One Day Prior, Woodborough Hills, 7:45 A.M.

David looked out the window as he sipped his cup of steaming coffee. Beyond the drapes lay a
horizon drizzled with the bleak, exhausted residue of the dying late-night storm. The glistening grass
bristled as their shadows began to shine more distinctly in gradual contrast to the slight morning sun
peeking through the gloom. The field just beyond their quaint little farmhouse was, for now, quiet. David
drank in the simple scenery. Soon enough, his parents would wake any minute to the shrieks of his little
brother, hungry in his cot. The infant was a new addition to the house, and eighteen year old David did
not yet know how to cope with the realization that it was not just he who belonged here anymore. No,
now it was him, his father, and Nora (his fathers new wife), and his new half-brother. The mornings,
however, were the thing that was consistent; early morning coffee with the day blossoming before his
eyes.
He and his father had lived in Woodborough Hills for the better part of year. Theyd moved in
after his fathers passing. It was completely isolated; the house embedded by grass fields that grew taller
than the average person, smattered with the occasional neighboring house. David was beginning to fall in
love with the isolation. He felt like he had never quite fit in with his peers, but as a child in the city, it
was difficult to avoid the painful, mismatched interaction that was so common. The move forced an
isolation on him that was hard to become accustomed to at first. In the end, like the quiet early mornings,
he found the simplicity it provided preferable.
Thats why it was so odd when just the other day, David had seen a person unknown to the few
inhabitants of the winding, secluded hills. David and his father had been tending to Davids broken
bicycle wheel, when a figure disturbed the frozen scenery. They started at the sharp thwack of a screen
door slamming. One of the abandoned houses near the descending scape of the hill seemed to be
occupied by a mysterious man with dark hair wearing a white dress shirt: attire not entirely suited to a
countryside scenery. The stark contrast was somewhat eerie. He stood alone on the porch, apparently
unconcerned, or otherwise unaware of the two men shrouded in the shawl of darkness that beckoned the
imminent storm. The mans name, his father told him, was Brian. He had apparently been scheduled to
move in for weeks.
George never told me, though, Nora expressed. I wouldve thought hed done so. He is the
landlord after all, right? she had asked at the dinner table, the night before.
Dunno, dear, said Davids father through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. She always asked
questions that his father had no way of knowing the answers to any more than herself. She was,
nonetheless, displeased at his less-than-helpful attitude.
Dont you walk around there anymore till we hear from him, she retorted sharply at his brisk
brush off.
He tossed his school bag over his shoulder, and kicked the door open. The cold hit his skin with a
biting vengeance, and he nuzzled deeper into his sweater as he made his way down to the back of the
house, where his bike was stashed in the shed. His feet sunk a little in the fresh mud. He thanked
goodness that hed mended the wheel the day before; walking in such weather would not be pleasant. He
threw a leg over and straddled his bike before locking the shed on the way out. Only then did he
remember their new neighbor. He remembered his stepmothers words from the night before, and a
shiver shot through him that had nothing to do with the early morning cold. He passed the adjacent house
with the intention of giving as little attention as possible. Looking determinedly at the sky just beyond
the winding gravel path, something nonetheless caught his attention. Where the screen door should have
been, as it had been just the other day, was a gaping black hole. He skidded to an abrupt halt, his tires
digging deeply into the fresh ground. Something was wrong.
There was nothing to be heard but a shallow breeze, but the serenity did not extend to the
nervousness that permeated Davids entirety as he approached the house. The floorboards creaked
ominously under his sneakers as he made his way through the paint-chipped door frame. Upon entering
the room, he was surprised to see it was almost completely empty. There was nothing on the walls but the
peeling wallpaper, no bags, no boxes, no indication of human inhabitants. But, in the corner of the room
was a small desk, no bigger than a night-table. He saw, with horror, nothing more and nothing less than
an abandoned shirt, ominously covered in blood.

Present Day, Saint Aldous Hospital, 6:51 A.M.

