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Caryn always made both bunk beds up when Stanford came home, just in case, and Filbrick never told her outright to stop.

It wasn’t out of any misplaced or foolish sentimentality on his part, certainly. Caryn was, overall, a perfect match for him. She understood his proud stubbornness and knew when not to push him. And Filbrick would be pushed on very few things.

There were a few things, though, that Filbrick had learned it was a waste of time to try and convince her on. She would run her smoke-and-mirrors fortune telling business, even though Filbrick found it embarrassing. They went to the synagogue on 4th West Street because Caryn had friends who frequented it, even though the rabbi’s lisp grated on Filbrick. She got to watch her soaps on Thursday evenings, no matter what, even though Filbrick wanted to watch pay-per-view wrestling and found soaps annoying.

Caryn was a formidable opponent when she wanted to be, and every so often there was an issue that simply wasn’t worth the fight. It wasn’t a big deal, normally. Her side hustle made them a little extra money that got them through especially rough times. Filbrick had gotten good at tuning out the rabbi. And he would never in a million years admit this, but sometimes he lingered in the kitchen, to see if Marie was still with her husband who couldn’t stop cheating to save his life.

Filbrick figured that a few compromises could be made to keep the peace in a marriage. Just a few.

But no matter what he mumbled, no matter how he glared, Caryn always made up both halves of the bunk beds on the rare occasion that Stanford came home.

Stanford was in his third year of college, and Filbrick still wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, which was worrisome. He lived about a half a day’s drive away, his rinky-dink college in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania. He rarely came home, and when he did, he was almost eerily quiet. He never said a word about both beds being made, a just-in-case measure that Caryn carried out with something approaching defiance, and Filbrick didn’t see any point in asking Stanford his opinion. He would more than likely shrug and say ‘Whatever Ma wants to do is fine’, or something else annoyingly vague.

In fairness to Stanford, he didn’t have a car. Apparently he borrowed his roommate’s if he needed to get somewhere. It was fine–it seemed like a good opportunity to get more done, and Filbrick knew that if nothing else, Stanford was industrious. It didn’t seem to smooth out Caryn’s miserable look, though.

This weekend was different, though. Way out in San Francisco, Sherman and his tiny family had bought a brand new station wagon, and were apparently excited to test it out on a family road trip, to come and visit all the way in New Jersey. They said they would swing through Backupsmore to pick Stanford up and bring him home, and would absolutely not take no for an answer, though Filbrick would have bet money that Stanford protested fiercely. He had barely come home since leaving for college, and spent summers hiding out in his room like a vampire, avoiding Glass Shard Beach at all costs.

Personally, Filbrick thought it sounded like hell to spend several days cooped up with a wife, barely twenty-year-old, and a chatty toddler, but Sherman seemed genuinely excited for the trip. He was funny that way.

In any case, it made Caryn damn near overjoyed, which usually spelled a mostly conflict-less family gathering, and that was good enough for Filbrick, even if he was already dreading how cramped the loft apartment would be for the weekend.

And she still made both bunk beds.

“...we could use that extra set of sheets,” Filbrick said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. He thought he had earned it by now; this was the first time he had complained out loud. “For Sherman and his family.”

“We have more,” Caryn said, her voice short.

“I’m only saying you’re wasting your time.”

“Feel free to say whatever you want,” Caryn sniffed.

Filbrick frowned. “Good God, I’m not trying to fight with you–”

“For once.”

The frown turned into a scowl. Filbrick’s dread had begun to manifest physically; he felt exhausted, despite a decent night’s sleep, and vaguely nauseous. His back hurt, and he must have pulled his left shoulder moving merchandise in the pawn shop the previous day, because it throbbed with each heavy heart beat. Caryn wasn’t helping. She always got snippier whenever the family was coming over, as if hosting wasn’t stressful enough.

They probably would have argued anyway if it hadn’t been for the buzzing at the doorbell below.

Instantly, Caryn’s irritation disappeared, and her face lit up like a streetlamp. “One moment!” She called, even though they couldn’t hear her from up here. She nearly raced downstairs to the door, faster than she should in heels. One day she was going to break her neck rushing around, especially on these creaky old floors.

By the time Filbrick got downstairs, Sherman’s family had already made their way inside, peeling off layer after layer of winter clothes. Sherman’s boy, Andrew, was hugging Caryn tightly, babbling excitedly to Grandma. It was the beginning of Febuary, after the holidays, well after the shine of the new year had worn off, and the weather became damn near suicide-inducing until April. It hadn’t snowed in weeks, and yet ice and filthy snow still crusted along the ground, like dried snot around a sick baby’s nose.

“He couldn’t stop talking about how excited he was to be here,” Nora, Sherman’s wife said, popping a warm hat onto the hook. Her hair was longer than he remembered it being, straight and auburn, hazel eyes bright. She looked almost like a hippie, except for her lack of hippie stench.

That was probably a little unfair, even he realized. Nora was friendly, smart, respectful, and seemed to be a good match for Sherman. She was raising his grandson too, and seemingly doing a good enough job at it. She worked as a nurse, and must have been good at it, because she had apparently got a raise recently. His only real complaint was that she had dragged Sherman all the way to San Francisco, where her own family and job lay. It wasn’t so much the distance that bothered Filbrick, more so the city itself. He had heard stories about how they conducted themselves in San Francisco, and the types of people that made their homes there. It was even worse than the riffraff in New York. He didn’t want his grandson exposed to that.

Unfortunately, whenever he brought it up, Sherman would quickly change the subject. Yet another thing he was forced to compromise on.

Sherman seemed to notice him, and smiled. He looked well–full smile and face, standing straight and tall. “Hey, Pa! Business been good?”

“Good enough,” Filbrick said, patting Andrew on the back when the little boy detached himself from Caryn to wrap himself around his own leg. He knew better than to outright rebuff Andrew. The first and only time he had done it, Sherman and Nora had looked at him like he had killed someone. He could hardly have been blamed for it, though. Small children at Andrew’s age were rather disgusting, always dirty and with something sticky on their hands.

“Hi, Filbrick, good to see you,” Nora said, polite as ever. “Jeez, it’s freezing out there. We had the heat blasting in the car and still wore all our coats.”

“Where’s Stanford?” Filbrick asked.

Nora moved aside, and Filbrick frowned at the sight.

Stanford stood at the threshold, awkward and unsure, hunched over in a coat that was more patches than original fabric, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He refused to wear mittens, annoyed by how they encumbered his dexterity, and it wasn’t like they made six fingered gloves.

“Hi, Pa,” Stanford said quietly, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Did you thank your brother for the ride?” Filbrick asked.

“Only a million times, Pa,” Sherman rolled his eyes. Since moving out, and especially since having a baby, Sherman enjoyed toeing the line of defiance. He never said anything openly rebellious, but he always had a retort, always had a grin that let Filbrick know he didn’t take his word as law, always a little something that Filbrick disliked immensely. “Hey, Ford, get in here before your lips turn blue.”

Stanford stepped inside, and instantly Caryn pulled him closer to kiss his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark. “God, baby, you look sick. Are you eating? Are you getting enough sleep? Please tell me you go outside sometimes–”

“I’m fine, Ma,” Stanford said, wriggling away. “Just tired, lots of work to be done and all.”

Caryn wasn’t wrong. Stanford always looked miserable when he was home, but today he really did look sick. Pale, his eyes slightly vacant, and deeply anxious. But he wasn’t coughing, shivering, or anything else that spelled sickness for him and the rest of the household.

“You better not be getting sick,” Filbrick said. “It’ll go through all of us.”

“I’m fine, Pa,” Stanford said again. “Just tired.”

“I have dinner,” Caryn said. “It just got done, I never time it right, isn’t that something?”

Nora scooped up Andrew, shutting the door with her foot–

There was something across the street, staring.

Filbrick lurched forward, his heart skipping a beat, grabbing the doorframe to keep it from closing.

Nora blinked, surprised. “What? Is something wrong?”

The streetlight flickered, and the figure was gone. Filbrick blinked several times, staring at the dim yellow light, and then grunted. “...no. Nothing’s wrong.”

He shut the door, with maybe slightly more force than necessary. His shoulder stung with the movement.

He was being ridiculous. Late night wanderers were to be expected. Since the nearby brick factory shuttered its doors, the town of Glass Shard Beach began to decline, slow but steady. There were more despondent wanderers than ever, and Filbrick had taken to keeping a baseball bat under his bed in case he heard any unwanted noises in the pawn shop. He had needed to use it more than once.

He made a mental note to keep the bat within quick reach tonight. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it.

Caryn frowned, maybe sensing why Filbrick had hesitated. “Well, hurry up,” she said, shooing them upstairs. “Food’s getting cold, and I know you could all use a hot meal.”

Chatter went on all through dinner, easy and light, and Filbrick was more than content to pick at his dinner. He wasn’t particularly hungry, and besides that, he was still slightly nauseous. At least Caryn didn’t get on him about it, just happy to listen to her family talk. Even Stanford seemed to gain a little color back.

“So, Ford,” Nora said, holding a dozing Andrew on her lap. “I don’t think I actually know what you’re studying!”

“Oh, um,” Stanford looked a little embarrassed, and shrugged, poking at his dinner. “You know, a lot. Science, of course, I’m trying to cover as many bases as possible. I’m interested in a lot. If I keep on track I’ll graduate with at least three degrees, and then I can keep studying from there.”

Filbrick frowned, and was about to ask how much money further studies would cost, but Nora beat him to it. “Oh, wow, Shermie told me you were smart, but I didn’t realize how smart! What are you going to do with that once you graduate?”

“Uh,” Stanford said, looking like he wasn’t sure if Nora was just being polite or was actually interested. Filbrick was pretty certain it was the former. “I plan to…study various phenomena.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Filbrick grunted.

“Pa,” Sherman said, nearly scolded, motioning to Andrew.

“He’s half-asleep, and hell’s not even a bad word–”

“There’s money in it,” Stanford told him quickly. “O-or at least it won’t cost you anything, I’m up for a grant when I graduate, anyway–”

“What type of phenomena?” Nora asked quickly.

“I haven’t really–” Stanford shrugged. “Nailed it down yet exactly, but probably…um. Anomalous activity that’s been mostly neglected by science.”

Stanford’s extra finger twitched.

“You know,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “Cryptids, strange weather, anything strange or unexplained.”

“Ooh,” Nora leaned forward. “Anything paranormal?”

