《The Deep Calls》 The Calling The Siren''s have been calling me for a thousand nights. I keep finding myself floating on my back in an ocean too calm to be real, not even the most docile of nights in the Atlantic are this tranquil. The sky is a bursting violet, with depth of a million layers of purple hues, and the moon. The moon is a vile thing a bright-red ball of fire, composed as a single entity, beckoning me to drown, drown, drown. I keep on wondering why it didn''t just burn me up right there. Dreams haunting a man that doesn''t dream. And here I am, Monday morning, waking up on the curb of a desolate Canon City street, after interviewing five prostitutes about their biggest trials and tribulations on a Sunday, fascinating and insightful, but hell, it makes for a rough morning. Dean Lamper, a man known by little, strung together by booze, cheap cigars, and just enough morals to stay on the outside of Uncle Sam''s cage, where slavery and torture are nothing but a common sense understanding, like getting wet a water-park. Big breaks don''t happen to me, just to all of my friends, acquaintances, and enemies. Always told I was going to make it one day. At thirty-five years old, I see a rickety tin-house in the Nevada desert, a bundle of sticks somewhere down a long stretch of beaten road that eventually turns into sand. Saying you''re an investigative journalist is like saying you shit, piss, and breath air, being one is a different story, not too many people are the kind of risk-taking adrenaline junkie that is required by the profession when it''s done right. Who am I to talk? I''m sitting in a New Mexico Motel, couldn''t tell you which city, region, county, just that I''m here, and I''m surrounded by a bunch of shivering, masked toto''s brandishing AK-47''s like NERF guns. When you''re a nobody like me with zero dependents, with an ounce of intelligence, self-hatred and calculated stupidity becomes a way of life, not a one-night stand. Hey. If I die, it won''t make any difference if I was billionaire or just a man with a thousand in my back account, twenty in my pocket, three quarters up my ass and two pennies underneath my tongue, now would it? ¡°I fucking run New Mexico, man¡± ¡°Hold on a second¡± I was still in the process of unloading my equipment. ¡°Is this guy fucking serious?¡± A teenager squirming with his rifle looks at a male no-more grown than him, with a facial expression conveying that it''s time to jump the cranky geezer. ¡°Yeah. He''s Dean Lamper.¡± He wanted to say more, I could tell. Maybe I worked with his pops, had dinner a couple nights, or perhaps it was one of those drunken stupors I left bloody and it was time to enact papa''s revenge. Lord knows there a-lot of bastards out there who want me gone. ¡°That''s right. I am.¡± Notebook in my hands, recorder to my chest, video-camera on a stand. It''s time to go. ¡°Now do that over again.¡± I say. ¡°I fucking run New Mexico!¡± He sheered the muzzle a few inches from my face, I didn''t flinch and luckily, he didn''t take that as a challenge, I took it as a queue to establish the credence of my hairy ball-sack. ¡°Your boys besides you, do they run New Mexico, or is that just you?¡± ¡°We fucking run it.¡± The boy who knew my name proudly exclaimed. ¡°And what do you call yourselves?¡± ¡°The Chain Gang of Bullet Ives¡± Yeah, it was cooler than I thought it would be. I look into his eyes, and turn my head like a curious dog, and left with a wide smile, followed by a chuckle. The Chain Gang of Bullet Ives. ¡°Cool name¡± ¡°I came up with that shit¡± A man, but scrawny and tweaked out, wearing a graphic t-shirt so he was still a boy, came from the back. ¡°Where did you hear it in, a cartoon? See, I don''t watch that stuff anymore, only when I visit my niece in California, and she watches cable now. It''s not my choice, my brother is just trying to grow her into a road-warrior or some shit.¡± I ran the story on a website I''m chief editor and co-owner of, the very next day. I just didn''t expect it to be with two black eyes, a dislocated shoulder, a bruised rib, and of-course, a bloody nose. And the website if you''re wondering gets fifteen thousand unique visitors a month, that''s about three hundred dollars in revenue, just before you think I''m all Hollywood. I''m still in New Mexico, just sipping on some Mescal, Pascal Williams besides me, co-owner of DespotsAndDaeoms.net, who is more than happy about our website crashing on a Wednesday, one-hundred thousand unique visitors in the last hour alone. ¡°It was a good idea, wasn''t it?¡± Pascal said with a shit-eating grin on his face. ¡°What was?¡± I turned, and then gasped in agony, resigning to staring at a bunch of rolling tumbleweeds turning on black-asphalt while my partner giggles like a school-girl. It''s fine, the Mescal I''m drinking is damn good. ¡°The secret camera? The audio recorder I stitched to your chest? This is going viral, Dean. This is what we''ve been fucking searching for!¡± He goes for a high-five, I''m too fucked up to give it back. ¡°Whoa. I enjoy the enthusiasm, buddy. And I share it, too. But I didn''t come out of this scotch-free, on-top of the teenage psychos probably riding to cut my head off as we speak.¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°Fuck em.¡± He leans over me from behind, wrapping arms around my neck, kissing my temple. ¡°We''re going to get the credit we deserve. After everything we''ve been through together.¡± ¡°Get off me.¡± I said, unable to push down a smirk any longer. ¡°We did, didn''t we?¡± ¡°Hey. I got something for you. Something really good. I was going to tell you earlier, but this all happened.¡± His voice breaks. ¡°No. Really good is an understatement, this story is fucking crazy.. right up your alley. I''ll be helping you with everything in the back-end, but I can''t join you in the field with all of the attention we''re getting.¡± ¡°Yeah I get. You know how I like to do my work, anyways.¡± ¡°Hey.¡± I cut off Pascal. ¡°Despots or Daemons?¡± ¡°Fucking Daemons. Like you''ve never seen.¡± ¡°Huh. Consider my interest piqued. Is it just hearsay? How much do you know?¡± Pascal paces in a circle behind me, I can tell how much is on his mind by the words he''s unconsciously whispering. ¡°Suspend your disbelief for a moment and take a ride with me.¡± ¡°I''ve been suspending disbelief for my entire life, go ahead.