(1) Aria
It was as if I’d just landed in a small village abandoned by its inhabitants on a dark winter night. Cold walls of fog slowly dominated the scene, until everything before me seemed tarnished. In the middle of the road, I called out as loudly as I could, but my voice was swallowed and my cries became meaningless.
Back in the apartment, I was boxed in. I sank into the leather sofa, the evening news before me on TV. My mind wandered. Fabian. My son. Every time I wanted to feel his presence, I caressed the blue bracelet he made me. So that my touch moved in rhythm with my heartbeat.
The news anchor announced the latest updates:
“On the morning of July the twelfth, 1970, a young girl’s body was found near the Washington state shoreline. Upon forensic examination, it appeared the body belonged to a girl reported missing about two months ago. This murder tacks onto a series of murders that began about a year ago, with the murderer still at large. Previously, a surviving victim who managed to escape his grip was able to clearly describe his features. The suspect has an arched scar above his brow. Prior to death, all victims received trauma to the head. This means we’re dealing with a serial killer.”
Before the newsreel had finished, I turned off the TV, the blank screen staring back at me. I waited, for what I thought would be here, in the dark of this cramped apartment—for what I had put everything aside for. I waited for what I had called out and searched for. But in the waiting, I found only that I was more lost.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway outside; from the crack beneath the door, a shadow appeared dead center. In trepidation, I inched towards the door. Footsteps again. I felt as if I was sucked into a dream not my own, as if an abyss in my memory was expanding without end.
The door handle began to move slowly up and down. I crouched and came closer, its metallic smell making me queasy. I watched carefully as if something would reveal itself. Then the movement stopped abruptly, and I heard the faint, trembling voice of a girl from the other side: “Are you there?”
I straightened up and stood where I was. Cold air wafted in beneath the door little by little, the harsh chill filling the whole place until it closed in on my body.
The girl’s distressed voice returned.
“He’s coming.”
I reached for the door handle. My fingers trembled at its touch. At that same moment, the door pounded making the frame shudder, as if it was going to be torn from its place. I backed away quickly.
The girl’s voice came again, choking with tears.
“Let me in!”
Silence.
Then, she said, “Aria.”
Why did her voice feel familiar? With a hesitant hand, I paused for a second, then opened the door.
(2) Tia
Daytime. A street crowded with cars and passersby. Across the street, a park full of visitors. A residential building, a few small shops, and a café. Tia stepped out of her red car, her feet dazzling in gold sandals. A small purse dangled from her shoulder; she held a book in her hand.
She headed toward the café. People were going about their day as usual, the grip of fear of the serial killer easing with time. Tia took in her surroundings: the smell of hot milk, the rustling of newspapers, the rumble of cars, the aroma of coffee, and the liveliness of people on the move. Each of them was experiencing the same moment differently.
Behind her, footsteps sounded, and a man’s indistinct mumbling. Tia turned around. There he was, heavy-set with a round face, mouth wide open. He was somewhere in his late thirties and wore a black leather jacket. On his head a black hat sat low, hiding the upper half of his face, so that only the shadow cast by his eyes was visible.
Tia’s stomach tightened at the sight of him. She gasped, her breaths ragged. Her green eyes narrowed, caught in his gaze. She waited for him to speak but heard only the sound of his breathing beneath the black hat. His mouth was like a deep, black hollow that could swallow her if she stepped any closer.
With quickening steps, she bounded away, glancing back from time to time to see if he was following. But he remained stock still, watching her in silence. Anxiety swept over her, intensified by the thought that this man might be the serial killer still at large.
Her book almost slipped from her sweaty palms as she entered the café, her steps unsteady. She searched the room for a safe place to sit and chose a corner by the window, between two tables: behind her, a woman and her child; in front of her, two girls.
She closed her eyes momentarily. “It’s okay. He can’t hurt me here. The place is full of people.”
She tried to focus on the smallest details, anything that might anchor her to this world. Shaking, she placed her small purse and her book on the table, then gestured to the waiter in a wavering voice:
“Could I have a hot coffee, please?”
