through the forest,

         “Are you lost?” she asked me.

I don’t know why, but I covered my head.

“Who’s there?” I cried.

         The woman spoke gently, “It’s only me.”

“Do I know you?”

         “Of course,” she said, “you know me.”

The silence was immense. I felt something wet and spongy brush across my face. I flailed around wildly, crashing through the lower limbs of a tree, stiff slashes across my arms and chest.

“Who’s there?!” I yelled.

My echo sounded cold as it faded, but there was no answer. I shivered and pushed back into the thick underbrush, but was stopped by a thorn piercing the back of my neck. I cried out.

An impossible ball of blue light had flickered on, and was growing.

It moved unnaturally, a few feet from the ground; it’s pale light pulsed, filling the forest with its bluish, fluorescent glow. I stared at it, spellbound - for how long? I don’t know - but soon found that my eyes watered at the intensity of the light. I wiped them with the back of my hand. The ball didn’t move, aside from its throbbing. It was about three feet across and perfectly round. The only thing I could hear was the sound of my own labored breathing and someone’s thudding heart.

         Then, without a thought, I stepped into it.

I found myself in a small tavern: short bar, six barstools, and a handful of tables around the room. A stout barkeep was drying glasses; he did not look up from his work. I sat down on a stool, enrapt by the bottles lined up along the wall behind the bar, illuminated by an unseen blue light.

I heard the woman from the forest speak: “A small glass of dark star, please,” she said. The bartender set a tiny glass before her, reached behind the bar, and filled it with the strangest substance. I could not take my eyes away from the glass. I thoughtlessly picked up the drink. Its magnificent glow illuminated my bones through the skin of my  fingers.

         “What is this?” I watched the contents as they spiraled into the center of the glass, sparks and miniscule bits of light danced hypnotically; spinning galaxies, I thought, not fully understanding what that meant.

         “That’s dark star, our top seller,” the bartender said plainly, as if he’d said it a hundred times.

The woman leaned over the bar, and I felt something like a soggy sponge on my arm. I looked down and saw shining organs hanging from the woman’s neck; her torso was entirely missing, aside from the innards. She sat watching me closely, a somber smile came to her face. “You’ll love it,” she said.

         “But what’s in it?” I asked, the smell of wet metal filling my senses.

“That’s up to you, really,” she blinked rapidly. 

         “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

And then she was sobbing again.

         “Who are you?” I demanded. “What’s your name, I mean. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

         She sighed, shaking, “My name?” she asked as I downed my drink. And the last thing she said was the last thing I remember clearly,

“Some people call me this, and some people call me that. None of this or that or anything else really matters though. Just try and enjoy yourself now.”

Lights flashed and I fell into a spinning, heaving tunnel. I could feel stars within me, and as I looked down, I saw the universe silhouetted in the shape of my body. Gravity pulled me into a ball, stars crashed into one another and exploded brightly. I opened my mouth and the sound of a ringing bell came out, deep and low. I was overcome as I watched the universe collapse. That was the last of thing I remember.

I woke up in the woods. It was about mid-morning, and the sun shined through the branches of the trees. I was laid out, on top of a flattened bush, still wearing my pajamas from the night before. There were a few holes torn in the pants, and dried lines of blood on my arms. Looking around, I saw no signs of the woman, the bar, or the glowing sphere.

Birds were singing in the distance: “Coo-a-roooo. Coo-a-roooo.”

I found my way back to the gravel path and stumbled back home, plodding along in my slippers, the sun baking the back of my neck. Up the stairs and down the walkway, my mind was a blur. I tried the door, but it was locked, which was out of the ordinary, as we never locked our door. I knocked.

I was surprised as the door opened: there before me, inside of my home, was someone I had never seen before.

         They stared at me blankly, “Can I help you?”

I stammered, “I… I… What are… you’re…”

A petite, almond-eyed woman called out from behind them, “Who is it?” I pushed them aside and saw my baby. They looked at me as if I were a madman, head cocked to the side, a placating smile.

         A less than friendly expression on their face as they stepped in front of me and continued, “Is there something you needed?”