Dr. Richardson led the way into the hospital room, accompanied by two brooding-looking police officers.
In front of him were two figures shrouded in the two a.m. darkness; one, seated in a chair, draped over a
bulky hospital bed in what appeared to be a deep sleep. The other was tucked under the bedclothes,
mouth slightly agape, emanating an unsettling rattling as his aged lungs grasped with difficulty onto the
air filtered through the cannula. Dr. Richardson switched on the light. The woman stirred. She had long
blonde hair down to her waist that had been tied back in a ponytail, but now hung loosely on her
shoulders, messy strands clinging to her cardigan. She looked confused at the interruption, but her
counterpart did not stir. Dr. Richardson felt unbelievably guilty. He was used to giving bad news to
families; changing the course of their lives, whatever the pattern. It was a dire element of the job, but
this? This was different. It didnt have a definite answer this time; no scientific course of action, no
finality. It was just bad news. Thank goodness it was not him who had to deliver it for once.
Mrs. Miser? one of the officers asked. She sat up straighter in her chair. Weve found evidence
related to a missing persons report that you filed two years ago. Were going to have to ask some
questions down at the station.

Present Day, Ilchester Police Station, 8:30 A.M.

Mrs. Miser, were speaking to you today because we think he was trying to get home to you and
Mr. Miser, the detective set his coffee on the table between them. Josephine felt a little assured by the
fact that her wrists werent cuffed to the metal surface, like she had seen in so many of her afternoon true
crime shows. Still, she hid behind her long, blond hair, which hung, limply, parted to the sides of her long
nose, flecked in shocks of white. Her eyes darted nervously to the coffee mug. Would you like a cup? I
know its probably been a long night for you, the middle aged man looked at her with sympathetic light
brown, round eyes. She nodded in reply.
Yes, please, she said quietly. He retreated from the room, and she was left to look around the
brick room. She thought of her husband lying in his bed, still asleep. She was too sad to justify any anger
at him anymore. He was slipping away. She saw it everyday, dragging his body to new extremes of his
lifeline.
Hes not long for this world, Im afraid, said Doctor Richardson two days ago, when he had
been admitted to the hospital again, even after his feeble protests. She didnt know what else to do but
reach for the phone and call for an ambulance. He had been sleeping at odd hours since. Last night had
been particularly hard for him. He had already had night terrors, but between his increasingly debilitating
ALS, it was particularly terrifying. He had woken with a small start in the form of his jerking shoulders
and widened eyes. He stared, sightlessly, at the ceiling above him, his head twisting randomly on the
pillow below him, seeing the vague, imaginary silhouettes creep sneakily between dream and reality.
They had gotten worse since he had become ill.
More of them appeared in his dreams, and more frequently did they occur. It was only a slight
memory of the dream that he could grasp at the opportune moment, lest it be lost in a blend of the last 75
years, but it came in stippled flashes of black and white. The silhouettes enclosed around the same
bedroom, him at the helm; his childhood bed. But his limbs werent liberated enough by his slowly
deteriorating nervous system to accommodate the physical trigger that flipped in response to these
stomach-lurching, nightmarish apparitions.
Only now did he want to flip the switch, sleeping soundly day and night, willing it closer towards
his expiration. He was glad that Josep`ine couldnt hear his thoughts. He expected that his eyes showed
the immediate discomfort he felt. He was panicking and it was making him inch farther away; the only
possible direction it seemed. She knew, even though she wouldnt admit it.
Here you are, the cop mosied back in, an additional mug clutched in his hand. He set it
opposite his own, and skirted forward in his chair. Im sorry to have to remove you from your husbands
side in these troubling times... he said. ...but I must be blunt, and he looked it, not a trace of emotion
stirring his grave yet determined affect. The amount of lives potentially at risk at the hands of your son
far outweigh that of your husbands, he said. To her surprise, these words did not startle her. In fact,
they were probably the most affirming thing the man had said yet. Every day she was surrounded by
nurses who communicated the gravity of her husband's situation behind her back. Every day she was
talked to without the assertiveness of honesty, without which she couldnt form a basis of certainty to
move on from. Every day the doctors and nurses dodged a feeling of guilt resting on an internal belief of
personal responsibility. But the confirmation of the initial suspicions she had formed of her son was
something she could make transformative.
I knew something was wrong with that boy, she said.

May 24, 1954, Cheyenne, Wyoming, 4:15 P.M.