Stanford looked genuinely surprised by her interest, but Sherman laughed. “Oh god, you got her going, she loves spooky stuff. She keeps dragging me to scary movies and laughing at me when they keep me up all night–”

“Oh, you like them too,” Nora teased. “You just have thin skin. You like scary movies, Ford?”

“Sometimes,” Stanford said. “I don’t see a lot of movies these days, I’m busy and my friend hates scary movies, so I don’t have anyone to really see them with. Sometimes if the common room is empty and I’m studying something light, I’ll rent something and put it on in the background.”

Nora leaned forward, eager. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Stanford paused, and to Filbrick’s shock, it looked like he was really considering it. “...I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It’s…pretty hard to scientifically prove or disprove. I guess I’ll know if I ever see one. Or become one.”

“I saw a ghost once,” Nora said proudly.

Filbrick’s stomach turned for some reason, and Sherman chuckled like he was expecting this. “Oh, I knew it was going to end up here–”

“It’s a good story!” Nora said. “And now I have new people to tell it too–”

“No ghosts at dinner,” Caryn said, and Filbrick felt oddly relieved. “Shermie, honey, how’s work been? Are you still at that same place?”

“Nah,” Sherman said, casting Stanford a strange look. “New place, the hours are better and they pay me more. I get more time with Nora and Andy, it’s great…”

Filbrick winced, shifting uncomfortably in his chair to try and alleviate the pain. He felt slightly dizzy, and his exhaustion was worse. It was even tiring to draw a full breath, making it difficult to focus on the newspaper.

Nora emerged from the hallway. “Andy’s playing in the guest room. Thanks for the meal, Caryn, it was wonderful.”

Caryn waved her off. “Don’t even worry about it, honey. I’m just glad you three could make the journey.”

“What, um,” Stanford said, and then trailed off, sitting uncomfortably on the ground. There weren’t enough chairs in the living room for all of them.

“Hm?” Nora asked.

Stanford glanced at Filbrick, looking slightly nervous, and then forged ahead. “I was just curious about your ghost sighting. For research purposes, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” Caryn shook her head, standing up. “I’m going to clean up. I don’t want to hear any spooky stories.”

“I’ll help,” Sherman said, standing up. “And don’t try to tell me not to, Ma, or I’ll clean the whole kitchen and make you sit down and relax.”

Caryn tsked, swatting lightly at Sherman’s arm. “Fine, fine, but let me do most of it.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” Sherman said, following her to the kitchen.

Nora smiled, a little mischievous, giddy to be the center of attention for her story. Filbrick barely held back a groan. Nora had a flair for dramatics, embellishment, and Sherman never told his wife to quit it, much to Filbrick’s irritation. It reminded him of–

His chest burned, and he barely kept himself from wincing.

“So, I grew up on the coast of San Francisco,” Nora said, her voice low and commanding attention. Filbrick tried to refocus on the paper, vowing to ignore her. “So I spent a lot of time exploring the shore, like you did. Summers are cold, foggy, and the wind is so strong it’ll knock you down if you’re not careful. I didn’t care. I loved it. My siblings spent the summer inside, but I would wander up and down the water until it got dark and too cold to bear, and go back home, and do it all again the next day. My parents’ only rule was to never go in the water alone.”

“One day, I went far,” Nora said. “So far that I didn’t see anyone else around, so far I ended up wandering onto the rocks. The rocks turned dry, and eventually, I found myself wandering on grass. Tall grass, up to my waist. So thick and green that I almost didn’t see the gravestones.”

“I didn’t know there was a graveyard around there,” Nora said. “And it was an old one. So old that the headstones were worn down to nubs. I couldn’t read any of the names or dates, and it had been taken over completely by moss and ivy. I wasn’t scared. Everyone who could hurt me there was under at least six feet of solid soil. But I was curious, and I kept walking around. I think it might have been a graveyard for Spanish settlers, looking back. I don’t know. Probably not, I’m not a historian. But that’s not important. What’s important is what I found.”

“I found a little wooden whistle,” she said. “Half buried in the sandy soil. I was a curious little kid–maybe too curious–so I dug it up, and looked it over. There wasn’t anything super remarkable about it, but there was an inscription. In English, strangely enough, so maybe I’m wrong about the conquistadors theory.”

Nora paused, and a harsh gust of wind rattled the house. “In little, uneven letters, it read ‘Who is this who is coming?’.”

Stanford said nothing, enraptured, and Filbrick flipped the page of the paper. Not because he had read anything, but because he realized it had been too long since he did so.

“I still don’t know what possessed me to do what I did next. Like I said, I was a curious kid, but I wasn’t stupid. This felt stupid. Who knows?” She shrugged. “All I know is that I wiped the whistle on my shirt, and blew into it.”

Nora pursed her lips, and whistled sharply, a single note that seemed to extend and echo into the freezing night. Filbrick winced, but luckily, neither of them seemed to notice.

“I sat there, for what felt like forever,” Nora said. “Waiting for something to happen. Sitting in the cold and the fog. I couldn’t hear the ocean, or any seabirds. The grass still moved, swaying like it was dancing. But there was no wind to move it.”

“And then I heard someone walking,” Nora said. “I heard heavy footsteps crunching on the sand. The grass moved, like a body was wading through it, but there was no one to push it aside. And then I saw it.”

“I didn’t look like a person,” Nora said, her voice hushed and excited, enraptured by her own story. And if Nora was enraptured, Stanford was absolutely hypnotized. A bomb could have gone off, and he wouldn’t have been able to tear his eyes away from her. “It didn’t look human at all. It looked like a dirty sheet, flying in the wind, moving slowly. But it moved as though there was a person inside it, and the sheet whipped around their figure, and even though it was completely invisible, I could feel it watching. And then, like it had a knife, the sheet began to tear–”

“Stanford!” Filbrick said suddenly, and Stanford jumped about six feet in the air. A bomb might not have distracted him, but Filbrick could.

Stanford laughed in the way people do when they’re suddenly startled, and then relieved to find there was nothing there. “Y-yeah, Pa?”

Filbrick stood up, folding his newspaper. He felt oddly unsteady, like he was walking on a poorly made dock. “Come down to the shop with me. I need your help moving something.”

“Oh, okay,” Stanford nodded, looking a little disappointed to be leaving Nora. “Sure, I’ll help.”

Refusing to look back and see Nora’s expression, Filbrick lumbered to the steps that led down to the shop, flicking on the lightswitch. He grumbled when it flickered before weakly lighting up the staircase, shadows stretching across the walls like fingers reaching desperately.

“The lights are still on the fritz?” Stanford asked, trailing Filbrick down. “I-I can take a look at it if you want, I bet it’s an easy fix, and I think I still have some wire scraps in my closet that I can use–”

“You don’t think I can fix the damn lights myself?” Filbrick interrupts, fumbling with the keys to open up the shop.

“Oh!” Stanford shook his head. “No, no, that’s not what I meant, I was just–”

“So what’s this I hear about…what the hell did you call it, anomalies?” Filbrick asked, pushing into the shop. “The hell kinda degree is that?”

“Oh, um, not really a degree,” Stanford said. “I mean, it requires degrees to know what you’re talking about, but…but I’m not getting a masters in ghosts and goblins or anything.”

Stanford laughed, a little nervously, but Filbrick’s face remained unmoved. Stanford coughed, looking uncomfortable. “It’s…a variety of sciences. I’m doing several degrees at once, and then I can keep studying–”

“That would cut into your work, wouldn’t it?” Filbrick asked. “Not like you get paid to learn.”

“Well–”

“And what’s this about friends and movies?” Filbrick asked, rooting around the shop. “You can’t be wasting your time like that. You can’t let yourself be distracted by–”

“I’m not distracted,” Stanford said, suddenly testy. “H-he’s just–look, he’s my roommate, it’d be harder for me if we weren’t friends–”

“Are you giving me lip?” Filbrick asked, whirling around to stare Stanford down.

He wilted immediately. “...no, sir. Sorry.”

“Good,” Filbrick grumbled, and an uncomfortable silence fell over them.

“...what…” Stanford’s voice was a little whispery. He coughed, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “What did you need help with?”

Filbrick paused. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He just needed Nora to stop telling her story, though he wasn’t really sure why. He flexed his left arm, feeling a warning twinge in his shoulder. “...the clock,” he finally said, nodding at a big grandfather clock in the corner. It had sat in his shop for years, since his children were young. It was broken, and no one wanted a broken clock, even at a discount. “Help me get it closer to the register. Might draw more eyes, finally.”

“Sure,” Stanford said, looking relieved to be helpful.

Getting into position to lift the clock wasn’t all that difficult. The wood detailing was knobby and easily gripped, and the clock itself wasn’t that heavy. Just difficult to maneuver.

“You got your end?” Filbrick asked, working very hard to ignore the pain in his arm.

“Yeah, Pa, whenever you’re ready.”

“On three,” Filbrick said. “One, two, three–”

He lifted up hard, turned his head towards the shop window when the grainy wood of the clock pressed against his cheek. He grunted, breathing in oak, ignoring the pain when it grew louder and more insistent for attention, like a colicky baby–

There was someone standing at the shop window, so close their nose was nearly pressed to it. Filbrick couldn’t see their face, their features, nothing except a shape that looked vaguely like a person. And eyes, a pair of eyes staring at him unblinking, blank and unseeing, and a hand splayed against the glass.

Filbrick’s heart skipped a beat, and stuttered like it was tripping. His breath wheezed, and the world spun. For a moment, saliva filled his mouth like he was about to throw up–

The clock slipped from his grasp.

“Pa!” Stanford warned, stumbling back as the clock crashed to the ground, and the glass encasing the clock face shattered instantly, scattering across the dark floors. The wood splintered, a long crack racing up the center of the trunk, ruining the intricate patterns of leaves and owls along the sides. He heard mechanical elements screech, shudder, and shatter, rattling inside the clock and across the shop floor.

“I didn’t drop it,” Stanford said quickly. “Pa, I swear–Pa?”

Filbrick stared at the window, his head spinning. The figure was gone, but he still felt sick, like it had left an impression. It had to, because if he stared long enough, he thought he could see a shape, standing and staring, hear their clothes rustling in the wind outside, backdropped against the icy ocean that swelled back and forth, back and forth like it was breathing in and out, in and out–

“Pa!”

Stanford grabbed his arm, looking terrified. “Pa, are you alright?!”

“Get off me!” Filbrick barked, wrenching his arm away. Stanford let go immediately, a little startled.