¡± ¡°Abandoned lighthouse, thirty miles off the coast of Washington. Though it''s not just that, there''s a small village there, mostly ruins now ¨C one home has been well kept, my Aunt''s white picket fence midst a maelstrom that''s always trying to tear it down.¡± ¡°Marybel? How is she?¡± ¡°Dead. Passed away one week ago, I texted you the hour it happened, actually. You were doing a story on the Sewer Witch of Pleasant-Town, no hard feelings.¡± Pascal walks back into the house, and returns with a stack of folders. ¡°The Sheer Isle Massacre. Seven members of a sorority take a week off to get lost in ¡°nature¡± a place far away from cops and crooks, a place where their parents won''t follow. Boat comes three days later as planned, no girls in sight, vanished, gone. Never hits the national news circuit, doesn''t leave the local authorities. The case was dead in the water, and everyone who wanted more, was blotted out by silence, fees, ten-thousand articles about sex-tapes and presidential fuck-ups that stretched the last bit of attention-span the public had left. Three of them ended up dead within the span of twenty-four months, two shots to the head, falling off the balcony, overdosing on fent, all things that can be chalked up to the happenings of life, so I won''t weigh you with that theory.¡± ¡°Hold on.¡± I put my hand in the air. ¡°You called it a massacre.¡± ¡°It is to people in the know,.¡± ¡°Okay. And how do you know?¡± ¡°Dean.¡± ¡°Don''t give me that. It''s a good question, and I got plenty left.¡± ¡°These things happen a-lot more than you''d think. People walk into national parks, some you haven''t even heard of, public land that goes on for hundreds of miles, and never come out. And now you add in a little haunted island to the mix? I''d be surprised if people weren''t getting snatched up and walking up ladders that lead to no-where, falling into fissures ¨C things rangers don''t tell you about.¡± ¡°You don''t have to lecture me on disappearances. I''m in already. I already accepted the assignment. I just want the details. And why you think they weren''t murdered by some waterboarding psycho, band of college girls stumble upon something they weren''t supposed to, could have been drug related, corrupt cops, serial-killer roaming around. Got too close to the edge and tumbled over, scrapes and cuts head-to-toe, maybe hunched over and got eaten by a shark willing to jump for dinner.¡± Pascal doesn''t laugh, in-fact he grits his teeth. ¡°It''s called the Greenstone Massacre because accounts of their faces glowing in the chlorastrolite, abundant on the coast. And by more than a few accounts, they weren''t killed by people. But by something that came out of the water. Marybel says the island has an old history of the occult, witches, but the last three folk in occupancy, dead now, said something climbed up the rocks.¡± ¡°These witches like umm.. my aunt who buys candles from J.C Penny and strobes around with sage sticks, is that really daemon-like?¡± ¡°Levitating. Magical. Monster Faces.¡± ¡°Okay. So more cryptid, less daemon. Maybe I should bring an automatic shotgun with a couple thousand rounds in my bag, a machete strapped to my back, bear-mace on my hip, a few flares if I lose service, fifty-sixty meal kits. What the hell am I going to be doing out there? Hold on. Do you own this place now? Hey. You''re moving awfully fast, I think I''m about to fall out your vehicle and land on my head, have a big ole'' seizure and wind up comatose... and you wouldn''t want that, would you?¡± ¡°We have an in. But right now, I want you to give me a yes or no in way of official signature on this piece of paper, no more verbal agreements from here on out.¡± He hands me an official contract. ¡°Yeah, I''m fucking in. You''re getting all serious on me, Pascal. I like it.¡± ¡°You bet I''m serious. I have to be when I''m taking out a mortgage on you.¡± I hand back the contract, signed, he protects it beneath his arms, I see shimmering metal in his hands.¡°You thought this story with the child soldiers was big? This is going to the big-screens. Here are the keys to every building, closets, lock-boxes, whatever you can think of. In this folder are the schematics, just in-case you get lost in the catacombs, rumored to wind down all the way to the gates of hell.¡± He pauses, hearing my heart beat. ¡°My home is your home. You can take a shit on Marybel''s shell collection for all I care.¡± ¡°You own the fucking island?¡± I say as if I''m uttering a secret. ¡°I''m sorry. Please go on.¡± ¡°Yeah. It''s the only thing she left me.¡± ¡°Hold on a second. Why don''t you start doing tours, hire a couple guide-tour actors, rent it out to a film studio, are you shitting me, Pascal? This is a goldmine and you''re sending me out there to do a piece?¡± I try to get up, but I''m quickly reminded by the pains of bruised ribs. ¡°You can''t just freeze this place out on the hopes that I strike fire, again.¡± ¡°Yeah, that''s exactly what I''m doing.¡± Pascal squeezes Dean shoulders, resting every bit of his weight on the chair. ¡°This is going to build us an empire of freaks. Just what we''ve always wanted. You and me¡± He kisses the top of my head. ¡°Now get some rest.¡± I still had questions, a whole lot of questions. Like what the hell were seven college girls doing on Marybel''s - Pascal''s newly inherited island. Hell, it all felt like a fever dream. Pascal was quiet for the rest of the day, and when he talked, it was whenever my piece broke past a goal-post we never thought would be reached in our life-times. I searched far and wide for the sorority case, a few videos, pleas from crying mothers, vlogs from family members, machine-tight press releases, and at the end of the day, there was nothing to indicate it was on Shere Island, just a bunch of cove-hunting turned high-tide turned lost in the riptide. Although, there was never a mention of retrieving the bodies, they were presumed dead, and whenever you''re missing seven bodies, something interesting is awry. I begin to wonder if that''s the story I should be working on, the island is a relic of a simpler time, fascinating, but of the dead, and I enjoy the living. Either way, it wouldn''t be the first time Pascal messed with my head for a better story. For the time being, people are actually saying my name, and for my work, not drinking too much at the pub and getting in a fist-fight with the bartender. I mean, it''s not like I broke the seal of a state-secret kept in the vaults