         I grabbed them by the collar and tried to pull them out, “This is my house! Get out!” But they were much stronger than me, and threw me on the ground.

         After the moment of shock had passed, they composed them self and commanded, “You need to leave!”

I looked at my house in desperation, but it only stared at me.

         “But this is my house!” I screamed, getting back up and running to the door. They grabbed me by the collar again and threw me down, this time my head hit the walkway with a thud and a flash. They moved inside and slammed the door; the deadlock clicked into place. The baby wailed inside and they shouted that they were calling the police and that I had better leave.

So I walked up the trail for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but simply couldn’t. I sat in the shade of a pine tree, watching golden birds fly by for an hour or more, trying to piece together what had happened.

As the morning passed, I hiked into the mountains to the west, and followed a creek until I couldn’t walk anymore. I got thirsty, so I knelt down and drank the water. By that time, the sun was sinking behind the hills.

My mind was empty.

It’s cold now, on this mountainside. And somehow, even though my stomach is empty, the only thing I’m craving is a small glass of dark star.

         The rest of the pages are blank. Your favorite is pressed up against your back, warm and comforting, reading over your shoulder. You can feel them breathing on your neck.

         “So, the man in the basement wrote this?” your favorite asks.

         You shrug. 

         “Is dark star some kind of liquor?”

         “It’s a Grateful Dead song,” you say. You like old music.

         “Hmm,” they look at shelf, “So are these books all the same then?”

You don’t answer.

“What’s up with the lady with her organs all hanging out? That was gross.”

         “Her name is Ma-Lay I think, or Ma-Lie, not sure how to say it.”

         “Who is she?” they ask.

         “Some sort of ghost or something. From Vietnam.”

         “Vietnam?”

         “Yeah,” you close the book.

         “So, this guy was a soldier?” they suggest.

         “Maybe,” you say, “I wonder if he’s still down there.”

         “Wait, he’s actually in the basement?!” At the chime of a bell, you turn and gaze, wide-eyed at the cellar door; some unfamiliar music emanates from below. The doorway is aglow with flickering, watery light, illuminating the stairway down to the basement.

Dưới ánh sáng mặt trời, tôi có thể ra ngoài chơi không? Trong bóngtối của đêm, tôi có thể luôn ở lại.

         “We need to get out of here,” you say absently, as you get up and find yourself walking closer to the glowing entryway. “Let’s get out of here,” your voice is now only a murmur, and your favorite does not hear you. They are at the doorway, one step down the stairs. “Wait, no!” you feel like you’re shouting but it comes out very quiet; the strange music – lute, zither, sáo, and that voice of gravel – fills the space within and without you, mesmerizing and comforting you. The words appear in the open book before you: “In the sunlight, can I go out to play? In the darkness of the night, I can always stay.”

The notes of the music grow more and more dissonant as the zither and the sáo find themselves in different keys, building up a cacophony of ringing tones, filling the house with a stomach-churning sound. You grab your favorite’s hand, trying to stop them from going into the basement, but their hand is clammy – almost oily - and your grip slides away, sending your favorite headfirst down the stairs. With each step, you can hear the cracking –of wood or bones, you cannot tell. You scream and scramble to help them, but it’s too late.

         Your favorite is on the concrete floor below, arms twisted to one side, head to the other, and the bottom of one foot touching their nose. You cannot look away, though you wish you could. You feel instant guilt for letting your favorite’s hand slip through your fingers; you could not have stopped any of this.

         The music stops. The cellar is aglow.

         And so then something happens and you hear the floorboards crack. Your footing slips and you fall down a few steps on your butt. The door closes itself above you and you hear a deadbolt lock. You get up and pound on the door, turning the knob and pushing with your shoulder, but to no avail – the lock is on the outside and the door is made of thick wood. You scream - in a frenzy – and try to push your way through the immovable door.

         Exhausted after your grand efforts, your hands bleeding, your vision blurred, you collapse on the top step, sobbing and gasping. Looking down at the blue radiance below; you see your favorite in that horribly twisted position, and you remember the story you read about Franklin impaled on the post. You wretch, throwing up nothing, spitting and heaving.