“Pa, you–” Stanford squinted. “God, Pa, you’re pale, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Filbrick grumbled, trying to ignore the uneven beating of his heart. “Forget it. I’ll toss this tomorrow. That’s a sale down the drain.”

“I didn’t drop it,” Stanford insisted.

“And I did?”

“I–” Stanford snapped his mouth shut, wisely sensing the trap. “...it’s…probably fine. I don’t know if anyone was going to buy it. Here, I’ll clean it up for you.”

“You’ve done enough,” Filbrick said, and Stanford frowned. “Go on. No more ghosts. You’ll upset your mother.”

Stanford’s frown deepened, and for a moment, Filbrick thought he might argue. But his shoulders slumped, he muttered a quick ‘yes sir’, and trudged upstairs.

The second he was out of view, Filbrick leaned against the wall, fighting to keep himself from heaving for air until he heard the door open and close to the apartment upstairs. He gasped, clutching at his pounding heart.

He was being ridiculous, he had to be. Any vagrant outside would have long started searching for shelter against the freezing night. They wouldn’t waste their time staring into a locked pawn shop. There was no one out there, there couldn’t be. He had seen a shadow of some kind, and was acting foolishly–

The bell above the entrance dinged cheerfully, but the door had not moved.

Filbrick stiffened, nausea returning tenfold.

The noise seemed to echo through the shop, even as Filbrick tried to convince himself that he had imagined it. But his imagination didn’t stop there–footsteps, slow and heavy like the person could barely pick up their feet thudded through the shop. There was no one there, not even a shadow. But the steps were undeniably there, and growing closer with each moment, thudding their way towards Filbrick, so close he should have been overshadowed by the being who was practically stomping his way towards him–

Filbrick scooped up a chunk of wood, one with a broken carving of a wide-eyed owl on it, and threw it towards the footsteps. The wood clattered uselessly against the wall, falling behind a drawer, but the footsteps stopped.

Filbrick stood alone in this pawn shop, trembling.

He was an unimaginative man, mostly by choice, but for one of the first times in his life, he found himself fighting against his own spiraling mind, coming up with a million and one explanations, each one more ridiculous and terrifying than the last.

Stop it, he thought, unwilling to voice his uncertainty out loud. Stop this at once. You’re being beyond ridiculous. This is the kind of nonsense you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. Don’t tolerate it from yourself.

The pain in his arm ebbed away slightly as he gently flexed it, and the irregular thumps of his heart lessened enough where he could hear more than just footsteps and his own wheezing breaths.

“Filbrick?” Caryn’s voice echoed down the stairs and into the shop, and Filbrick just barely kept himself from gasping. “You alright? Ford said you had an accident.”

“Hardly,” Filbrick said dismissively. “Can’t find the damn broom. I’ll clear this up tomorrow.”

“You sure? I don’t want Andy getting down there and–”

“Andy’s not allowed down here anyway,” Filbrick said, making his way over to the stairs. Caryn stood at the top, long red nails curled around the doorframe, her face pursed and unsure. “It’ll be fine. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Caryn said, looking slightly uncertain. “Alright.”

“I got the crib set up for Andy,” Caryn said, her heels click-clacking into the room. “He’s ready to go to bed whenever.”

“Oh, thank God,” Nora said, picking him up. “I can feel a meltdown incoming if he’s up for much longer.”

Andrew squirmed. “No, mama, no no no–!”

“Yes, mama, yes yes yes,” Nora cooed. “It’s okay, we brought your blankie and books, come on…”

Nora disappeared down the hall, Andy fussing only a bit, and Sherman grinned. “He goes down better than any of us did, honestly. I was a screamer, wasn’t I, Ma?”

Caryn smiled fondly. “It was like going to battle trying to get you to bed.”

“And you,” Sherman laughed, twisting around to look at Stanford. “You and Stan were tag-teaming it, I think–”

Sherman’s expression went funny when he realized whose name he had said, and his mouth snapped shut. Stanford turned ashen all over again, and Caryn froze.

“Sherman,” Filbrick said, his voice low. His chest twinged

Silence like a guillotine fell over the room, and Sherman’s smile went stiff on his face, looking much younger and frightened for a moment. Stanford instantly looked back down at his book, picking nervously at the page. Caryn’s face pinched, and for one horrible moment, she looked like she might start crying.

“...anyway,” Sherman said. “Andy’s a great kid. Easy-peasy.”

“You wait until he becomes a teenager,” Caryn said with a thin smile.

“Oh, I’m on pins and needles,” Sherman chuckled.

“Shermie!” Nora called from down the hall. “Andy wants you to do voices for Frog and Toad!”

“Duty calls,” Sherman said, standing up, following his wife’s voice down the hall. Caryn flitted back to the kitchen, probably to fix everyone drinks, and Stanford stood up so suddenly that he nearly dropped his textbook.

“What?” Filbrick asked, a little confused by his hurry. “What’s with you?”

“N-nothing,” Stanford said quickly. “Just had a question for Ma.”

“What?”

“...nothing important,” Stanford said, and rushed after Caryn before he could be further interrogated.

Filbrick paused, alone in the living room, holding a newspaper that he had yet to finish. It was all boring or depressing news anyway. He contemplated calling it an early night, escaping polite small talk for at least until the morning.

The lights flickered strangely, and Filbrick stood up with a wince, the tightness in his chest growing significantly as he stood. He would go to bed soon, he decided. He had been feeling terrible all day. He just needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be better. In the meantime, he felt strangely exposed being the only one in the room.

Caryn and Stanford were speaking in low voices when Filbrick paused outside the kitchen, unsure how to intrude.

“He called you?” Caryn asked, her voice hushed and excited. “He called you? What did he say?! When was this?!”

“Ma, that’s not–” Stanford took a breath. “Ma, I don’t know if it was him. No one even said anything. I-I answered the dorm hall phone, because it’s almost never for me, and I figured I could pass along a message. But there wasn’t…no one said anything. I kept asking who was there, but all I heard was someone breathing. And then it…and then that stopped, and I thought I heard wind–it must have been the wind, something was whistling behind the breathing. And then…this is ridiculous, this doesn’t mean anything–”

“No, no,” Caryn said, desperate and more than a little insistent. “Then what?”

Stanford sighed, and Filbrick could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “...I heard the fabric whipping through the air, so clearly. And then whispering. I couldn’t make out the words, but I thought…I thought it might be him–”

“Stanford,” Filbrick rumbled and stepped into the kitchen, abruptly deciding he had had enough of this.

Stanford jumped like a gun had gone off, and Caryn glanced back at him, openly irritated. “Filbrick, can you–”

“I want to speak to my son,” Filbrick said. “Privately.”

Stanford looked oddly stricken, and Caryn frowned. “We’re in the middle of our own conversation, Filbrick, can’t you wait–”

“Now,” Filbrick said, in a tone that let her know that he was willing to argue on this, and argue hard.

Caryn frowned, and for a moment, Filbrick thought she might call his bluff. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep up tonight. She had more energy than him right now, certainly, but he hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

She tsked, annoyed, but it meant she was backing down. She leaned over, pressing a kiss against Stanford’s cheek, soft enough that her lipstick didn’t even leave a mark. “I’m gonna see if Andy wants Grandma to tuck him in, okay?”

Stanford said nothing, watching Caryn leave morosely like she was army backup leaving him out to dry.

“...care to tell me what that was all about?” Filbrick asked. “Is that how you spend your time at your backwater school? Listening to crank calls? You’re damn lucky they gave you full ride and it’s not my money you’re spending–”

“No, Pa, I–” Stanford picked at a loose thread on his sweater sleeve, and before Filbrick could tell him to stop, he was already talking. “I-I just…I have a bad feeling. About…him.”

Filbrick didn’t need to ask him to clarify. “For God’s–you sound like your mother when you talk like that, you know that?”

“You don’t know what it’s like, Pa,” Stanford said. “Since the call, it’s like…I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. There’s just a pit in my stomach, and it’s not going away–Pa, has he called you? I know he calls Ma sometimes just to check in, but–”

“And I’ve told your mother a million and one times not to pick up,” Filbrick snapped.

“I-I just feel like something bad has happened,” Stanford said. “Or something bad already happened, and it just hasn’t reached us yet.”

“Where the hell is this coming from?” Filbrick shook his head, and felt his arm twinge. The pain had spread to his shoulder. Moving the clock had done it no favors. “I thought you were smarter than all that superstitious bullshit. You are smarter than all that superstitious bullshit, or at least smarter than those dumb as rocks teachers. Maybe they were wrong about you–”

“Pa, Pa, this is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Stanford said, rapidly growing more and more distressed. “I-I knew you would just get upset, and maybe I’m wrong, god, I hope I’m wrong, I’d give anything to be wrong–”

“What does it matter, anyway?” Filbrick asked. “You’re better off without him. He was dragging you down your whole life. If he hadn’t broken your project, you’d’ve been at that…that West Side something-or-other–”

“West Coast Tech!” Stanford interrupted, and this time there was a definite snap in his voice. “It was West Coast Tech! You can’t even get the name right! Just because I’m angry at him doesn’t mean I want him to be hurt or in trouble!”

Filbrick’s jaw clenched. “You oughta apologize real quick, or–”

“What?” Stanford folded his arms. “Apologize for being right?”

Filbrick blinked before he could stop himself, just barely keeping his mouth from falling open. He could see his own reflection in Stanford’s glasses, and goddamn it all, his reflection looked surprised. He forced his expression into an angry scowl, but Stanford didn’t back down.

“...apologize for your disrespect,” Filbrick growled, his voice as low as he could make it. “After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve sacrificed, this is how you treat me? You better hope you get that grant money, so you can pay me back for all you’ve cost me.”

Stanford scoffed. “That’s not how it works, Pa, I can’t give it to you even if I wanted to.”

Filbrick bristled, suddenly so angry he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. “How dare you–”

“You want me to get it revoked for misuse? Is that what you want?!” Stanford demanded. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal! You want me to go to jail because you want me to, what, pay you back for my birthday presents?! Give me an hour on the beach, and whatever shit I dig up will probably be worth more than all of it combined–”

Filbrick’s hand moved without him really meaning to, though he probably wouldn’t have stopped the movement even if he had been conscious of it.

Stanford’s eyes widened, and he stepped back quickly, dodging Filbrick’s open-palmed strike easily. He had never done that before. He hadn’t been able to do that before. Filbrick missed, and his hand knocked against the cabinet, rattling the plates inside.