of an underground bunker traversed by senators and congressmen, I just got beat up by a bunch of degenerates, and to be honest, I would''ve done the same thing: kicked my ass from dusk to dawn. God knows I deserve it ¨C and I hardly believe in God. For now. For this great moment in the circus that has been my career, I''ll be enjoying two double cheese-burgers, a chocolate malt, a bottle of mid-shelf whiskey, and hell, an apple pie. And Pascal says I don''t eat enough. I just don''t got the motivation. Mental Fog Something is lingering beneath the surface far away, casting a black shadow underneath the furthest reaches of the horizon, waning echoes like a pendulum of worlds trapped in the confines of my cranium. The fog broaches ever-closer, the salty gust weighting on my skin. Creatures with the heads of hairless, pale women, sharp cheeks and dangerous eyes, with all the necessary features of a fish, dancing underneath the fiery moon, turbulent waves crash against jagged rocks and eroding stone. Oh they''re singing melodies that course through me like blood, looping, calling me ever-so- I can see the surface, dark and exotic, like violets and bell-flowers, the most vivid of lavenders. ¡°You awake, buddy?¡± The moment I open my eyes, I''m immediately blinded by the sun, the blinds are wide as can be. Pascal is standing over me like a statue, just watching as I turn onto my side, groaning as I do every morning, my ankles clicking, joints cracking, why do I feel so old? Suddenly, the aroma of freshly-cooked braised pork hits my nostrils, I must''ve slept in. ¡°What time is it?¡± I''m sitting bedside, staring at myself in the mirror. I don''t know what I expected, a thirty-five year old man shouldn''t be demoralized by his own reflection. ¡°Time to eat before I send you off. Be in the kitchen in ten.¡± Pascal walks out of the room, not before giving me a lazy wave, and an innocent smile. He must''ve been up since the crack of dawn, just cooking. It reminds me of our first date. I wanted it to be at his house ¨C he lived with his parents at the time, and they were wealthy back then, loving and supportive of their only child, who was gay. I was dead-set on staying in the closet for as long as possible, not because my parents were bastards, but because I didn''t want the attention. I was always fine with being alone, still am. I feel pressure for the first time in decades, pressure to do good work, to be something different. I feel in control when I interview prostitutes and crooks, kids who''ve wandered down the alley and never came back, but this ¨C Pascal is already pitching to big-wig executives, reaching out to long-lost connections who are actually giving him a time and date now that he has something of interest. I know he cares about me, that''s an understatement. But he''s holding back on me for the first time in our relationship, and it makes me feel like a sacrificial lamb propped on an altar for the glory of the crops, villagers hoping for an abundant season of harvest. No. I''ve went to places much more dangerous than this one, Cartel grow-farms in Shasta-Trinity National Forest, this is child''s-play in comparison. The difference is that I''ve been dreaming about this place for the last three years, and despite my position at DespotsandDaemons, I hardly believe in Daemons. Pascal finds me at the twelfth minute, staring at the mirror, the opposite of pale and flushed, pulsing with hot blood and lucid. ¡°Are you okay?¡± He puts a hand on my shoulder and sits besides me. I make a conscious decision to stay silent.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°I''ll bring it to you, then. Lunch in bed is underrated.¡± A foot away from turning the corner, he stops and looks at me. ¡°I was thinking tequila would make a good pairing.¡± We lock eyes, he''s trying to figure me out. ¡°Tequila.¡± I say, and then go back to ogling the mirror. ¡°Am I talking to Dean or Deacon?¡± Pascal closes the door, and leans against the frame, barricading me inside the room with him as the newly-crowned warden. ¡°You''re talking to me.¡± ¡°Come to the dining table when you''re ready.¡± He says like I''m a child. I simmer for another five, unsure about everything, but an urge to find that boat that''s going to fulfill my destiny, the urge is becoming stronger and stronger, near-irresistible, my eyelids began to flicker, my vision blurry, gone. The door swings open, Pascal was standing behind it the entire time, rushing in when he heard a thud, cuffing the back of my head, staring into my soul with opal eyes. Lying on a flower pedal, floating in the sea with the temperament of a bath-tub with a turned faucet, the sky is vibrant with no clouds or sun, lit by an invisible source, shifting with a thousand different colors and all of their hues. I feel tranquil, and at the same time, Pascal is contemplating whether to call an ambulance. No. Don''t. I feel better than I ever have, I want to scream it, but my tongue hangs down my cheek, and he''s yelling for me to stay with him, stay awake. I love you, stay with me, my sun and moon, stay with me, I need you. I wanted to laugh. Pascal has always been the slimy romantic, like an ogre presenting a bed of flowers atop bottles of red wine from obscure French chateau''s. I always imagine the wine he lauds, fancy and gaudy, cranking into a veteran sky-scraper sized drum, eventually pumped into fancy bottles that make up every-bit of the price, names that are so foreign they make you feel gross, the work of a hack suit, along with a graphic designer that specializes in harvesting naive American''s too good to buy stateside. ¡°We can push the story off for a couple months.¡± It''s the first thing I heard, before the beeps and buzzers, before that sterile white glow burned my eyes, taking me out of my naive slumber, the prospect of losing this story filled me with more trepidation than the fact I was lying in a hospital bed for reasons I''m still unsure of. ¡°No.¡± I replied adamantly. Pascal replies by sitting and burying his face into his palms, groaning. ¡°What happened?¡± I asked. ¡°Grand Mal seizure. They don''t know what''s wrong with you. It could be nothing, or a brain tumor.¡± Pascal says bluntly. ¡°Either way, you''re out of the story for the time being. Sof¨ªa just graduated from Columbia and would like nothing more than to work for her Uncle, and explore the island she visited so much as a child.