         “No. No. No,” you try to convince yourself this isn’t happening, but it can’t be denied now: your favorite will die. You fly into a rage at the door once again, but soon quit and take a step down toward your favorite, but then notice they are sliding in that unnatural way, as if on a track, back and forth along the floor. You drop back into a sitting position at the top of the stairs. You stare at your favorite for longer than you should. You’re not even wondering what you should do; you’re simply horrified by the mechanical movement below. The air is cold and damp; you are shivering; your teeth are clicking loudly.

         As your panic softens, you remember the book. You’re holding on fiercely to your backpack. It’s pressed against your chest; your arms have locked up and it takes a moment to get them unfolded from around the bag. Your fingers have curled up into your palms, making your hands unusable at the moment, so you pry them apart as best you can, and soon you can wiggle them freely. You open the bag and pull out the book, which feels warm – must be from your body heat. You might find something there, you think, something useful or some sort of explanation. As you read, the shivering ceases and your body begins to warm again:

The ringing telephone causes the man to drop the book. Taking a deep breath and pulling off his glasses, he stares at the phone. He pinches his lips between his fingers as the ringing continues, metallic and unnerving. The sound brings the man’s shoulders up to his ears. By the tenth ring, he has sunk down in his chair, stiff as a corpse, anxiously awaiting the end of the horrible sound.

He reaches behind the chair and unplugs the wire from the wall, and the room is again awash with the calm hum of rain and the snap of firewood. He sits down and, again, breathes in deeply, trying to relax his body. It doesn’t work. He grabs his pipe, inspecting what is left and, pleased with the remnants, rummages through his sweater pocket, and pulls out a lighter.

So, then he mostly fades into a hazy softness. Leaning back, he whispers, “Typical daydream,” and goes into a dream.

In his dream, he is in his chair, awakened from his nap. He looks around and everything looks the same as it normally does, but somehow, he knows it’s not his home. The book is in his lap. He opens it, but finds only black lines.

“I am thirsty at the bottom of a well,” he says. He turns the page; it is all blacked out. Then, something strange happens: the black lines overflow past the margins, over the edge of the book and onto his sleeves.

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy       

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

“I’m under the bottom of the well,” he thinks or reads or says. As he turns the page, , 

shadow pours out of the book, filling the room, and not just the room now, butyyy

every inch, like concrete, inside and outside of everything. He screams.yyyy

He awakens. The sun is setting behind the curtains now, and he hears a clock ticking in the kitchen. He picks up the book and a photograph falls out. It lays face down on the ground and he stares at it. A tremor runs through the room, and he goes into the kitchen to check the time: 3:15. “Better eat something,” he whispers.

After eating a salmon filet and brown rice, with broccoli, the man returns to his chair and his book.

The first paragraph has been blacked out.

He drops the book, moves to the front door and checks the lock; it’s still locked. He checks every window; they’re latched. He grabs a flashlight and waddles down the stairs to check the cellar. His heartbeat and his heavy breathing are all he hears.

Shining the flashlight into the corner, he finds his tennis racket on the concrete floor; it’s torn to shreds: splinters of wood and strings splayed across the floor; there is blood on the handle. He runs up the stairs, panting now.

Plugging the phone back in to the wall, he picks the receiver up and listens to the dial tone. The drone calms him. He closes his eyes and hums along with it. He is crying now. The moment is interrupted by three ascending tones and an automated operator: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.” He hangs up, looks the room over, picks the phone up again and dials. It’s ringing.

“Hello?” says a child’s voice.

“Hi,” the man gathers his bearings, “Is your mom there?”

“Yeah, I’ll go get her,” the phone drops and the kid yells, “Mom! The phone’s for you!”

He holds his breath, trying to hear the other side. “Mm-hello?” the woman says, pausing, “Hello?” she says again.

“Hi, it’s me,” the man says.

“What?” she asks.

“It’s me.”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not this time fucker!” and there’s a click followed by the dial tone again.