Something dangerous thudded in Filbrick’s chest, and he wheezed.

Instantly, Stanford’s expression melted into something worried. “Pa? Pa?! Are you okay?!”

Filbrick opened his mouth to shout, but all that came out was another desperate gasp. Stanford lurched forward, grabbing his arm. “Ma! Ma! Ma, I need your help–”

“Don’t touch me!” Filbrick snapped, air rushing back into his lungs, even if he couldn’t quite seem to fill them completely. He pushed Stanford off, finding some grim satisfaction when Stanford stumbled.

“What?! What’s wrong?!” Caryn darted into the kitchen, already high-strung.

“Nothing,” Filbrick snarled. “Your son just doesn’t have an ounce of respect in his body.”

“That’s not–” Stanford still looked afraid. “Pa, please, I think we should–”

“What happened?” Caryn asked. “Filbrick, what in the world–”

“I’m fine!” Filbrick snapped, a little bit of gravitas returning to his demeanor, and not a moment too soon. “Get off my damn back!”

For a moment, Stanford looked frightened into silence, but Caryn merely frowned. “Sh,” she said. “You’ll wake the baby.”

“Forget it,” Filbrick huffed, relieved for an excuse to flee. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’ll be in my room. Don’t bother me.”

He put extra effort into stomping to his room, feeling the floor creak and groan beneath him, bending to his will and weight like it had for as long as he could remember. It felt good to hear and feel his own presence, powerful and commanding.

No one followed him back to his room. He found himself mostly relieved.

He was running on the beach, the sky and the sea the same ashtray gray, so similar that it was hard to tell where they separated.The air smelled like smoke too, tinged with something mechanical that made it almost poisonous, filtering in and out of him with each ragged breath as his arms pumped furiously, his shoes crunching and sinking into the pebbly sand.

He was running for his life.

He didn’t dare look back, gasping for every foul breath, struggling not to trip. He could hear his heart, louder than the wind and louder than the ocean, thudding evenly in his ears, like the steady turn of a windmill in his veins.

He grunted, once, during a gasp for air, and the sound startled him. It sounded like a terrified, wordless cry for help, and he was so terrified that he was beyond humiliation. He looked back, for only a moment, and saw nothing but fog and his own footsteps, swept away in the tide.

He looked forward, his eyes scanning for any kind of cover, somewhere to hide from his invisible pursuer.

The pier loomed out through the fog, mostly accessible in low tide, and completely abandoned. Usually there were stragglers, vagrants or excitable teenage couples hiding either above or below the barnacled beams, but now there was no one. He lurched forward, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wood, and felt mussels and shells scrape against his palm. He ignored the pain, hiding and trying to control his breathing. His heart still thudded, overpowering and dizzying.

He peeked out, terrified of what he might find, but there was nothing. Only fog and ocean. New terror bloomed in his chest, and he started running again, this time unable to keep himself from checking every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He never saw anyone, but his panic only built, rising to such heights that he was shocked he didn’t drop dead from it. Maybe he would. Maybe it was only a matter of time.

A boat, beached and decaying like a whale carcass, appeared out of the gloom, and he scrambled over it, ducking behind it for cover, to catch his breath for just a moment before he restarted his useless attempt to flee. His heart’s thudding never wavered, but it grew louder, and louder, and louder, until each thud felt like an earthquake, making him unsteady and weak, and he couldn’t go on like this–

Silence, and then, a noise.

It was a human making the noise, probably, though he couldn’t be sure. It was the strangest combination of a gasp, a cry, and even a goose-like honk, a sound wrenched deep from inside a person, one they probably weren’t aware they were capable of making until they did. Those sort of sounds usually happened when someone was in terrible, terrible pain, the type of pain that seemed impossible.

His heart stopped thudding, leaving him in silence. No wind, no ocean, nothing.

Without really knowing why, he peeked over the edge of the boat.

Something was there, about ten yards away, as if waiting patiently. A long, torn piece of cloth, fluttering in the silent wind. It was filthy, covered in dirt and strange, dark stains. It was gauzy, nearly transparent, and it should have been flying away in the wind, twisting and writhing like a dying snake in the sky, but it stayed, firmly grounded.

It was making noises again, moaning in a strange, guttural way, like someone was choking on a thick liquid. The moaning stretched, half-desperate, growing louder and more terrible with each passing moment. Humans shouldn’t make that sound, and he hoped against hope that it wasn’t, that it was some unlucky dying animal in death throes, and that at any moment it would go silent and leave him alone.

He realized, then, why the fabric hadn’t been carried off by the sea breeze. It was wrapped around something–a figure, a human figure, standing perfectly still, invisible but outlined by the cloth flapping around their frame.

Terror like he had never known gripped him, and he clutched at his heart as the figure slowly raised its invisible arms, like it was reaching up, up, up to touch the sky, grab at something he couldn’t see, and never wanted to.

Distantly, he heard a singular, sharp whistle. The figure inched closer, propelled like the wind was pushing it towards him, and he couldn’t move.

There was another strange, pained sound, the gasp-cry-honk, and he could almost hear a syllable in it, a singular, blood-curdling “HO–!” and

Filbrick awoke with no preamble. He smelled breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Toast, with eggs sizzling in the pan.

Caryn wasn’t next to him. He had fallen asleep fairly quickly last night, and she had likely followed sometime after him. Having company seemed to invigorate her where it drained Filbrick. He felt even more exhausted than he had the day before, in fact. His eyes burned from exhaustion, and rubbing them only made them sting worse.

Sunlight was already streaming through the blinds, the winter sun heating the room up like a greenhouse. Filbrick felt vaguely ill, drenched with sweat, his head pounding furiously. Another smell filtered into the room, one that promised at least a modicum of relief from his headache–coffee, bitter and black.

He sat up, eager to peel off sweat-soaked sheets, and was hit with nausea so potent it took everything in him not to vomit there and then. His head spun like a top, and he swayed, his left shoulder singing with pain all over again, making it hard to draw a full breath. He shouldn’t have tried to move the clock yesterday.

Just thinking about having to clean up the mess the clock left today filled him with dread. He could make Stanford do it, but then Stanford would have a million questions about how and why he had dropped the clock. If he made Sherman or Caryn do it, they would ask what had happened, and then the story would come out all over again. It just wasn’t worth the hassle.

The nausea finally passed, at least enough for him to stand and move without danger of vomiting, and Filbrick forced himself to throw on his robe before practically stalking to the kitchen.

Everyone else was already up, and Sherman, his family, and Stanford were already dressed. Sherman was mid-conversation with Caryn about something that was probably unimportant, Nora was cutting up toast for Andrew, and Stanford was already focused on a book, his breakfast cooling in front of it. He glanced up when Filbrick entered the room, and then immediately looked away.

“Morning,” Caryn said brightly. “You sleep okay?”

“Okay enough,” Filbrick said, pouring himself a cup of coffee to the brim.

“It snowed last night,” Nora said. “Shermie and I were thinking of taking Andy to the beach.”

“What?” Filbrick said. “It’s freezing.”

“We brought a coat,” Nora said. “And he likes the water. It’s not like we’re going to let him go swimming. Ford, want to come?”

“Hm?” Ford glanced up, his concentration broken. “Sorry?”

Sherman leaned over Stanford’s shoulders to look at what he was reading. “What are you reading…what even is that? A wizard’s spellbook?”

“It’s partial differential equations,” Stanford said. “I’m taking an advanced physics course next semester, and I’m trying to get a headstart–”

“Okay, okay,” Sherman plucked the book out of Stanford’s hand, darting back when Stanford tried to snatch it back. “I marked your page, I promise! It’ll only be a couple hours, Andy’ll love it if you came, right buddy?”

Andrew, for his part, was busy slobbering over a chunk of toast, but Stanford looked thoughtful. “...alright. I…I’m ahead anyway, I can–”

“If you’re ahead,” Filbrick said. “You should keep working to stay that way. Don’t waste your time to go off to the beach, freezing your ass off, God knows you’ve wasted enough time doing that in the past when you could have been working–”

“Ass,” Andrew said, and Filbrick ignored Nora’s frown and Sherman’s glare. Stanford didn’t wilt at his criticism this time, but merely frowned, staring at his cold breakfast with such intensity Filbrick was surprised it didn’t burst into flames.

“Pa,” Sherman said, his voice a little tight. “I asked you not to swear around Andy.”

Filbrick took a defiant sip of his coffee, and frowned. It didn’t taste as bitter as it usually did. “Did you do something to the coffee?” He asked Caryn.

“I got the better brand,” she said, deliberately not looking him in the eye. “For company.”

Filbrick frowned. “Good Lord, Caryn, how many times do we have to have this conversation–”

“I think it’s good,” Sherman said, leaning down to press a quick kiss against Caryn’s cheek. “Thanks for making it, Ma, we’ll be back in a bit. Go grab your coat, Stanford.”

“He can’t–” Filbrick started, but Caryn tsked.

“At least eat a little, Ford, you look like a stiff breeze will blow you away,” she said. “You do eat at school, don’t you?”

“Sure, yeah, I mean–” he shrugged. “I mean, it’s dining hall food, it’s not exactly good–”

“Stanford!” Filbrick snapped, loud enough that the table went suddenly silent. He paused, a little surprised by his volume, and strangely out of breath because of it. “If you’re going to be at home, at least make yourself useful and get ahead on work and studies instead of wasting your time.”

Stanford winced, hurt, and Caryn glared at Filbrick in a way that let him know he had insulted some part of her that he didn’t know existed. But instead of staring at the floor before turning Sherman down with that mopey look on his face, Stanford stood up, oddly galvanized after the hurt passed over his face. “Hang on, I think I have an extra sweater in my suitcase.”

Filbrick just barely stopped himself from shouting. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, or even particularly cared that Sherman would throw a fit if he yelled in front of Andrew. He just had a bad feeling that he would find himself wheezing if he exerted himself like that. He focused all his energy into a glare that would curdle milk.

Stanford didn’t even look at him, following the tiny family out of the kitchen, stuffing a piece of toast in his mouth as he left. Caryn grabbed his place, scrapping crusts and half-congealed egg yolks into the garbage.

“Fine,” Filbrick snapped, slamming his coffee cup down with almost enough force to crack it. He didn’t think Stanford could hear him, but he didn’t want to waste his energy chasing after him. “Fine.”