¡± ¡°No. God fucking damn-it. No.¡± Before Pascal has the time to respond, Doctor Micaela walks into the room. ¡°We''re going to do a couple more brain-scans, and would like three days of medical observation. If that''s okay with you, Mr Lamper.¡± ¡°No. I have a story to write. I need to leave, now.¡± Pascal steps forward. ¡°The answer is yes. He''ll say yes.¡± ¡°I''ll give you two some time to discuss this.¡± She turns towards the door. Pascal walks with her. ¡°Is there really nothing wrong with him?¡± They stop in the hallway. ¡°Does he have any history of sleep-walking, sleep-talking? Unconscious behavior that may seem out of the ordinary to the average person?¡± ¡°Never. He hardly turns to his side. He sleeps like a rock.¡± ¡°Not to worry you. But we couldn''t find anything in his medical records indicating such.. which leads us to believe the seizure was a red herring for something a bit more serious.¡± ¡°Anything that you have to do, do it. I''ll sign off immediately.¡± ¡°You have conservator rights over Mr. Lamper, correct?¡± ¡°Yes. I do. If you can just keep that between us.¡± Pascal looks at the door. ¡°He''s exhausted.¡± ¡°Of-course. Apologies for stepping out of my boundaries. Should we begin the brain-scans immediately?¡± ¡°As soon as possible.¡± Stranger The flash of a photograph, the lens nestled upon my nasal ridge, click-click-click, reeling Polaroid. I''m walking on the sea-floor or what I think is the sea-floor, above me is the light from the sun breaking through the surface, close enough to see undulating seaweed, and masses of driftwood. I find my bearings and with the next step .. falling into a darkness so expansive that it blotches out the light behind me. My limbs dance slow as I fall - a feather weaving through the air. There. Lights in the deep, a fissure lit by fluorescence, a gulch in the black ¨C no ¨C no. It''s a current. It''s sucking me in! It''s breathing? Inhaling? It''s a mouth. I see it''s eyes. It''s going to eat me. Two months later ¡°Mr. Lamper. Are you there, Mr Lamper? Look into my eyes, Mr. Lamper.¡± It wasn''t Dr. Micaela. And the air isn''t sterile and stagnant, it''s refreshing. I''m not looking up at a cobweb of light-bulbs. It''s cold and salty, water sprinkles against my face, the wind is loud and ripping against the hull... the hull. And there''s Pascal standing on the ¡­ bow. I''m on a boat? I''m on a boat. ¡°Those shellfish really put you down.¡± Says the operator, drinking a beer at the same time he''s maneuvering around dangerous waves. ¡°But no fear, it happens every now and then.¡± ¡°Dean! You''re finally awake. Thought we''d have to turn around for a moment. How anti-climactic would that be?¡± He comes to me, and helps me up. ¡°Excited? This is what you''ve been asking for every step of the way.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± I refrain from asking about the aforementioned steps. ¡°I''m really excited.¡± ¡°Sof¨ªa is excited to see you as-well.¡± ¡°She''s still there?¡± I clutch the hand-rail on the precipice of taking a dive, we bump over a wave, and then we plop against the water, going fast. ¡°Her first story did over a million views, a hundred interview requests, and that''s not counting all the offers that are piling up. Just the lighthouse alone, studios want to start filming immediately.¡±The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°I''m so proud of her. She''s back to do her third, already acts like a grizzled veteran.¡± He looks at the gray clouds formed overhead. ¡°She wants to live there, at Marybel''s house. It''s well taken care of, I don''t see any other reason to say no, unless you want to.¡± ¡°Well.. We have to see how much I like it, first.¡± Pascal laughs, bracing for the next bump. ¡°You will.¡± ¡°Mr. Lamper.¡± It came from the same voice that I opened my eyes to. ¡°A beer. You must be parched.¡± Says an old, short man. Despite his age, he carries a jovial energy, it''s in his face, smiling and ready-to-please, hunched yet energetic in the movements he chooses to make. I take it from his hands, and he responds in a smiling nod. ¡°Engle will take good care of you, Dean.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°He''ll take good care of you, like we talked about earlier. Your wish is his demand.¡± ¡°Mr. Williams is correct. If you desire it, I will make it so.¡± I decided to melt into my vinyl seat after that. After fifteen minutes of twiddling my thumbs, Dean leaps to me, pointing to something I only have to look up to see. It''s Shere Island, my first response was laughing in awe, standing up despite how bumpy the ride is, and laughing. Pascal loves my response, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and tucks me into his chest. ¡°I didn''t know the island had cliffs.¡± I''m in awe, it''s bigger... a-lot bigger than I remembered. My eyes trace to a statue high above leaning over the bluff, looking over the entire ocean. ¡°Take a walk along the coast. I thought the same thing the first time, but that''s what years away from it does to you.¡± Pascal says. We''re coming closer to the wooden dock, on it lying a rowboat with two oars, but nothing is tied to the cleats, this is it. ¡°Where''s Sof¨ªa?¡± I ask. ¡°You''ll find her on the job.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± It''s like a game. ¡°Where do I stay?¡± I felt dumb for asking it so... close? When I can see the coast, I''m about to step onto the sand.. ¡°What do I eat?¡± ¡°What do you think is weighing down the boat, Mr Lamper?¡± Engle says first, followed by Pascal who takes a step ahead. ¡°Marybel''s house, there''s more than enough room for you and Sof¨ªa, and like I said, she''s dying to see you.¡± ¡°Fuck. Where''s my laptop?¡± I panic. Pascal puts his hand on my shoulder again, but this time it feels assertive. ¡°Like we went over before. Everything is there for you, we sent in a boat bigger than this one a couple days ago, it had all your stuff in it, like we agreed. We''re going to carry a few crates of supplies to the house, it''ll be more than enough to last the thirty days we agreed upon, thirty days that can fluctuate to one week depending on how well you can keep it together.¡± I stare at him blankly. He continues. ¡°Hey, are you okay, Dean?¡± ¡°I''m good. I''m good, Pascal.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± He smiles, and then kisses my forehead. It feels demeaning. ¡°Write the story of your life. It''s your time, go and do it.