The man does not move until the three loud tones and the operator bring him back again: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.” He leans back in his chair, feeling nothing, feeling empty.

The sun is gone and it’s full dark now. The seasonally abundant garden is dead, waiting to manifest again, and the chickadees are quietly tucked away somewhere unseen. The rain is falling, forming puddles in the driveway outside; the man’s dead Chevy sits motionless. A kid shouts from a hill across the river, echoing through the valley. A car drives by. The house is silent and its lights cannot be seen from the road. It isn’t really any different than any other house, maybe a little more private, a little less lively, but ultimately forgettable.

Inside, where nothing is stirring, no fire crackles, and nothing is living, aside from the man, and the air is so cold that it doesn’t move at all and the books on the shelf don’t move, the man shivers and opens his book again. He pulls up his collar and wraps up in a dirty wool blanket, attempting to get comfortable, and reads:

You lived in the house for years, with a family at first, then by yourself for much much longer. It’s very early – still dark out -  and it’s raining as you get ready for work. The Chevy is giving you grief again, but after a little finesse you’re on your way to the garage.

You say hello to no one before you board and start the diesel engine; it rumbles below you. Strolling back and inspecting the seats – which you failed to clean yesterday – you find a photograph, face down on the ground. You pick it up and see a father and child smiling in front of a Denny’s, waving to the camera on a sunny day. You tumble into a fantasy:

“Dad,” the child says, pulling a blanket up to their chin, “Why are you so big?”

         “Big? Well, I’m not big from my perspective.”

“But you’re the biggest person there is. How come I’m not big like you are?”

The father rubs his stubbly chin and tells the following bedtime story:

One sunny day the pelican stopped at a pond. There he saw a chickadee splashing around. “You are so small,” he said. The chickadee looked at him and laughed. “You are so tall, and I am just normal size,” she said. The pelican laughed at the chickadee, “I am not tall! I am normal size!” he exclaimed. The two birds could not come to an agreement. So, they flew into the woods to ask the wise owl. “Mr. Owl,” began the pelican, “Will you tell chick adee that she is tiny?” The chickadee int

errupted, “Mr. Owl, please tell pelican

that he is giant!” The owl thought

for a moment “Well, you are both

right and wrong. He is giant, she

is tiny, but I am normal size.” The two birds were not happy with his answer. So they stopped at the library for a book on

bird sizes. “Listen to this,” said

the Pelican, reading:

Judging size requires a foil for which to make an accurate comparison. If you are

unable to decide on

a normalized foil,

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A train whistle across the valley catches the man’s ear, drawing his attention from his reading. He decides that he’s too high to read and begins to build a fire, collecting wood from outside, crumpling newspaper and tee-peeing kindling around it. Flick flick flick, it flashes to life, illuminating the room and sending warmth across the man’s face. The fire pops and snaps and the man closes his eyes, concentrating on the pleasant heat. He soon adds a log to the fire, adjusting it slightly so as not to snuff out the flame. He sits down and listens to the cast iron groan as it heats up.

Then he hears the woman in the cellar again. He partially closes the stove’s door and moves across the little house toward the sound. A tremor runs through reality, stretching itself into a string running parallel with the floor, clear, but warping the space around it. The man grabs ahold of it and feels a familiarity and comfort as he grips the strange thing and follows the string to its source: the doorknob to the cellar; but then he just stares at it, helplessly, unable or unwilling to open the door. An immeasurable moment passes before the man blinks, coming back to reality, the string of warped space forgotten.

“I’d better hit Thriftway before they close,” he whispers to no one.

It’s full night and snowing heavily as the man parks his Chevy in the mostly vacant parking lot. The fluorescent glow from the big windows reminds the man of a television. His boots crunch in the fresh powder and his steaming breath is blown away to the south. A boy is at the sliding door, reaching up to lock it as the man runs up. 

         “Excuse me. Hate to burden you, or keep you from closing, but I just need some fish.”

“Sorry, we’re just closing.” The boy looks at his watch and sighs, “well… okay, but I gotta lock this door so no one else comes in. Just ring the bell when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, I’ll be quick.”