There was more he wanted to say, but he found himself coming up short on threats. In any case, Sherman would say something flippant and it would only piss him off more, and he was already losing a battle with a headache. He snatched a dust pan and broom off the wall, deciding he would clean up the damn clock, stomping downstairs to the pawn shop, trying to make his footsteps audible to those above.

He grumbled listlessly to himself, squinting at the intense morning brightness streaming through the windows. Caryn had insisted that they close the shop up while everyone else was here, and though Filbrick disagreed on principle, it wasn’t like the shop was getting many customers lately.

Glass Shard Beach was hemorrhaging reputable citizens, and those that came into the shop were more often than not looking to unload some bullshit that looked stolen. Filbrick wasn’t against buying what might be evidence, but it had to be worth the risk. And very few things were, especially whatever strung-out pickpockets were bringing into the shop nowadays.

Thinking about money–or the lack thereof–made his chest twist in a nervous way that he didn’t like, so he tried to drive it from his mind. He grumbled again, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder when he bent down, sweeping up broken pieces of the clock that were still lying there from the night before. He could glare at Sherman and Stanford now as they passed to leave, at least. He deserved that much. And he would just ignore any questions Sherman or Nora had about why exactly the clock was broken.

He sighed, more irritated than ever, sweeping cogs and shattered glass into the dustpan, and then looked up.

In an ornate silver mirror hanging on the wall, he could see someone in the reflection, standing in the corner.

Filbrick froze, just for a millisecond, and then continued sweeping, keeping half an eye on the mirror. The figure, a man in ragged clothes, was standing in a dark corner, his face hidden by a long shadow that shouldn’t have been there so early in the morning. Another homeless man, then, one of many. It looked like he had been on the road for a while, based on the state of his clothes. He must not have realized that Filbrick had noticed him; the man didn’t move, standing so still in the corner that he could have been mistaken for a statue.

Filbrick said nothing, grumbling indiscernibly once more, his eyes darting around for a weapon. His trusty baseball bat was upstairs, left behind with an assumption that no would-be thief was dumb enough to break into his shop in broad daylight when he had already built a no-nonsense, strike first and ask questions later reputation amongst those wandering the streets at night.

But the man in the corner did not move. And somehow, Filbrick knew he was being watched intently.

His hand reached forward to grab the best weapon he could find–a heavy brass wax seal, not enough to seriously harm but hopefully enough to scare until he could grab the gun locked in a case below the register–and the man moved.

He didn’t step forward, didn’t lunge to fight or flee. In the mirror, Filbrick watched him lift his arms, reaching up as if to catch something. His face never left the shadows, and his clothing moved strangely, as though something other than the body that wore them was moving them around. Almost like wind.

Filbrick heard fabric tear, and the man made a horrible, deep, groaning noise.

Terror, like a knife in the gut, spread through Filbrick’s body. His heart stuttered painfully, and his breathing choked before he could stop it. The pain in his body ratcheted up, and he found it nearly comical, in the shriveled part of him that half-appreciated the irony. Sure, why not make everything hurt? Might as well.

Filbrick lunged forward, and the man’s groan never broke, his arms still reaching for something invisible. His clothes looked different, longer, shroud-like–

Filbrick grabbed the wax seal, and whirled around. There was no one there.

But he had already committed to the action. The wax seal soared forward, his aim true, and it slammed right into the wall where the man had stood less than a millisecond earlier, punching a decent sized hole in the wall.

Filbrick stood completely still, shaking. The echo of the man’s groan was still playing in his head, and he leaned against the jewelry case, suddenly finding it difficult to stand. Everything hurt, his chest most of all, each heartbeat sending glass through his arteries, and he grunted, his vision blurring strangely at the edges.

“PA!”

Someone grabbed his arm, and somehow, someway, it jolted him back to his senses through mere humiliation. “Don’t touch me!”

Sherman let go, looking startled. His wife stood behind him, clutching Andy and looking concerned. Andy was so bundled up in clothes that he was nearly shapeless, fussy and overheated. Stanford stood at the foot of the stairs, frowning, but unsurprised.

“Pa, you…” Sherman trailed off for a moment. “You were…you looked like you couldn’t breathe. Are you–”

“Of course I can breathe!” Filbrick snarled. “Don’t touch me.”

Unable to stop himself, he glanced at the mirror where the reflection of the man had stood. No one was there; just the hole in the wall he had made.

Sherman followed Filbrick’s gaze to the mirror, and his mouth fell open. “What in the…what happened to the wall?!”

“Nothing,” Filbrick snapped, queasy. “Don’t you have a beach you need to freeze your asses off at or something?”

The concern instantly melted away from Sherman’s face. “Don’t swear around my son.”

Filbrick scoffed, but it turned into a cough. Nora looked even more concerned, and Stanford looked away. Sherman didn’t back down, glaring. “Here, I can take him,” he said, and scooped Andy up, his face softening when he saw his son’s. “Hey, buddy. Wanna see if we can round up enough snow to make a snow angel?”

Andy smiled, and said something to his father that Filbrick couldn’t make heads or tails of. But Sherman just smiled, holding Andy closer.

“You said it, bud,” Sherman said, opening the door for them. “Come on, we’re letting all the warm air out.”

“Go ahead,” Nora said. “I’ll help Filbrick clean up for a moment.”

Sherman and Stanford both looked surprised, and Sherman spoke before Filbrick could argue. “Really? You were excited to see the beach.”

“I’ll be out soon,” Nora smiled. “You guys haven’t had any one-on-one together since we’ve arrived. Go do…I don’t know, guy stuff or whatever.”

“Guy stuff?” Stanford said incredulously.

“Guy stuff!” Andy said, starting to wriggle and whine under all his layers.

“Alright, sure,” Sherman said, grabbing Stanford and shoving him good-naturedly. “Come on, Ford, you can tell me all the sea snail species or something.”

“We won’t find any in winter, it’s far too cold,” Stanford said.

Sherman’s grin grew bigger. “Sure, whatever weirdo.”

Nora smiled thinly, looking worried, and Filbrick opened his mouth to argue that he didn’t want her here in the most tactful way he could (Sherman tended to get damn near aggressive if Filbrick even so much as implied he didn’t want her around, even by accident), but it was too late. The boys ducked out of the shop, and Sherman paused for just a moment. “Jeez, Pa, don’t forget to lock this. Could’ve been dangerous.”

And Filbrick was about to snap that he did lock the doors, he always did, but with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he very suddenly realized he couldn’t recall.

“Filbrick,” Nora said, and Filbrick frowned when he realized it was just the two of them. “I just…are you alright? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Filbrick said waspishly, because Sherman wasn’t here to stare daggers if he responded with anything less than perfect politeness. “I–don’t touch that.”

Nora had grabbed the broom and dustpan, starting to sweep up the clock chunks. “I can help–”

“I don’t need your help,” Filbrick said, snatching away the broom and dustpan. He barely held back a wince, rubbing at his chest. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”

“Filbrick,” Nora said slowly, staring at him with an analytical eye. “I think…I might know what might be wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Filbrick said, his stomach turning.

“We were just–” Nora sighed. “We were just talking about this last night, you know. Listen, just let me help you.”

“What?” Filbrick asked, confused. “Talking about what? What are you–”

Her story, of whistles and wandering on San Francisco sands, came back to him in a flash. His breath stuttered for just a moment, and Nora seemed to take it as her green light. “Listen, you know I have experience with this kind of thing, it’s not too late–”

“Not too late?” Filbrick repeated, and then forced himself to scowl. “There is…nothing is happening.”

“Something must be,” Nora said gently. Too gently.

Nora had reminded him of all the parts of Caryn that Filbrick had to ignore or actively disapproved of. The phone psychic bit, the tarot and palm readings–it brought in business, helpful business, because Caryn knew how to build a clientele like no one else, and she could assure Filbrick that she knew it was all smoke and mirrors, but sometimes he wasn’t sure if she meant it. Sometimes he saw her study a person’s palm with a concentration that screamed authenticity. Sometimes she put her tarot cards away gently, like they were priceless. He didn’t see it often, but he saw it more than he wanted to.

And here was Nora, flouting her ghosts and her stories without an ounce of shame, and worse yet, she was trying to drag his sons and grandson into it, all the way in California. And even worse than that, she was trying to drag Filbrick into it.

Nevermind that this was the third time something bizarre had happened, not counting the dream that he was working very hard to forget. There was nothing there, because if there was, there were only two options available: Filbrick was wrong about a great many things, or Filbrick was going insane. Maybe even both. Neither of those were an option.

“Filbrick?” Nora said, her eyes filled with so much concern it made him even more disgusted. “Filbrick, have you been feeling alright–”

“Shut up,” he snarled.

Nora blinked; he had never been so outwardly hostile to her. “Sorry?”

“Shut up,” he snarled, completely done with hospitality. “I don’t want your goddamn help with anything. I don’t need it. I don’t need you. The only reason I let you step foot in my damn house is because Sherman won’t come if I tell him you’re not welcome.”

Nora’s face bloomed red, humiliated. “I–I–”

“Fuck it,” Filbrick snarled, shoving the broom and dustpan into her hands. She dropped them immediately, looking even more shocked. “You wanna clean it so bad? Go ahead. Be my goddamn guest.”

He immediately started storming up the stairs, unwilling to allow himself to be looked at for even one second longer.

“Filbrick–!” Nora called, but he slammed the door.

Caryn glanced up when he entered the kitchen, still cleaning. “You didn’t want to go with them to the beach?”

“And what?” Filbrick snapped. “Be cold and miserable?”

Caryn frowned. “There’s no need–”

“I’m taking a nap,” Filbrick said, making his way to their room.

“You just woke up!”

Filbrick ignored her, exhausted already. He practically threw open the door, and stood there in silence, his ears straining for that terrible, terrible moaning. But all he heard was the ocean, endless and patient. His hands were shaking.

Phenomena, he thought abruptly, and thought of Stanford.

Outside his window, he could see the beach, just barely, searching for the place where the sea and sky kissed.

But it all melded together, just like in his dream.

There was someone in the house.

That was the only explanation that Filbrick would accept. Any other was impossible. Someone was in his house, hiding somewhere, and was taking the time to mess with him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have enemies. Filbrick never had the time or will to suffer fools, especially when they took up space in his pawn shop. And God forbid a member of the rapidly growing homeless population try to sneak a nap in the alley behind their house–Filbrick would be there with his trusty baseball bat. He never had to chase; he just stood there and let his reputation do the work while the no-goods muttered nervous apologies and left as quickly as they arrived.