¡± We tied in, and I take my first step onto the dock, it trembles. You can''t break the same story twice. I feel like a child, given a couple cheers and hugs so I don''t feel left out after my big-brother did something special, actually special. I was quiet for most of the time they carried in the crates, it took three hours, and it showed me a sign of Pascal I hadn''t seen before, like an overseer, directing laborers who were hidden away in the cabin for the entire trip- I felt so out of the loop. I didn''t see Sof¨ªa, Pascal assured me that she was somewhere taking pictures, documenting, and the island did truly feel large, moving from dense thicket, stepping over stones and rocks, finely grained sand to a paved road. While they opened the crates and started moving supplies into the Marybel house, I decided to take a walk, and take a good look at the lavender ocean I had dreamed about for so many nights. An Unlikely Friend The deeper I go into the wood, enveloped by yellow cedar, the more I can remember. I''ve began to move at a pace faster than I thought possible, hands pressing off birch, jumping over mounds a mixture of insects, twigs, dirt, kicking off of entangled roots. The smell is liberating, recalling memories and inciting nostalgia I can''t remember the source of, it feels so close ¨C beating ¨C inside. I look ahead, and there I see dense clouds the size of mountains, ready to storm. Water sprinkles atop the treeline, eventually dribbling onto my head, running down leaves and tickling the dirt. I go forward towards what looks to be a cliff, time escapes me- The sounds of waves becomes more-and-more until I can hear them splashing, breaking along the beachrocks. I can now feel every bit of the ocean gust envelope my body, one step forward and my foot is shaking at a danger my conscious mind has yet to register. I lurch over and see that I''m a leap away from tumbling and crashing to a sure death. From here I can see the sea-foam brush up against the coast, receding, receding, a plunging wave breaks along the rocks, and sends my heart racing. On my hands and knees now. I crawl towards the edge, my fingers embedded with dirt, clutching until they''re interlaced with little roots. I''m crying ¨C I''m crying and I don''t know why! I''ve been to this place before. I know it. It''s a place I''ve passed, stepped over, walked to another ground, but there''s nothing else here to explore. I stand. I stand and search. There is only one direction. ¡°Mr. Lamper! I advise you retreat to me!¡± Engle. His voice is so peculiar, broken by age, but imbued with a youthful urgency. ¡°Mr. Williams is searching for you! To say good-bye before the weather becomes too dangerous to traverse! I will keep this a secret between you and I! I believe we will become close friends over your stay, which I will do all that I can to extend beyond your one-month assignment!¡± I stand and look at him bewildered, he looks me, assured. ¡°You''ve made extraordinary ground, Mr. Lamper.¡± Engle says, making a conscious effort to remain close to me as we walk. He continues. ¡°You''re a man full of surprises, I have no doubt.¡± ¡°Call me Dean.¡± ¡°Your wish is my command.¡± I laugh, and then take a glance at him, he''s smiling, happy, joyous. ¡°What if we don''t make it back in time?¡± ¡°I''ll make up an excuse. None of this was your fault or doing. And if they don''t believe whatever story I concoct, I will take every bit of the blame.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°You''d do that for me?¡± ¡°I am here for you, no-other reason, Dean.¡± ¡°Hey, Engle.¡± I stop. ¡°Yes?¡± He turns towards me, clearly wanting to make ground. ¡°How did you find me?¡± Engle nods and then looks at the ground. ¡°I''ve been following you. It is a part of my job, detailed specifically in line seven-hundred-¡± ¡°Is there anything in your contract that details lying, Engle?¡± ¡°Yes, Mr. Lamper.¡± He pauses. ¡°But I will not lie to you.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Because I find us to be kindred spirits, as silly as that may sound.¡± We''re now walking, breaking from the brush into clearer ground, where our feet are only battling shrubbery, trees behind us. Far ahead is the dock ¨C the operator is pacing, while pointing up at the mass of clouds, hearing loud rumbles, but without seeing any thunder nor rain, it''s holding out on us. Pascal sees us, and begins to jog, until we meet. He first looks at Engle, their eyes lock. ¡°It turns out that I don''t know the island as well as I thought, Mr Williams. I was taking Mr. Lamper on a tour, and turned a little too- Pascal interrupts Engle with a leap, two arms swing around my back, and now we''re together in a tight embrace. ¡°What do you think?¡± He whispers into my ear. ¡°It''s everything I''ve ever wanted.¡± Those words ¨C I don''t know why they left my lips, so quickly, so surely. ¡°I want to stay here forever.¡± Pascal almost chuckles, his hands are now gripping my shoulders, the space between us the length of his arms. ¡°That''s exactly what Sofia said to me.¡± ¡°I imagine Sofia and I have a-lot to talk about.¡± Lightning strikes the ocean afar, the water looks bruised, angry. ¡°Either we leave now or you''re staying the fucking night!¡± The operators yells, looking as if he wanted to take back the words either we leave now. ¡°Hey, are you fucking listening to me?!¡± It was aimed towards Pascal, who heard, but is still gazing into my eyes. ¡°Go.¡± I say. ¡°Okay.¡± He nods repeatedly, palming my cheek. ¡°I''ll be back soon to check up on you.¡± ¡°I''ll make sure you don''t have to do that, Mr Williams.¡± ¡°It won''t be a wellness check, Engle.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± He looks at me and then Pascal. ¡°I see.¡± Engle and I are shoulder-to-shoulder watching the boat pull away, the engine gunning as if they were in center of a maelstrom, attempting to escape its pull. If there was an ocean to birth something monstrous, it would look as daunting as this one. I wave at Pascal, and he waves back at me, our eyes match until we''re unable to see one-another, the silhouette of the boat is gone. I presume they''re somewhere swaying at the mercy of the ocean, perhaps behind the wave I see, larger than all others. ¡°Say. Do you still have that beer I gave you ... Dean?¡± ¡°I dropped it somewhere along the way to the cliff. You might have stepped on it.¡± Engle laughs. ¡°I wasn''t joking.