Tia scanned the café, making sure he wasn’t there. She tuned in: a baby crying, his mother’s attempts to soothe him; girls sharing laughter; the footsteps of passersby; chairs dragged across the floor as people settled into their seats. She closed her eyes and assured herself that everything was fine. Her coffee arrived moments later, and as she sipped it, her composure returned to her, little by little. Then a shadow stopped at her table. She slowly lifted her eyes, and there he was again, the same man. Without asking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat down opposite her.
She tightened her hold on the cup, then set it down. The floor beneath her seemed to give, her vision blurred, and her breath snagged against her pounding heart. Gripping the table to steady herself, she glanced at the door. As the music paused, silence filled the room.
She wasn’t sure how she found her voice. It took her twice the effort just to speak.
“Stay away from my table, please.”
The man remained seated, staring at her in silence. Then he opened his mouth and, in a single breath, began counting from one to ten. Tia hurriedly gathered her things and made for the door, a heaviness in every step. Before she reached it, she collided with someone, and her book fell to the ground.
As she bent to pick it up, she turned her head to see if the man was still there. He wasn’t. It was as if he were some strange creature that had crawled back into its hole.
Tia stood outside the café, catching her breath. Then with firm resolve she headed for her car. She opened the car door, her breaths still uneven as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The key shook in her hand as she reached for the ignition.
Before she could turn it, she sensed a slight movement in the back seat. She lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror with caution. She froze. He was there, sitting calmly, his hands at his sides, his head lowered. His black hat hid half his face, leaving only a dark shadow visible beneath. Her features stiffened.
She was unable to move. Her lips quivered, her eyes widened. She was overcome with the urge to cry and scream. The man slowly raised his head and removed his hat.
The arched scar on his forehead stood out clearly. He put the hat aside. Tia stared at him in panic. Then he began counting from one to ten in a hoarse voice, watching her through the mirror.
(3) Murderer
I woke up realizing I’d had that same dream again. I glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and touched my forehead. Twenty years with that arched scar. Why did it still continue? Why couldn’t I stop what I had started? Every time the thought of stopping crossed my mind, the memories returned and forced me forward. Once I began, there was no real way back.
When I was ten, I sat, sweltering by the trunk of a tree, and watched him load his hunting rifle. When he finished, he told me to come closer. I stood up, feeling dizzy from the heat, and staggered towards him.
“Father, I don’t feel very well.”
He took a long look at me. Then he raised the rifle and, with all his strength, brought it down against my forehead. A single blow that knocked me to the ground.
“Count from one to ten—out loud,” he said.
“Now.”
When I was fourteen, I would walk the streets. Sometimes a car would pass by with two girls inside. I hadn’t yet encountered many girls—not older girls at least. Mostly, I only knew those my own age, usually from school. They spoke to me as if I were a little boy. I never liked that.
The girl in the driver’s seat glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
“What’s that on your forehead?”
I ran my fingers over the scar. “I fell off my bike when I was a kid.”
She let out a light ringing laugh and said:
“And when was that, yesterday?”
My attention was drawn to the girl in the passenger seat. She was strikingly beautiful. I wanted her to turn around so I could look at her properly, and just then she did, as if she had sensed the thought. She turned and smiled at me. That smile stayed with me, even after I got out of the car.
It returns now as a dream. Sitting in the back seat of a car driven by someone unknown, the car inches along a straight road. Outside, it’s dark, and everything appears distorted—faces, places, sharp smells that pierce my nose. My feet begin to bleed. When I look down, they are filled with thorns. Slowly, I pulled them out one by one with my fingers. A scream rises, shaking the car as if it is about to explode. The dream ends there.
When I wake, I realize I am no longer that child in the back seat, and that there are no more forced journeys. And yet the same repulsive feeling returns, the one that clung to me during every journey I took against my will.
(4) Aria
Loss came to me early. I gulped down its cup until it left me drunk.
My father left when I was five. I only held faint memories of him. I felt no grief. But on some level, his departure tore something out of me, something that remained hidden from my understanding until much later.
Conversations with my mother were like a broken old tape on repeat, looping without end. I couldn’t understand her: a door with no key. All things burdened her and left her disheartened. Even something as mundane as a glass of cold water could douse her in inexplicable sorrow.