So of course someone would want to mess with him. He just couldn’t fathom how they were doing it.

He realized, a little reluctantly, Stanford might know how footsteps with no feet to make the sounds could echo through the shop at night, and how someone might hide in a cramped apartment while someone was actively looking for them. No one but a very stupid and small child could fit in the crawlspace, so that was out. Filbrick had flung open closets until Caryn started looking at him sideways, and then tried to make his investigation at least marginally more discreet. But he never found anything.

At some point, he more or less collapsed into his arm chair, adrenaline still pumping through his veins like a billion tiny needles, his heartbeat working overtime to keep up with what he was rapidly starting to worry was paranoia. He coughed, once, twice, and then a few more times for good measure, burying his mouth into the crook of his sleeve and trying not to be too loud about it. His left shoulder still hurt badly, and he was nauseous even after all this time.

The house was empty. He was about as certain about that fact as he could be. But it did nothing to calm him, tapping his foot against the ground for what felt like an eternity.

“You alright, hon?” Caryn called from the kitchen, and he heard her chopping something. Onions, maybe, or carrots based on the steady shk-shk-shk of a knife against a wooden cutting board. “You’re coughing a lot.”

Filbrick grunt, massaging his chest with his knuckles, idly wishing he could reach inside and prod at the soreness. It had been a long day, and he felt off-balance in a way he wasn’t used to. He didn’t like surprises, he didn’t like guests, and he certainly didn’t like sneaks. Some weekend this was shaping up to be.

The door swung open to the apartment with no warning, and Filbrick gripped the sides of the seat he was in, feeling his face go white. But instead of a murderous hobo, Sherman, Stanford, Nora, and finally Andrew trailed inside. Their faces were all red from the cold, and Andrew was immediately picked up by Nora when he leaned against her, but they seemed to be in good spirits. Even Stanford’s eyes looked brighter.

“You all were gone longer than I thought!” Caryn called from the kitchen, sounding amused. “How was the beach?”

“Freezing,” Nora said, peeling off her scarf. She was working hard not to look at Filbrick. “We ended up staying there only for an hour, then Ford found this maritime museum they opened up a few years back! Andy loved it. We ended up getting lunch, walking around a little more, and…” she shrugged.

“Day got away from us,” Sherman said. “Didn’t mean to stay out until dark.”

Caryn emerged from the kitchen, her eyes teary. “Just onions,” she said at the concerned looks she got, confirming Filbrick’s suspicions. “Anyone want to help set the table for dinner?”

“Sure,” Stanford said, kicking off his boots. “Let me drop my coat off.”

“Gramma, Gramma,” Andrew said, holding up a small toy boat. “Boat, boat, boat.”

“Look at that!” Caryn cooed, kneeling down to examine the toy. “Did you get that at the museum, honey?”

“Mhm,” Nora said, setting him down again. Andrew immediately scurried off, probably to play with his boat. “Ford helped him pick it out. We might have a future sea captain on our hands. What do you need help with, Caryn?”

“You go ahead,” Sherman said. “I needed to ask Pa about something real quick.”

“What?” Filbrick said, confused and not wanting to stand up from his chair. He was finally semi-comfortable. He didn’t want to stand up, move, or even talk. “Why?”

Sherman’s face looked tight, like he was trying not to grimace. “Come on, we can talk in the hallway real quick.”

Filbrick opened his mouth to protest, but Sherman had already disappeared, waiting for him in the narrow hallways that led to the bedrooms. Filbrick thought about refusing to move, but Caryn and Stanford were staring at him. Stanford looked grim, and Caryn looked perplexed. Andrew and Nora had already left. With irritation, Filbrick decided that sitting here would only prolong the interaction.

He stood up with a grunt that he hoped sounded irritated and not pained, lumbering to the hallway to meet Sherman. “What’s this about? Don’t take long, dinner’s soon–”

“Did you tell Nora to shut up?” Sherman said, his expression and voice suddenly harsh and accusatory.

Filbrick blinked, startled by the change. “What?”

“Nora came out looking like she was trying not to cry,” Sherman whispered furiously. “It took me forever to figure out what had upset her. She said she had tried to help you, and you told her to shut up.”

Filbrick blinked again, and then scowled. “She was overstepping.”

“Over–?!” Sherman blinked in shock. “Overstepping?! She was trying to help you!”

“I don’t need her help!” Filbrick snapped. “And frankly, Sherman, I don’t think having someone like her is good for you. Always has her head in the clouds, that one.”

“Are you–?!” Sherman looked angrier than Filbrick had ever seen him. “Don’t talk about my wife that way. I’m warning you.”

“You’re warning me?!” Filbrick asked, aghast. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?!”

“I think I’m talking to my father,” Sherman hissed. “Who was rude to my wife, has barely given my son the time of day, and–”

“Exactly, I’m your father,” Filbrick interrupted, annoyed with his grandstanding. “Show me some damn respect. Do you have any idea how much I sacrificed for you? For all you boys? Do you even care?! I’d have thought now that you had your own family you’d understand the challenges I was up against, but apparently it still didn’t make it’s way through your thick skull–”

“Tell me you love me,” Sherman said, and then looked surprised.

Filbrick’s mouth snapped shut, surprised into silence. “...excuse me?” He asked, with no venom. Just pure confusion.

For a moment, Sherman looked like he was about to brush his own words off. But he took a breath, and doubled down. “Tell me you love me. Go on.”

“...now?” Filbrick asked, bewildered. He felt dangerously close to swaying, like as the anger leaked out of him his illness came back full force.

“I’ll give you all the money in my wallet to tell me that you love me,” Sherman said.

Filbrick blinked. “What?”

But Sherman was already fishing into his pocket, pulling out a clip wallet and rifling through it. His hands were shaking. “I got…forty seven dollars and thirty seven cents. It’s all your’s if you just tell me you love me. Or Ford. Hell, I’ll go to the bank right now if you can tell me you love all three of us and give you a hundred–”

“You’re crazy,” Filbrick said. His tongue felt heavy inside his mouth, and he half-worried he might slur his words. “What kind of point are you trying to make?”

Sherman shook his head, and made a noise that sounded almost like a chuckle. “You can’t say it, huh? Not even for money. What’s the holdup? Pride? Stubbornness? Shame? It’s shame, right? At least if it’s shame, you know you’re wrong.”

Filbrick bristled. “How dare you–”

“I always thought I’d understand you when I had kids,” Sherman said, looking miserable. “That…that there was some kind of secret thing that made everything you did okay. That once I had a kid, everything would just click into place, and I’d finally see things your way. That…that I’d understand it. That I’d understand you. But you know what, Pa?”

Sherman stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I think I understand you even less. When I held Andy for the first time, I was crying. It was one of the best moments of my life. He…he’s my kid, and every time I think about raising him like you raised me, Ford, and Stan, I feel sick. I really feel like I’m gonna barf. I love that kid so damn much, I could never imagine tossing him onto the streets–”

“Andrew isn’t–” Filbrick nearly stuttered, his mouth halting strangely on the name. “-he isn’t him, it’s different–”

“It’s not,” Sherman shook his head. “It’s really not. Andy could do anything, be anyone, and I can’t imagine a world where I could ever bring myself to throw him out. Pa, do you…do you even know where he is? Does anyone?”

Filbrick opened his mouth, closed it, and desperately tried to think of something to say that didn’t feel utterly lackluster.

He had no delusions about being the world’s best father–he didn’t think anyone was, really. He just told himself that as long as he did what he knew was best, he would be alright. So would the boys, eventually. They would see it one day. They would thank him.

But Sherman stared at him, glaring furiously, and the sick feeling in Filbrick’s stomach made itself known for the millionth time today, and now he was starting to worry that the illness wasn’t a simple flu at all, that it was something far stronger and more difficult to get rid of–something almost like guilt.

“What?” Sherman demanded. “You want to say something, I can see it! Go on!”

Filbrick wanted to do anything but speak. He wanted this conversation done with. He wanted to go back and sit in his armchair. God, even listening to Caryn prattle on or endure Stanford’s sullenness felt preferable. He was desperate enough to even take Nora’s company.

But Sherman was here now, and glaring at him, and he wouldn’t leave, like the footsteps, shadows, and nightmares that followed him through the days and nights.

“So what,” Filbrick choked out, horrified by how small his voice sounded. “You think you’re better than me?!”

Sherman’s face twisted, and fell like Filbrick had failed some test that he didn’t even know he was taking. Sherman sighed, and ran his hand down his face. “...I don’t know what I expected,” he said, and his voice sounded oddly fragile.

“I–” Filbrick started, fighting to get words out. “I did the best I could with you all, dammit. That’s not on me if you can’t appreciate it–”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Sherman spat, like he was tasting something foul. He froze, looking shocked by his own words.

“What did you–?!” Filbrick hissed, any trace of guilt easily snuffed out by anger. His hands moved faster than his mind, shooting out to grab Sherman by the shirt collar like he had when he was smaller. Filbrick wasn’t sure what the plan was; pull him close for a dire warning to never speak to him like that again, shake him around a bit to put the fear of God in him, or a proper smack. He never really knew what he was going to do until he did it, truthfully.

It didn’t matter anyway, because Sherman pushed him. He had never done that before.

Filbrick lost his balance instantly, falling gracelessly to the ground. His hands reached desperately to try and find something to hold onto, and his hand knocked into a picture frame on the wall. The picture fell off the wall like it was just looking for an excuse to do so, and the glass shattered on the floor into a million pieces.

Filbrick glanced over, not very curious about what he had broken, but hoping to avoid glass. The sick feeling returned at once, and tenfold, when he saw the photograph.

It was a family picture, taken mere weeks before Sherman had moved out. It was the only picture of Stanley that still remained.

Stanley looked happy in this one. They all did.

“Filbrick?!” Caryn’s head popped around the corner. “I heard glass break, are you–”

She saw the shattered picture frame and froze, looking shocked. “What…what in the world happened?!”

“...I…” Sherman looked vaguely haunted, and swallowed hard. “I…I think I need to go.”

“What?” Caryn looked even more shocked. “Go where? What are you–”

“I’m sorry, Ma, I tried, I really tried,” Sherman said. “I just…I’m sorry.”

Caryn blinked, and an understanding that Filbrick hadn’t reached yet crossed her face. “Shermie, wait, we can–”

“Hey, Nora?” Sherman said, going down the hall to the guest room. “Nora, the car seat’s still in the car right?”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?!” Filbrick snapped, hauling himself to his feet, shaky.