He shuffles down the bread aisle, heading for the meat coolers in the back; James Taylor sings through the tin can speakers hanging from the ceiling. There is hardly anything left in the fish section: some mussels, pre-breaded fish, and an oddly shaped slab of whitefish. He grabs two plastic wrapped trays and brings the load up front, where there was no one to be seen. A sign reads: “Ring the bell,” so the man taps the bell and looks around. No one is in sight; the boy is missing. Setting the fish on the conveyor, he hollers, “Hello? I’m ready to check out!” His voice disturbs the warm tones of refrigerator hums and easy listening. He waits a minute, but there is still no reply. By now, Frank Sinatra is inviting anyone and everyone to come fly with him.

He grows impatient and hits the bell three times, “Hello! Hello! I’m all done, ready to check out!” The boy trots up to the counter, coughing and tucking in his shirt.

“Hey, sorry ‘bout that. I was… uh... cleaning up back there.” The scanner beeps and the boy looks up at the register, “Four dollars and fifty-two cents.” While the man fumbles in his pocket, the boy tries to look him in the eye and gives a little grin. “Hey, didn’t you used to drive school buses around here?”

The man clears his throat, “Yeah, few years back. Don’t do it anymore though.”

“Those kids drive you crazy, huh?”

“What do you mean?” the man asks, now staring at the boy.

“Oh, I just imagine it’d drive you crazy to have to deal with all those kids.”

The man just stares at the boy. 

“You know, all the screaming and fighting and…” the boy swallows, “Like, jumping around and, like, not sitting down and all that.”

“I never had a problem with it,” the man says blandly and counts out a handful of change on the counter.

         The boy nods, chewing his lower-lip. “I think you were my bus driver for a while.”

“Where do you live?” the man asks.

         “Way up near Cheese-Saw, almost to Cheese-Saw anyway.”

“That was a tough route. ‘specially in the winter.”

         “Yeah, those hills are steep.” The boy chuckles, “I remember you used to give us kids candy on Halloween, and extra if we had a costume.”

“Hm,” the man finishes counting the change on the counter, “Four fifty-two,” he says, grabbing his fish and waving. “Have a good one kid.” He walks to the automatic door, but stops just before running into the thing.

“Oh, sorry, lemme, just…” the boy runs over with an oversized keychain, “I’ll have to open that for you.” He unlocks the door and pushes them apart; the man turns sideways and slips out. “Hey!” the boy shouts after the man, “Do you remember me? Y’know from back when you were a bus-driver?”

“Sure I do, your mom was always watching out the window when you got on.”

“Yeah, she… she’s like that. Always worrying and stuff.”

“Well, okay. Good seeing you. ‘night.”

         The boy shouts, “Do you remember my name?” 

But the man is already getting into his vehicle. He pretends that he didn’t hear the kid and starts his car.

∞

         The music is coming from the basement again and you stop reading for a moment. Your favorite is now sliding back and forth – deeper into the dark basement. The singing and the music make you stand up and start down the steps. This is a bad idea, you think.

         You are a clever one.

         But you continue down anyway, now feeling a physical as well as a mental pull toward the source of the unseen blue light. The music is terrible and immense! The gravelly singing is all around you now, holding you captive. The book is still open in your hands, but now there are words falling out of it and trickling through a clear string that leads down the stairs and into the basement. You brace yourself against the stair’s railing, fighting gravity now, and feeling the words trickle like water through your hair:

Headlights illuminate empty streets dirty snow green glowing radio dial Proud Mary fade out “Rolling down the river, doesn’t that sound nice

right about now? Well, maybe this summer we’ll all be rolling down

the river. ‘til then, we’ll keep things rolling after a word from our sponsor... 

         And now you hear the voices leaving the book, elongating and warping, as if from a broken radio, far away, as the words continue down the string, and somehow you find yourself further down the stairs:

“Everywhere in our beautiful valley, there’s folks working hard

to keep our town going strong. Without you, we would be lost

in that rat race, threatening our way of life. We’re simple

folk here, but thankfully, we have each other. And here

at Heinleiner’s Farms, we take pride in…” The radio

turns off Turns down Juniper St. tires slip Flying

now a light on the hillside turning off, cold stars

dark stars southern endings of northern lights.