¡± ¡°I''m glad you didn''t drink it.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°I''ll tell you more when we leave this cursed dock.¡± We begin walking towards the place of which we came. ¡°There''s going to be a terrible storm soon. I recommend we spend the night at Marybel''s old home. I''d much rather go over all of these... details in the warmth of stone walls, where''s there''s not a hearty risk of getting electrified, or crushed by a falling tree." After some time in silence, when our feet hit paved roads that assure our path, I ask. ¡°About Sofia. Have you met her?¡± ¡°Oh yes.¡± He almost laughs. ¡°She''s a wonderful woman. You''re close, I assume? From all that Mr. Williams has talked about you two, together.¡± ¡°Yeah. Well, we used to be. Not that anything bad happened, but you know, time.¡± I continue. ¡°Hey, does she have anyone like you? Following her around?¡± ¡°That''s for the fireplace, Dean.¡± See No Evil (Updated) "Thanks for what you did back there.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Engle looks at me, surprised. ¡°What did I do for you?¡± ¡°Lying to Pascal.¡± I take a sip of actual beer. ¡°For me. I don''t know you, you don''t know me. It takes a-lot of trust to do something like that for a complete stranger. Especially when the guy is your boss. Presumably your boss, I''m the last person who should assume anything after today.¡± ¡°Hmmm.¡± He says, clinically. ¡°Back on the boat, today. Was that the first time we met?¡± ¡°Yeah. Well. It''s all I remember.¡± I hear ringing, and then close my eyes until it goes away. He patiently waits, silent in all but a cracking back when he hunches over and squints, searching for clues in my face, in my demeanor, in my soul for all I know. ¡°Something is wrong with me. But I''m sure you can tell. I''m sure everyone can tell.¡± ¡°I''m going to tell you something very important, Dean. Something that you have try very hard to keep a secret. And if a gun is pointed to your head, you figured it all out on your own, understand?¡± ¡°Yeah? Yeah. I understand.¡± I shake my head like a wet dog, not out of refusal, but to shudder off a cornucopia of emotional fog that has me covered. ¡°Of-course.¡± I say. ¡°It''s been two years since you were first admitted to the Blaire Asylum for the Chronically Insane. And I''m your Psychiatrist, Doctor Engle Goldstein.¡± He puts a palm over my hand, and looks at me how a loving father looks at his son, who was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer. ¡°And I believe in you. Every single thing you''ve told me. That is why I am willing to lie for you. I want to find what you''ve been searching for, I want to see the lavender ocean, and the pale-faced mermaids you''ve spoken of so... lucidly.¡± ¡°Two years?¡± I say, stuck in a haze. ¡°It''s been two months.¡± ¡°No, no no no no. Dean. No. It''s been two years. You''ve been under my care for two years. And from what I can tell you from all of my years and experience, you are not crazy! Dean Lamper, you are not crazy! You are not crazy. You are not crazy!¡± His voice echoes in my head. We sit at the heart, listening to crackling wood. I''m on my second beer, and he''s staring longingly into the dancing flames. His legs are crossed, his hands gently creased, yet with eyes carrying enough drive to push forward the earth. I glance at him, and look at the fire reflecting in his glasses.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°What''s going on here?¡± I ask, to no reply. ¡°You say its'' been two years, fine. I''ve been in an asylum for twenty-four months, rolling around on padded foam, fine. Just let me get this straight please, because I don''t know what is up and what is down right now. I wake up on a boat one day with my boyfriend standing on the bow. I''m suffering from a terrible case of amnesia but nothing I haven''t experience before mind you, heading to the island I was assigned to write a groundbreaking story on-¡± ¡°There is no assignment.¡± He interrupts. ¡°This is your last test. If you make it to thirty-days without any mental breaks or lapses, you will be set free. If any time between now and then you revert, you are to return, where more serious measures will be enacted.¡± ¡°More serious measures? Lobotomy? Electroshock therapy? Give me the Old Yeller treatment and toss me into a mass-grave in the nearest open field?¡± ¡°Relax. Relax.¡± He squeezes my knee, and then smiles. ¡°I will not let that happen to you.¡± ¡°Has everything been a fucking lie?!¡± I strike his hand off of me in a furor, and shoot to my feet. ¡°How can I believe in anything you''re telling me? That you''re not just fucking with my head?! I''m here to write a story I was supposed to before... before... before.¡± I''m traveling through a tunnel, faster and faster... at the end is the lens of a camera. I''m unable to close my eyes, something is attached to my eyelids. It flashes, and a picture reels. I''m gone. ¡°Because.¡± He says calmly, standing with me. ¡°I''ve heard the calling, too. I''ve been dreaming of the violet sky. I''ve fallen into the mouth of the monster below. We''ve sat in its belly.. felt each-other as real as a handshake. You''ve given me a great gift. It''s only fair I liberate you from this treatment.¡± My body collapses. He comes to me. I crumple in his arms like I''m made out of sandpaper. ¡°I won''t let them hurt you, Dean. I won''t sign off on it. I''ll help you find the secrets you-we wish to uncover. We''ll uncover them together. You and I as we have before in our dreams where we scale the seamounts, and enter the caverns of the forgotten ancients." He presses his lips against my head. ¡°I need you to remember. I need you to tell me what you''ve seen, what you''ve heard. It''s time we go back. It''s time we go back. Listen to my voice and let me guide you, from the shore to the coral to the bottom of the ocean. Tell me where they come from.¡± I hear metal scraping. ¡°Show me where it slumbers.¡± I feel electric static. ¡°Where it emerges.¡± My ears are burning. ¡°Now.