Josephine was jittery with excitement. The party raged on outside, her classmates dancing to the
band, jovially playing outside. Her best friend, Sarah, had taken care of the festivities; bringing along the
Sidekicks for Hire definitely got the crowd riled up. The combination assured a quick escape from her
parents house, leaving behind only a brief letter of goodbye to her folks as she made her way to college
early with John by her side. She tossed the suitcase out her window onto the shrubbery that cradled the
corner where suburban house met suburban lawn. She was jittery and she barely had time to replace her
party shoes with a more practical climb-down-the-side-of-the-house kind of sneaker. She heard a
pounding at her door.
Josie! her sister yelled as she knocked sharply thrice upon her door. Theyre going to cut the
cake without you if you dont hurry up. What are you doing? Josie tossed the rope she had attached to
the beam of the roof framing the top of the ceiling. She didn't know how much time she would have
before people began to file collectively into the house. She lowered herself down the side of the house,
keeping special care to avoid the window below. John waited in the truck below.

August 4, 1959, Laramie, Wyoming, 2:15 A.M.

She shot up in bed with a start. It felt like something was expanding and contracting her internal organs
without her control. Her hand flew to her abdomen, and her swollen torso pulsated.
Whats wrong? John said in a voice muffled by the lazy sleep still laden on his lips. He came into
himself a little bit when he met her eyes, which were wide in panic. He jumped out of bed at the
realization that she was going into labor.
They rushed to the hospital, Josie in the back of Johns car, John, face covered in nervous sweat,
speeding onward in the drivers seat.
Dont worry, honey, well be there soon. Itll be over soon, in response to her rapid, worried
gasps of pain.
He wasnt really telling the truth of course, because it was exactly twenty hours later when Carl
Miser was born.

December 27, 1969, Ilchester, 8:00 P.M.

They had moved to the small town of Ilchester after Carls birth. Josephines graduation had
greatly improved her resume, and though she often had to interview for womens positions, which she
was often overqualified for, the money was enough to help support the little family that she and John had
cultivated. She currently held a secretarial position at Jenson and Janson Law Firm. John, however,
wasnt as lucky in the employment area. He had been back and forth between a teaching position at the
local community college and a passion project that he and his brother had been developing for the past
two years. Josephine wanted to be supportive, she wanted to be a good wife to her husband, but she
doubted not only the project, but her husbands drive. He was in his fifties now, and still, he inhabited the
same non committal attitude that she had been drawn to when she was only eighteen. Except now, it was
obvious that it was wearing on him. He didnt know where he fit in the world. He wasnt sure if he was
meant for the teaching position hed become so comfortable with, the beer distillery that wouldnt take
off, or even the family life hed convinced himself years prior that he was finally ready for. And though
Josephine had understood the confusion at eighteen, she had grown into herself since then, and didnt
understand what went so wrong that John couldnt do the same.
He got home from his brothers apartment at eight, and kicked off his shoes in the foyer,
grumbling all the way to his chair in the living room. Carl was tucked in bed already. Often, he got home
late enough where he didnt have the time to say goodnight to his son.
I made some casserole after I picked up Carl this afternoon, Josephine said with trepidation.
He didnt look up. I can warm it up. I just put it in the oven for now, if you want any she trailed off
when he held up a feeble, exhausted hand, indicating that hed heard enough. She was concerned, but the
anger that had been bubbling low inside of her was beginning to rise. She had worked all day, taken care
of Carl, cooked, cleaned, all the wifely duties he expected of her and he had the audacity to treat her
this way? As though she hadnt given him everything? She was trying her very best, and he just sat
there, night after night, unspeaking, an inactive participant in the life that he had promised to be present
for the day they stood underneath the altar and said I do. Not to mention the beer smell. She swore, a
decent percentage of the liquor they produced was ingested by the makers themselves.
Fine. You know John, I dont know what more you expect me to do! she said in exasperation.
He didnt say anything, but met her burning eyes with his own sad ones.
James is dead, Josie he said. She stopped. Everything stopped. The yelling stopped, the
thinking stopped, the night blended together. If it wasnt for the sharp ticking penetrating the unified state
of rest, time itself might not even be a factor.
What are you talking about? she lowered herself onto the couch beside him. He took a deep
breath and went on, wringing his hands nervously.
A couple of cops came to my office this afternoon and they told me.
How? she interrupted, her own haywire train of thought overlapping the story he was trying to
get out.
Car crash. It barely happened at lunchtime when they came. They needed someone fo Brian
Oh my god, Brian, he said, and covered his mouth with his hands. He looked at his wife with horror in
his eyes.
What? What about Brian? She inquired.
He wanted me to take him. They put him into care. Hes an orphan, Josie. He needs me. I just
let them take him into care. I didnt know what to do, he said. He looked at her almost pleadingly, as
though she would know what to do. Hes only four years old
They brought Brian to their home from the foster care center that he had mistakenly been sent to
in Johns brief comatose state after he was given the dreadful news. He had a mess of brown hair like
James, and blue eyes like his mother, Rachel. He was smaller than John couldve imagined. He was
younger than Carl, and often, he imagined other children being just like his son. A variance in age wasnt
a factor, they were all just children. But this one had lost his parents. This one was lost, and looked it.
This one needed him.