         You’re not even on your feet anymore, but lifted, floating, stretching, and you can see your favorite sliding back and forth toward the concrete wall. And you see the man, now halfway inside of the mouse hole, his distended belly slowly being torn off by the edges of the hole. Blood is flowing toward the hole too: great gobs of flesh and matter, all shifting, as if on a track, toward that tiny hole. And there she is! afloat before you, a sorrowful expression on her face. You scream, but nothing comes out.

         She speaks to you: “You have brought yourself here,” her voice rattles the room. “Though I have welcomed you, I am sorry that you must suffer.”

         Your favorite, with their twisted limbs, scrambles on the floor, as if trying to get loose. The track is pulling them faster now toward the mouse hole.

         The book is bellowing now, but the voice has become overdriven, fuzzy, as if being run through some antiquated walkie-talkie.

         Your favorite speaks with gravel in their throat now, “The reader is gone,” they say, but it doesn’t sound like them anymore. Tears are falling sideways from your face, gravity is pulling them toward the white concrete. The foundation of the house is sinking now, everything is leaning toward that tiny hole, where the bottoms of the man’s feet are now being forced inside.

         You try to push away, but it’s impossible to move in any other direction but toward an infinitesimal spot, splattered red and viscous all around. Your thoughts are sucked into the hole too. You flail and struggle, but it does no good.

         “You have done this,” your favorite’s neck cracks as they twist to look at you, their legs now straightening out with gravity.

         Ma-Lai frowns, “We have all done this,” she assures you, drifting toward you. You try to look away, but she’s so beautiful, and you must see her now; you must be her now. Your body relaxes, as it is held firmly within the grasp of her gaze now, and you feel the track, as you are hooked along the spine by the pulleys and chains that begin moving you with precision.

         “Who is he?!” you scream in someone else’s voice.

You are an uncompromising explorer.

         Her lips kiss yours; she tastes of candy and decay. “He is no one. You are no one. I am no one. We are.”

         You hear the window to the side yard open with a screech, followed by a deep groaning sound. You look up and see yourself outside, holding a video camera in one hand, a sickened look on your face. The camera settles on the windowsill and that self is gone, the sound of you running down the driveway is soon lost in the cacophony of the basement.

         Your joints are cracking and there is a great pressure pulling on you. Your thoughts slow to the point of not thinking; you breathe and feel an indescribable connection. The words continue to slide down the string, louder and louder, in voices you both recognize and have never heard:

She was returning to her birth-place, her nursery and source; and the grandiose dreams of childhood were springing back to life and shining in the lovely dry winter sunlight.

Her scalp tightened and her body was alive! Really alive!

The gateway of her youth, still standing in greening bronze, welcomed her as she eased the moped along the carriage-way, tears flowing freely now and blurring her vision – making it all seem like a dream. The garden fence had been replaced and flowers bloomed on winding vines. The flame trees, the jackfruit and tamarind, the tiny Teak she’d climbed as a girl had grown so tall! Some had fallen with age and had been replaced by saplings. Liên sighed. Watching the flutter of their leaves made her long to hold them and be with them and be them. The sweet smell of hibiscus and sweet peas and manila grass –just cut! – filled her senses with joy and she smiled as she had not for more years than she knew.

         56 years had passed since she’d left her home as a young woman.

         And now she was returning, as a young woman.

Mỹ-Duyên was on the patio, sitting in a wicker chair, with her nose in a steaming tea-cup; her eyes were closed. The afternoon was somnolent, and she was one step from sleep when she heard the little motor and the crackling gravel. Her old eyes opened leisurely, and her elegant gaze fell upon the beautiful woman on a motor-bike. Reaching for her glasses on the arm of her chair, she squinted to see her precious and unexpected visitor. Through the lenses, she could make out what appeared to be a specter, an apparition in the dazzling haze of half-sleep. Who is it? she wondered, she must be a relative, but what child is this?