¡± Someone is talking inside of my skull. There are lips in my head and they are moving. There are two eyes... and the pupils are rolling back to me. ¡°From the beginning, Dean." He''s looking at me from the inside out. I wake up on a wool bed, cotton sheets tucked to my chest, head against a fluffy pillow. I smell the ocean breeze long before I see the window is open, and rattling. I swivel off the bed, my feet startle cranky wood, it yawns with every step. On the walls are framed portraits of a man I remember as Marybel''s husband, a retired sailor named Dandy, his face young and muscular, perishing decades ago after his boat spiraled into the coast. From the very first moment I opened my bedroom door, and walked into the hall, the smell of breakfast seduced me forward. Sausages, mushrooms, and eggs. And the woman waiting for me. The last time I saw her, she was so young, only a girl. Sofia stands at the end of the table, alone. Our eyes strike, and she runs to me. Sofia ¡°You look good.¡± Sofia says as we sit on the porch, I stare at the hibiscus garden that she keeps to, in awe, while she''s looking directly at me. ¡°You''re going to really like this place. I know we haven''t been in contact for a while, but I think you two are a good match.¡± She speaks about the island like a person. She even did it during breakfast. ¡°Thanks.¡± I reply bluntly, and then begin to worry it was too rough and desolate of a response. ¡°I know you''re probably tired, well, that would be an understatement, exhausted is a better word for how you look, but umm.. I''m really really happy to see you. You don''t know how many times I just stared at the ocean, waiting to see that boat with you on it coming towards the island. And I stared at a-lot of boats, most of them were just filled with people who''ve I''ve never met before. Then I started to think you were never going to show up, and then the day you finally do, I''m hauled up in the lighthouse, thinking I''m going to be alone here, forever.¡± She laughs, and then squeezes my shoulder. ¡°Hey. You there?¡± ¡°Huh.¡± I reply. I turn towards her, and she solidifies her position by sitting entirely on the bench, legs crossed, facing me. ¡°Are you real?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Can I touch your face?¡± Sofia shrugs. ¡°If that''s what you need to... Is something wrong?¡± I slowly raise my hand to her cheek. She inhales as my palm makes contact with her skin, but then pushes into it, knowing that this is what I needed, while not knowing what I needed. ¡°You''re real.¡± I say, and then pull back again. ¡°Recall a memory.¡± ¡°What are you talking about, Dean?¡± ¡°Recall something, us, us.¡± I stammer. ¡°A memory you have of us. Anything.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± She pulls my palm off her cheek, and then squeezes it in between both of her hands. I see her subtly checking my pulse, feeling the chill of my fingers, then looking up at me in worry. She continues. ¡°There was an entire year in high-school, junior year, where you attended every single one of my volleyball games. And-¡± She shrugs. ¡°You would pick me up and drop me off at Pascal''s house, but on the way there, we would stop at Tea Palace, and you would always tell me to buy whatever I wanted.... Even though you never had enough money to buy me more than one glass of Earl Grey." We share a smile, and I exhale hard. ¡°It''s you. It''s you, Sofia. Okay. We have that settled.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± She chuckles incredulously. ¡°It''s me.¡± ¡°Where''s Engle?¡± She looks at the treeline. ¡°He went out early in the morning, said he''d be back by noon.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± I nod. ¡°Engle is real.¡± ¡°Yeah. He''s nice.¡± She says, nonchalantly. I can tell she''s holding back. She continues. ¡°Hey, I should get you some water.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°No. Let''s go for a walk.¡± We settle along the hill nearest to the dock, where we both stand and watch, my eyes shoot to the rowboat, she gazes at the tumbling waves. ¡°When did you return home?¡± ¡°Early in the morning? You were already in bed.¡± She replies. ¡°And snoring, so I closed the door.¡± Knowing I was going to ask about him, she answers it first. ¡°Engle was also fast asleep.¡± She continues. ¡°Did something happen between you two?¡± ¡°How long have I known him for?¡± ¡°Dean.¡± She says, as if it was the most obvious question ever asked. ¡°How could I know that?¡± ¡°Guess?¡± We pause. ¡°Please?¡± ¡°Dean.¡± This time it''s more assertive. ¡°I don''t know. Maybe a couple days. A couple years?¡± ¡°Okay. Fine.¡± I nod. ¡°Where have I been lately?¡± ¡°You were in the hospital for a little while, right?¡± I begin to pace. She continues. ¡°I didn''t want to ask about it, but what happened over there, anyways?¡± ¡°Either I''m hallucinating or the world is fucking with me.¡± She walks to me, and squeezes my wrist. ¡°You can trust me.¡± She scoffs. ¡°Just tell me what''s on your mind.¡± ¡°No. Not yet.¡± I see her face shift. ¡°I trust you. It''s just that I need to figure things out for myself. Spend some time away from everyone, everything. I''ve camped before. I''ll be okay.¡± ¡°Don''t you have a story to write?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± I smile. I''m not just a mental patient. Unless she''s not in on it. ¡°I''ll I''ll bring a notebook.¡± I say, noticing my hand is on her shoulder. I quickly whip it back to my side. ¡°Dean. If there''s something going on, you need to let me know what it is. I''m not going to rat on you. Okay you were practically my father for a couple of years, believe me, I''m here for you.¡± ¡°Blaire Asylum. Does that ring any bells?¡± ¡°Isn''t that like... Batman?¡± She asks, sincerely. ¡°It''s not fucking Batman.. Sorry. It''s not Batman.¡± ¡°No. It doesn''t ring any bells.¡± She says with a hint of frustration. I ask myself internally: is it Batman? ¡°Was I a mental patient for the last two years?¡± ¡°No. Okay. I definitely know you weren''t. That I can honestly answer.¡± ¡°How do you know?¡± ¡°Because, Pascal told me you were coming to the island six months ago. And I talked you on the phone for like an hour?" ¡°Six months?¡± ¡°Six months.¡± She says, sternly. ¡°What the fuck?¡± ¡°That''s exactly what I''m thinking right now, Dean.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± I nod, and then feel my head overheating. ¡°Don''t let Engle get near me.¡± ¡°He''s an old man. You''ll be fine.¡± ¡°Don''t let Engle come near me.¡± Sofia scoffs. ¡°Fine. I won''t. You''re off limits. I''ll have to tell him that, though. I''m not telepathic." ¡°We''re going back to the house. I''m going to grab the two biggest bags I can find, and I''m going to pack them with as much food and water as I can. And then, I''m going to stay out there for a week. I don''t know where, and I don''t care, just away from all of this noise. Where I can figure out what the hell is going on." ¡°I''ll help you.