“Home,” Sherman said.

“You are home–”

Sherman laughed loudly, but there was no joy behind it. “I don’t think this has ever really been my home. I don’t think it’s ever been any of our homes.”

“What are you–” Filbrick said, but Caryn was already speaking.

“Shermie, baby, whatever your father’s done, we can figure it out,” she followed Sherman as he went to find his wife and baby, looking fretful. “Please, I never see you all–”

“I know, Ma, I’m sorry,” Sherman said. “I am, really, and you’re always welcome in our house, I just can’t…”

Sherman trailed off, shaking his head. Caryn’s face fell, and Nora appeared, looking grim and carrying Andrew in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “You sure?” She asked Sherman, and the latter nodded. Nora looked like she had been expecting this.

“Hang on,” Filbrick said, feeling the situation spiraling rapidly out of control. “Hang on, what the hell’s the matter with you?! You’re leaving over one fight?!”

“It’s not–!” Sherman’s face turned red. “It’s not one fight, Pa. It’s one fight and then a comment, or cruelty, or another fight, or a million other things over a lifetime.”

Filbrick scoffed. “You…you can’t be serious. I’m not–”

He paused, unsure what he was defending himself against, and then crossed his arms. “I don’t…I don’t owe you anything. I haven’t done anything, you’re acting irrational and upsetting your mother–”

“Shermie?” Stanford appeared around the corner. “What’s…why do you have your suitcase?”

Sherman looked genuinely guilty for the first time. “Hey, Ford, I’m…I’m sorry. Something came up at work, I have to–”

Stanford’s face twisted in something that looked a little like irritation. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not a child.”

Sherman winced. “I…I’m sorry. I can pay for a ride back to school for you–”

Stanford’s eyes widened, like Sherman had offered to leave him stranded in a hurricane. “No, no, just–” he looked embarrassed. “If…if it’s not too much trouble, can I leave with you? I’ll pay for extra gas, I just…”

He looked down at the ground. “I don’t want to be alone here again.”

Caryn looked like she was about to burst into tears.

“We wouldn’t–” Nora glanced at Filbrick for the first time, and seemed to barrel ahead as if nervous she would be stopped. “We wouldn’t make you pay for gas, honey.”

“Shermie, Ford,” Caryn said, her voice small and shaking. “You can’t…please. Please.”

“This is getting–!” Filbrick stepped forward, his hands up. “This is getting out of hand. For God’s sake, everyone just relax!”

Shermie stared at him with nothing short of open disgust. Ford looked away. Andrew whispered something to his mother, and Nora nodded. “I know, Andy,” she told Andrew. “Say…say bye-bye to Grandma and Grandpa.”

“Bye-bye,” Andrew waved at Filbrick. He ignored it.

“Put down the suitcase, Sherman,” he ordered in his most commanding voice. “I won’t ask again.”

“Then don’t,” Sherman said, and Filbrick found he was stunned into silence. “Ford, you–?”

Stanford had left for a moment, and now emerged from his room with his suitcase, already packed. Like he had been waiting to leave. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he said.

Caryn sniffled, and Filbrick was a little amazed she didn’t burst into harsh tears. “Boys…” she said, her voice pleading, but didn’t continue.

Filbrick wished he could do something, anything to regain control of the situation. There had to be a magic string of words or actions that would undo this mess, make him stop hurting, make his sons stop ignoring him like he was a ghost in Nora’s stupid stories. But all he could do was stare, chest aching and mouth open in shock like a beached fish.

“Love you, Ma,” Sherman said, leaning in for a hug. “I’ll call you, okay?”

Caryn hugged Sherman back tightly, but didn’t hold on, like she already knew it was over. Sherman gave Stanford a look, and he also stepped forward, hugging her. She whispered something in his ear, and Stanford nodded stoically. Filbrick didn’t hear it.

“Nora–” Caryn said, but Nora shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay. Say bye-bye to Grandma, Andy.”

“Bye-bye,” Andrew said, a little sleepy from an active day. Caryn lurched forward to hug him, covering him in lipstick kisses and plucking him out of Nora’s arms to hug him like she would never do so again.

“You–” Filbrick tried, but that was as far as he got. Stanford took an opportunity to bolt, practically running into the rapidly dimming day, the white sun turning red as it dipped behind the ocean. He seemed more than eager to leave.

“Ford–!” Caryn said, snatching his forgotten scarf from the wall hook and chasing him. She still had Andrew. “Ford, wait, wait!”

“Ma, hang on, I can bring it, don’t run with Andy–!” Sherman started to follow her, and for a moment, Nora was about to trail after them–

“This is your fault,” Filbrick snarled before he could stop himself, absolute hatred flooding him for a moment and chasing away the pain.

Nora froze, startled. “W-what?”

“This–!” Flibrick gestured wildly. “Is your fault! What did you even tell Sherman?! I did nothing wrong! I told you to stop sticking your nose where you don’t belong, and now you’ve gone and upset my wife, ruined the weekend! You and your goddamn ghosts!”

Nora blinked once, twice, and stared at Filbrick with the strangest expression. “What…what are you talking about?”

“Your goddamn story!” Filbrick snapped. “And then coming to me, saying that you want to drag me into this mess, into your ghosts! I won’t have it! You’ve got your stories in Sherman’s head, and you’ve probably got them in Stanford’s, but not in mine!”

“...what in the world are you talking about?” Nora asked.

Filbrick blinked, felt himself shrink slightly back. Nora was staring at him with an utterly baffled expression. She was staring at him, he realized, with concern and pity.

“...you…” he said, suddenly quiet. “You said you’ve seen this before, in the shop, that you knew what was wrong, and we were talking about it just last night, like your story…”

“...Filbrick,” Nora said firmly. “Last night at dinner, I was talking about a patient in a clinic who was having heart trouble and came just in time.”

Filbrick froze, and for whatever it was worth, he felt his heart skip a beat. “W-what?”

They had been talking about Nora’s job last night at dinner, he recalled, but only vaguely. He had been paying so little attention, picking lifelessly at his meal and a little nauseous already and dreading the weekend–

“You’ve been grabbing at your chest and wheezing since we got here,” Nora said. “I was concerned.”

“But,” Filbrick said weakly, his face burning. “Your…your story.”

“That was just a story,” Nora said, with little elaboration. “Make whatever you want of it.”

“I don’t–” Filbrick said, suddenly off-balance and struggling to find his footing in the conversation, let alone the control. “You–I don’t want you in my house. I don’t need your help. You tell…you tell Sherman and Stanford that! You tell them they’re not allowed back in my house until they learn respect!”

Nora didn’t look hurt, or frightened, or even angry. She sighed, picked up the remaining suitcase on the floor, and looked at him one more time. All that was left in her eyes was pity, and Filbrick’s skin crawled at the sight of it. “...sure,” she said quietly. “Anything else you want to pass along?”

“Fuck off,” Filbrick spat.

“Sure,” she said calmly, and left. She didn’t even slam the door on her way out.

For a moment, there was silence.

And then the door opened, and Filbrick expected a wraith to spring out, claws and teeth sharp. But Caryn stood before him, fists balled and face red with rage. He could hear a car driving away, carrying most of his family back to far-off lands he would never visit. His time to leave had passed. He realized, suddenly, with something like horror, that he was going to die in Glass Shard Beach one day. No more outs.

“What did you do?!” Caryn demanded, her voice shrill. Her mascara was runny, this time not from onions. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“Me?!” Filbrick sputtered. “Nothing! I didn’t do anything! They’re damned disrespectful, and in my house–”

Caryn laughed, half-hysterical. “Oh, it’s never you, is it?! It’s always someone else! You didn’t make Shermie move across the country, so I never see my grandson, that was Nora! You didn’t make Stanford scared and sick whenever he comes home, that’s just him refusing to take care of himself! You didn’t throw Stanley out–”

“HEY!” Filbrick barked, flinching at the name.

“-that was his own fault for breaking one last thing he shouldn’t!” Caryn shouted, her voice rising to a shriek.

“It was!” Filbrick shouted back, even as his body protested from the exertion. “It was his fault! And he could have come back any time he wanted, if he just apologized for fucking up, once again!”

Is that true? Filbrick wasn’t sure. Stanley hadn’t come back, so there was hardly a point in wondering, but he did wonder anyway. If Stanley had returned, contrite and pleading, would he have let him back in? How long would it have taken? Would he have given him a black eye for all the trouble he caused? God knows he deserved it. He had never even thought about what he would have done if Stanley had come back. He had just settled into a new normal, a nearly silent house.

Of course I would have let him in, he thought, oddly pleading in his own mind. Of course I would, of course, of course, it’s not my fault he’s too proud to come home and face the consequences. I won’t chase him. I won’t force him. But I would have let him come home, I would have, if only–

Caryn was staring at him (he had been stared at a lot these past few days, but it never got easier) with an expression one might give a stranger. A stranger they had no desire to know.

“...Caryn?” Filbrick said, unnerved in spite of himself.

“...I’m going to Miriam’s for the night,” Caryn announced, in a hollow voice, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“What?!” Filbrick asked, but she was already storming to the bedroom, snatching an oversized carpet bag from the linen closet.

“She told me I was welcome to stay with her if things ever got bad,” Caryn said shortly, stuffing objects in her bag, seemingly at random.

“Wha–bad?! What does that mean?!” Filbrick asked. “What the hell? You know how I feel about Miriam–”

“Yes, you’ve made it very clear what you think,” Caryn nearly growled. “You’ve made everything that you think very clear. I need to clear my head, and then decide what to do–”

“What do you mean, ‘what to do’?!” Filbrick demanded. “All this because the boys overreacted?!”

“Stop talking,” Caryn snapped. “Just stop–”

“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Filbrick lunged forward, grabbing her arm and yanking her towards him. “Put the fucking back down!”

Caryn looked surprised for a moment, and then merely scowled at him. “Or what?”

Filbrick blinked. “What?”

“What will you do?” Caryn asked. “Will you throw me out? Give me a duffel bag and tell me good luck? I don’t have a car, but I can take the bus.”

Filbrick dropped her arm as if it burned, his heart pounding like a heavy drum in his chest. It hurt, like ball bearings bouncing in his chest, with each and every beat. He felt vaguely faint.

He realized, with an indiscernible emotion, that he hadn’t thought this much about Stanley in years.