Two Days Prior, 6:50 P.M.

Brian grabbed his bags from the truck, with considerable effort. They were laden with the
security devices necessary to keep him safe for the next couple days. Civilian life hadnt been working
out great. For the past month, he had been looking over his shoulder, carefully camoflauging his every
move. It wasnt easy to remain private anymore. Carl was after him, he knew it. And he was a powerful
man. Brian, with minimally assertive public influence, was not the most trusted by the people necessary
to ensure his safety. His girlfriend, Emilia, had agreed to drive him up to the countryside. He had visited
once with his father, before his untimely death. He couldnt remember his first trip, but had found the
pictures, which gave him the idea for a retreat. There were hardly any inhabitants, no police, no
surveillance. It was perfect. On the downside, there was no income, no Emilia, no form of human
interaction, barely any life at all. But he was alive.
 Ill see you soon, he told Emilia once he had successfully unloaded his cargo. He gave her a
reassuring smile
Dont say that if you dont know it to be true, she smiled, a little more sadly. The truth was. He
didnt know the next time he would see her.
He dragged his bags inside the cabin, or hut; he didnt really know which fit the tone of the place
more. It was drab and disused, covered in dust and mold. The room felt damp and had the overarching
stench of aged wood. The floorboards sank a little bit under the pressure of his heavy boots. He dragged
his suitcases along to the corner of what was either a living room or kitchen, perhaps both. In it was a
small desk, concealed sparsely by the shadow cast by the overbearing wall. It was perfect. He set up his
little computer. It was bulkier than a laptop but had the incredible capacity for storing power, which was
a necessity in his unpredictable, uprooted life. He wandered upstairs, using his cell-phone flashlight to
illuminate the peeling wallpaper of the small hallway. He unrolled a sleeping bag in one of the bedrooms
before heading back downstairs. It would be a cold night, he could already tell. Here in the countryside,
temperatures dropped below what he had become accustomed to.
The tire tracks had left an indentation in the wild, unmowed grass, but the scenery appeared
otherwise unperturbed, as even the rays of sunlight began to disappear beyond the horizon.
He woke to the sound of a strong gust of wind whistling through the windows. He had fallen
asleep at the desk after his pre-packaged dinner, his computer screen open to a screen displaying static.
The security camera he had placed at the front door had either been blown away by the storm or just lost
signal entirely.
Oh no he whispered. He hadnt meant to fall asleep, and was desperately worried that the
static screen wasnt a coincidence.
I didnt mean to wake you, said a voice from the staircase. Brian sped around in his seat to see
Carl.
Carl what are you doing here? he was surprised and happy to see his brother. It had been
years of estrangement since he had seen him in the flesh.
I want to make this quick, Brian. Its nothing personal, but as you know, Dads not doing well.
It was true, their father had been in and out of the hospital for years. It wont be long now. You know
what that means, right?
And suddenly, realization dawned on him.
It was you! A smirk curled over Carls smug face. You were the one breaking into my house,
spying on me. Youre the one Ive been hiding from! What do you want from me?
You dont know of the will. You dont exactly have the connections to know exactly what Dear
Dad left to you, but its everything he had.
But we havent spoken in years, Brian said, surprised.
We hadnt spoken in longer, Carl retorted. Apparently his spite for me far outstrips any love
he couldve had for you. I need you to know, theres nothing I wouldnt do for that inheritance.
Why? What do you so desperately need it for, Carl?
Well, since weve always been close, Ill tell you: Dolly is sick, Carl said. Needs a transplant,
desperately. I will not lose her. Its nothing personal, Brian, its necessary.
I dont blame them for disowning you Brian muttered.
Goodbye, Brian. He disposed of the body a mile away in the river, but not before setting up a
scene to puzzle any impending police. He took with him the family photos that Brian had in his rucksack.
Upon the desk was a note Brian had written, apparently recently, for it wasnt addressed. With a jolt, he
recognized his mothers handwriting, and in anger, kicked over the chair.