         The brakes squeaked and Liên leaned the moped against an avocado tree at the end of the orchard, and she trotted up to Mỹ-Duyên, smiling brightly.

         Adjusting her robe, the old woman called to Liên, “Và đây là ai, mà tôi nhận ra, nhưng không biết [And who is this, that I recognize, but do not know]?”

         Liên was sunlight and fresh air, “Tôi ước được leo lên cây tếch một lần nữa trước khi tôi già [I wish I could climb the teak tree again before I grow old].”

         Mỹ-Duyên blinked, expressionless and drowsy.

         Liên giggled and continued, “Là tôi, Mỹ-Duyên. Chị gái của bạn. [It's me, Mỹ-Duyên. Your sister.]”

         The wicker creaked as the woman leaned forward, her tea spilling on the ground. She set the cup down.

         Liên continued, “Chuyện gì đã từng xảy ra với tình yêu của bạn, Dương Ái Dung [What happened to your love, Dương Ái Dung]?”

         Miniscule creases formed on the woman’s cheeks and temples, a glint of sun burst from her eye.

         The young woman’s fingers caressed sister’s face, “Má lúm đồng tiền con nít, da voi [Baby dimples, elephant skin].”

         “Chà, chính là bạn! Liễu Liên của tôi đã trở về với tôi [Well, it's you! My Liễu Liên has returned to me]. Thật là thích thú cho đôi mắt cổ xưa [What a delight for ancient eyes]!”

         The sisters held hands and felt a familiarity from long ago. And it was a magnificent joy.

         “Em gái! Chị tôi! Chị tôi! Chị tôi! [Sister! My sister! My sister! My sister!],” she chanted, enfolding Liên’s slim body in her arms, caressing the tender skin of her shoulders and back, and laughing tears. “Đến! Đến bên trong! Chúng ta có rất nhiều điều để nói với nhau [Arrive! Come inside! We have so much to talk about].” She pulled her sister by her twiggy arms, but Liên pulled away.

         “Tôi không thể. Tôi xin lỗi [I cannot. I'm sorry].”

         “Nhưng bạn không bị nguyền rủa! Bạn có phải [But you are not cursed! Are you]?” their smiles faded and Liên looked to the ground.

“Nó theo sau. Mãi mãi. Xin lỗi chị [It follows. Forever. Sorry].”

         My-Duyen ran her fingers through her sister’s silky hair, “Mọi thứ đều tốt. Bây giờ tôi đã nhìn thấy khuôn mặt xinh đẹp của bạn một lần nữa [Everything is good. Now I have seen your beautiful face again].”

         Liên blushed.

         The old woman leaned for support on her sister, “Bạn có hài lòng không, tình yêu của tôi [Are you satisfied, my love]?”

         A dove called from the orchard, “Coo-a-roooo.”

         Liên twisted her fingers, “Không [No].”

         The bird trilled and called again, “Coo-a-roooo”

         The afternoon sighed and whispered and an orange cat stretched on a high shelf. The sisters watched the trees in the wind. The cat hopped down and rubbed itself on Liên’s leg, purring. Then there was a shifting and creaking, within the house, before that familiar dull thudding sound made the sisters look toward the bomb shelter. Liên cried out involuntarily and moved away from her sister. Mỹ-Duyên eased back into her chair.

         “Âm thanh đó là gì [What is that sound]? Liên asked.

         “Biết chết liền [Die if I know],” she replied.

         “Tôi phải đi bây giơ [I have to go now].  Nhưng hãy nhớ rằng tình yêu của chúng ta là vĩnh cửu [But remember that our love is eternal]. Bạn sẽ không bao giờ thiếu tôi. Và anh sẽ không bao giờ thiếu em [You will never be without me. And I'll never be without you].”

         “Em gái yêu quý nhất của tôi. Em gái tôi [My dearest sister. My sister].” The old woman murmured as her sister ran to the moped and vanished, again, in a twisting cloud of dust.

         Mỹ-Duyên fell fast asleep before the dust settled. Her sister was the last person she spoke to in this life. Well, her and you.