Caryn finished her haphazard packing, and began to march towards the door, ripping her coat off the hook. “Caryn!” Filbrick cried, desperate for something he couldn’t name. She paused, just for a moment, glancing back with makeup smeared all over her face. He thought, but did not say, that he still thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. He didn’t think he had ever told her that, really, but surely she knew.

“...I did…” he started, and had to clear his throat. “I did the best I could. With the boys, all of them. I…I had to make a lot of difficult choices.”

Caryn’s jaw tightened. “Then live with it,” she said, primly, and shut the door before Filbrick could say anything.

And with no warning, he was once again in a silent house.

“Live with…” he mumbled, because he didn’t like the quiet. “Live with it. Live with it. Fine. Fine.”

He stepped back, nearly stumbled, and somehow found himself in the kitchen. An unfinished dinner sat before him, chopped vegetables surrounding the counter and a pot of stock going cold now that the oven was off.

Rage filled Filbrick, he reached out, striking the pot. He felt ridiculous, like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt when the pot landed on the floor with a dull bang, and the stock went flying. It was unnaturally dark, and Filbrick’s already delicate stomach turned with the thought of eating it.

“FINE!” He shouted to the air, not even imagining anyone in particular. “FINE!”

The lights flickered, but Filbrick ignored them. “I DON’T NEED YOU! I DON’T NEED ANYONE!”

Nothing happened when he declared this. No one arrived to apologize or berate him. Nothing broke. Nothing changed. The stock crept across the floor as it flooded into the cracks of the woodwork, soaking through and into the carpets.

And suddenly, Filbrick was frightened. There was no one left to perform for.

“I don’t need anyone,” Filbrick announced to the room, but this time he couldn’t avoid the tremor in his voice.

The room did not respond. The apartment did not respond. Only the ocean did, endlessly rocking back and forth in a freezing night, whispering something over and over again since the beginning of time.

But for the life of him, he didn’t know what it was saying.

Everything hurt.

Filbrick battled for consciousness like a deer fighting off coyotes, and knew something was wrong before he ever opened his eyes.

He was in bed, he could feel that much. He struggled to remember how he got there, and images of bourbon came to his mind, glass after glass without bothering for nice cups or ice. And then when he got tired of refilling a glass he just meandered with the bottle, nursing it until he stumbled to the bedroom, and now–

The pain that had been burning in his body like embers suddenly ignited to a roaring blaze, and this time he couldn’t keep himself from crying out even if he wanted to. Each irregular pulse of agony felt like a mallet trapped inside his chest, pounding on the space in his ribs where his heart should be beating. He wheezed, clawing frantically at his chest, unsure what the plan was, but just knowing he had to seize the pain, throwing it across the room to get it as far away from himself as he could.

Nora’s warning came back to him, and he wished it didn’t. He never bothered to call anyone. He only bothered with a drink, and it dulled the pain–

“God,” he gasped, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “God.”

He could still turn this around. He had too. Humiliating as calling for help was, it was necessary now, even he could see that. There was a wall phone in the hall, just a handful of steps away. He could call an ambulance, or maybe just Caryn. He was pretty sure he remembered the number for her Miriam's house, he was good with numbers like that.

First he had to stand up. He had to stand up, put one foot in front of the other, and hobble to salvation.

He tried to sit up, and gasped again as another heartbeat sent pain through his entire being. He hardly noticed the agony, though, his gaze abruptly pulled to the right. He had a guest.

Standing next to the bed, out of the shadows, was a man.

It was the same one that Filbrick had seen in his shop, though now he thought he could see a face. It was marred by shadows, most of it still concealed in the darkness, but he could see the man’s eyes. They were huge, the whites bloodshot and rolling, his dark pupils and irises staring.

Abruptly, the room filled with a heavy metallic smell, so strong it made Filbrick gag. He knew this scent–blood, and lots of it, coming from the man.

The man was making a strange sound, an awful, slow moan that seemed to go on and on, never pausing for him to take a breath, never breaking off or changing in volume or pitch. Just a drone, an endless noise of pain that had been taken and stretched to the very limits of what a man could endure.

The room felt hot, dry, even, as he knew the world outside was cold and wet, now Filbrick felt like he was in a desert. The temperature was unbearable, and he tried to stand, to swing at this damn near creature that stood in his house, uninvited. He never should have moved his pistol from his nightstand to the shop. Caryn had complained, nagged that he was more likely to shoot himself or shoot her than any so-called thief in the night.

But even now, as he tried to do anything besides wheeze and stay conscious in his pain, he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. He could barely sit up. He couldn’t reach for a gun, let alone fire it. He was, to his utter horror and disgust, completely helpless.

“What–!” Filbrick clutched at his chest, willing his piece of shit heart to beat. “What do you–?!”

The man did not react, and his groan never stopped. Filbrick managed to sneer, just barely. “I-I’m not–!” he gasped. “I’m not afraid of you, you fuck. Get out of my house.”

At this, the man shuddered strangely, his entire figure seeming to fizz around the edges like water absorbing sugar, as though something were about to overtake him. The groan rose, for the first time, and Filbrick couldn’t help it–he flinched, hard, when the man’s pained noises turned into a strange shout, a nearly inhuman noise, just a singular “HO–!”

And then, for a moment, silence. Filbrick thought he heard a whistle outside, and he thought of Nora, but that was impossible. It was his pain-addled mind making connections with the fierce winter wind, nothing more. And this was a sick-in-the-head man who had wandered inside his house at night, for seemingly no reason other than to stand over him. In fact–

“This is a dream,” Filbrick said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “This is a dream. Like how–”

The endless gray beach, and the floating, undulating fabric, which he now realized looked like his own bedsheets–

“Wake up,” he whispered, and his voice was pleading, but why should that matter? This was only a dream. “Wake up, wake up, wake up–”

A hand, missing two fingernails, reached out from the man towards Filbrick, illuminated by the sickly yellow of the streetlamps outside. Filbrick whimpered before he could stop himself, wincing at the feeling it shot through his chest.

And then the man stepped out of the shadows, the lamplight falling across his face with terrible clarity.

This time, Filbrick couldn’t have controlled his reaction if he tried. He reeled away, the pain falling to the wayside in his terror and shock. He held his hands over his face, horrified and more afraid than he had ever been in his life. And still, even now, he couldn’t say the man’s name. “St–!”

The man stared at him with no recognition, just a grim determination. He was moaning again now, his mouth slightly opened, a rattle in his breath now, as though he had a loosened something in his chest that was bouncing around in his lungs now. Filbrick could smell the man, this close. Cigarettes, cheap liquor, gasoline, and most strongly of all, blood, still warm. He could see most of the blood was around the man’s mouth, still dripping.

The heat in the room was so dry Filbrick’s lips felt cracked, so overwhelming he was panting. He felt claustrophobic, though nothing had changed in his room, so trapped he would have been willing to gnaw off whatever was keeping him here if he only knew where to start.

The man, who Filbrick knew so well as a boy, a lifetime ago, grabbed one side of the linen sheets, bunching them together. For an absurd moment, Filbrick thought he was going to climb into bed with him.

But the man gathered up the sheet, looked at it dispassionately, and held it up to his face. The outline of him appeared through the fabric. His strong jaw, long nose, big ears, and the fabric became soaked with his blood. And it began to move, swaying as though blown by a wind that Filbrick could not feel, and he knew that the man could see him perfectly through the fabric.

Filbrick did not move when the pain in his chest became completely unbearable. He did not cry out when his arms could no longer support him, and he sank back into his sweat-soaked blankets. He did not plead when his vision began to tunnel, unable to tear his gaze away from the man, who was now, strangely, fiddling with the sheets as if curious about them.

All he did was whisper with the certainty of a dying man, a man long out of chances.

“Oh no,” Filbrick said hoarsely. “Oh no. Oh no, no no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh, no. Oh-no-no-no-no. Oh no.”

The man never stopped moaning. He never stopped staring through the sheet. And he never stopped bleeding, waiting patiently for Filbrick to stop breathing.

Filbrick’s last purposeful thought, wracked with pain and panic, was a vague wondering about if the man was a killer or a harbinger.

He had the strangest feeling it was the latter.

The last thing he heard as he faded was a whistle.

The coroner was thorough, polite, and professional, everything a person could want from someone who dealt with the dead.

Filbrick Pines was dead as a doornail, from a massive heart attack at the age of sixty one, and there wasn’t any other way around it. His time of death was around three-thirty in the morning, but it was hard to tell. He died with the sheets tossed around him, with one badly torn in his thrashing, so the coroner figured he had probably woken up, confused and afraid, before dying almost immediately after. It was hard to tell if he was lying.

had likely not known what was happening, and was in minimal pain. He was lying, but that was alright. The funeral was held quickly, and everyone commented on how strong Caryn was, holding it together in the aftermath of such a significant death. Her son and daughter-in-law turned their car around in some nowhere town in Arkansas and drove back for the funeral, their son in tow. Andrew would not remember Filbrick, the memory fading like footprints in the sand. Ford came too; his roommate was kind enough to give him a ride back, and even stayed for the service itself, though he had to leave when the shiva began.

No one could get a hold of Stanley. That wasn't unusual, though.

There was nothing special about any of it. Filbrick died as he lived–silent, imposing, with a strange and guilty sigh of relief when he left for good, when the ground swallowed him up once and for all.

The one thing the coroner didn’t tell Caryn was about Filbrick’s face. The coroner was a professional, and after enough years of doing this job, he had a pretty good sense of when lying by omission was the kinder thing to do.

Caryn hadn’t gotten a good look at her husband, in the early morning darkness and in a haze when she returned from her friend’s house, but the coroner did. He was dead–of course–but more than that, his eyes were open. Wide open, staring and fixed, focused on the spot next to him in the bed where the sheets were torn. The coroner would have assumed he had, indeed, realized what was happening and was attempting to find help, but Filbrick had been found cowering from the empty side of the bed, his hands frozen stiffly over his face as if defending himself.

However it happened, Filbrick died terrified of something in the empty room.

The coroner wondered what had frightened him so, but not for too long. Like Filbrick, he was a deeply incurious man, focused on matters of the earth and little else. And to the earth he would return someday, alongside Filbrick, alongside everyone, alongside everything that ever was and ever would be.

The earth took Filbrick back, more gently than he deserved, and the waves crashed on the shore. Seagulls screamed over the mourners, gliding on icy winds against a gray sky. Snow fell, just as gray, like God was ashing a cigarette on the earth.

And if one listened very, very closely, it almost sounded like the wind was whistling a single, high-pitched note.

And then it was gone.