Then came the day I woke, and she, too, was gone. At fifteen, I found myself in my grandmother’s care. In her own way, she offered me love as best as she could, and, for the first time, I felt the warmth of a home. But even she could not stay. I was just eighteen when she passed away.
Then came Fabian. My beautiful son. I held onto his love, the way someone drowning might clutch at a fragment of wood in a turbulent sea.
Fabian.
***
Aelius planned a short trip to his parents—a drive to a neighbouring city. He was to take Fabian with him because his family missed him.
Fabian stood by the door, looking at me.
“I didn’t forget anything, mum. I checked.”
I closed his carry-on and looked at him; overcome by emotion.
“I won’t be with you when you turn eight next week.”
Fabian came closer and hugged me.
“We’ll celebrate again when we’re back, I promise.”
I sat on the bed muffling my sobs. Aelius came into the room to find my face in my hands, Fabian at my side.
The boy turned to his father.
“Dad, do we wait until Mum can join us?”
Aelius approached, trying to calm me down.
“You know I wanted you with us on this trip.”
I wiped my tears and held my son tightly.
“Call me.”
And just before getting into the car, still in my embrace, Fabian said, “The flowers in the garden are wilting, I forgot to water them.”
He lingered, his eyes on me; they carried meanings I could not understand.
(5) Tia
Cold fingers on her lower back. Tia slowly lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror, her mouth dry, the air around her shrinking. The man sat quietly in the backseat. He muttered, counting to ten in a single breath, his voice gradually rising.
“Onnnne, Twwwwoo, Thrrreee, Fooouuur, Fiiivvve.”
Her chest tightened. She kept still, eyes fixed on the mirror. Then with a subtle movement, she reached for the door handle.
Immediately, he stopped counting and seized her by the neck, strangling her. She swung at the air, trying to free herself from his burning grip, gasping for breath. As she began to slip away, he wielded a metal rod and hit the top of her head, the blow throwing her into complete darkness.
Past moments flashed through the haze. Just days before, Tia, the young college writer, was publishing her debut. Sitting at a table at the book signing, happiness washing over her, crowds of people showing up just for her.
Tia had gone out that day, calm as ever, in a flowing, silky cream dress, her long blonde hair draped, her ears studded with glittery earrings. She was waiting for a taxi when she heard a feeble voice behind her.
“Excuse me.”
Tia turned around. Standing there was an old woman immaculately dressed in black. Tia smiled when she saw her. The woman’s face radiated warmth, her voice delicate, her blue eyes benevolent.
“Hello. How can I help you?” Tia said amicably.
The woman reached for her shoulder.
“When the time comes, child, don’t panic.”
Tia’s face dropped.
“Sorry, I don’t understand.”
The woman lifted her hand from Tia’s shoulder, her face still radiant. Tia wondered if she knew this woman, but she couldn’t recall seeing her before.
“No, this is the first time we meet—and the last.”
The silver-haired woman walked away, Tia watching her disappear out of sight.
(6) Murderer
I first saw her emerging from her red car—that girl with the golden sandals. I was itching to watch the fear seep into her eyes, then, little by little, into the rest of her body. I prolonged the ride a little, just long enough to be satisfied by the dread overtaking her soul.
Her breaths escaped her, heavy and uneven, hands fumbling for the car keys in her purse. I watched her—then after that moment, whatever followed was mine alone.
Let me stop here and begin instead with another ride—a previous one—before the girl with the golden sandals.
Another girl, another place. A sun-drenched morning on the beach. I could see her from my boat, her face dissolving into the blue waves. She was yielding to the water, leaving herself in its care, eyes peacefully closed, as if she had no desire to be woken.
I steered the boat up close. She opened her eyes and looked at me with a bewildered look, as if asking, why are you here? Why now?
I moved closer still.
“Hello,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
I reached out, forcefully pulling her toward the boat, the blue bracelet around her wrist almost snapping. She struggled momentarily, then stopped, as if accepting what was about to happen.
In that moment, I understood that the sea would be my witness as well as my accomplice. But I was interrupted. A figure appeared on the shore—his presence alone was enough for me to retreat. I did not want to share that final moment with anyone; it belonged to me alone.
The girl with the blue bracelet rushed out of the sea, her steps quick and urgent, until she vanished from my sight.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist Ernest Williamson III, PhD