¡± She pauses. ¡°Hey, can I come with?" ¡°What?¡± ¡°It''ll be good material. Just something new.. to spruce things up. You know?¡± I look away, and then back at her. ¡°I just told you..." I pause, and take a deep breath. "Don''t treat me like I''m one of them, Dean." Lost At Sea (Pascal) Pascal''s head whips with every sway of the boat. The hull is battered by waves as the engine has become dead-weight. There''s no land in sight, the horizon is the ocean, volatile and beautiful. Overhead birds come and go, migrating to a land that cannot be seen, every squawk a tease of their misery. ¡°Jerold!¡± Pascal says. ¡°Try the motor.¡± ¡°I''ve already tried it a hundred times this morning. I''ve been trying to fix it for fifteen hours straight. You give it a fucking try!¡± Jerold, the operator, stares at his torn hands, and grimaces. Holden, a laborer, lies flat on the bow, looking at the gray, brewing sky. ¡°The engine is gone. There''s no point in wasting energy on it, might as-well just sit here and wait, or light something on fire and hope someone sees the smoke.¡± ¡°We''re probably a hundred miles deep by now.¡± Pascal says, as Jerold holds in his anger. ¡°What makes you say that?¡± Holden replies. ¡°Shere Island is thirty miles or so off the coast. It''s been a little more than two days, and from what I can tell, we''ve only been drifting in one direction. And that''s after the storm dragged us out God knows how far, and where.¡± ¡°If no one came after we shot off a case of flares, no-one is going to rescue us after lighting our boat on fire, you blubbering fucking idiot!¡± Jerold throws an empty plastic bottle at Holden, it bounces off his head and hits the water, tranquilly floating. ¡°Hey, Captain.¡± Holden says, holding in a smirk. ¡°Why don''t you work some of those instruments and figure the math out? A hundred miles out doesn''t seem right, no offense, boss.¡± ¡°They don''t fucking work, god-damn it! I''m surrounded by a bunch of morons!¡± ¡°Is it a coincidence that all of the genius''s responsibilities vanish inexplicably just when we need them the most? For someone who is so bright, you sure do rely on gadgets a whole lot. You know, Captain, I''m not sure whose intelligent here, you or those spinning things on the console.¡± Jerold has a wrench in his hand, and takes a step towards Holden. Pascal quickly stands, and grabs his shoulder. ¡°Don''t do anything stupid. We''ll get out of this mess, no need to further complicate things.¡± He looks at Pascal, now getting the full attention of the crew. ¡°You''ve already suffered enough. We''ve already suffered enough.¡± Jerold sighs. ¡°Fuck it. I''m done with all this.¡± Pascal takes the wrench out of his hand, and stows it away. ¡°Don''t ask me for nothing else. I''ll be praying for a rogue wave.¡± Jerold walks to the furthest end of the boat, and sits.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Hours pass, and Pascal finds himself in the cabin, sitting in at the small rectangular dining table with the three laborers he hired to come aboard. From his left sits Holden, Jermaine, and Jan. ¡°We have enough food and water to last three more days, five if we ration.¡± ¡°How is it that no-one came for us?¡± Jermaine says. ¡°Signaled Mayday. Shot off all those flares. Asshole was even talking to some on that big ass radio when it was all going down.¡± Jan nods fervently, even though he hardly understands a lick of English. ¡°I don''t know. Even if we got caught in something, it couldn''t have taken us that far, considering where we started. We should''ve seen a few ships pass on by, helicopters, planes. I mean I''ve been out further, fishing.¡± ¡°So what are you implying?¡± Holden replies. ¡°I''m saying I don''t know anything about boats or sailing, but I know something is off.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Jermaine says. ¡°Voodoo?¡± ¡°I know you''re a supernatural kind of guy, boss, but I just think we''re a bunch of monkeys playing dress-up on a boat lost in the kiddy-pool, lead by a pathetic excuse of a Captain who probably lied on his resume.¡± Holden decompresses, pressing his elbows into the table, palms pressed against his forehead. He continues. ¡°I just need to get home. Claire is probably going crazy right now.¡± ¡°I mean, someone has to be looking for us.¡± Pascal says, shrugging. Jermaine crosses his arms. ¡°If someone was looking for us, we would be found.¡± ¡°That''s exactly right.¡± Holden groans. ¡°Between everyone on this boat, we must have fifteen people back at home who''ve contacted someone about us already, and that''s not even counting everyone who''s job it is to make sure this shit doesn''t happen.¡± ¡°Hey, Pascal, you''re a big-shot, right?¡± Jermaine says. ¡°A-lot people think you''re dollar signs. They probably got teams looking for you, men like you don''t go missing like this.¡± ¡°It''s not me, it''s just what I have.¡± The four sit in silence, before hearing a heavy thud against the hull that rocks the boat. Pascal rushes out the cabin, bracing for further hits of what he immediately assumes is debris. ¡°What happened?¡± He yells, to no response. He looks from the bow to the stern, searching for Jerold, while Jermaine and Holden search for anything floating on the perimeter, bending over the edges, eyes scanning the water, which seems now, calmer than ever. ¡°I can''t find Jerold!¡± Pascal yells. ¡°He must''ve gone overboard!¡± ¡°Hey, Boss! There''s something over here!¡± Jermaine begins to take steps backwards. ¡°It''s not Jerold.¡± Holden''s breath turns into whispers. Pascal walks between them, and sees a massive black mass not only in-front of them, but surrounding them. It''s bubbling, bubbling, bubbling. ¡°What the fuck is that?¡± Pascal mutters, as all three of them see a bright effervescence glowing from underneath the boat, they can hardly see its true intensity. Suddenly, a tentacle erupts into the sky behind them. Jan is staring directly at it on the other side of the boat. He closes his eyes and does the sign of the cross, reciting a prayer. Holden pivots around and jolts backwards, hitting the railing. Pascal and Jermaine are now shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes glued to a rising tentacle, with suction cups bigger than their heads.