by Bera, Ilia
Suddenly, the snow of a distant snow bank began to shift into the image of a face. The face smiled at her and then began to speak. “You can do anything, Hanna,” it said.
“I don’t want to do anything!”
“Let the world become overpopulated with swine and it will turn to mud. Embrace who you are! Every useless slime who mocks you on the street—relieve them from the world. It’s why you have these cravings! It’s the world guiding you towards your duty; your destiny!”
“Go away! Hanna demanded. She turned away from the ominous face and began to stumble through the deep snow.
Suddenly, her house became visible through the eternal whiteness. She ran towards it with the last of her draining energy.
“Embrace it, Hanna. You’ll finally be happy once you embrace it. And once you do, you can come join me—and learn the ways of the Ancients.”
Hanna wiped the freezing tears from her eyes. “I don’t want this anymore!” she cried as she approached her door.
She entered her silent house and slammed the door behind her. She ran straight up to her bedroom and collapsed onto the floor. She began to cry.
That same ominous smile began to materialize in a dusty mirror on the bedroom wall.
“Don’t worry, Hanna,” the face said, in its hoarse, bitter voice. “Daddy will always be here with you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
FALLEN BROTHER
“This way, Mr. Daniels,” the coroner said to Eric as he led him down a hallway in the basement of the hospital.
A tall, shrimpy sort of man, the coroner wore a thick pair of glasses and walked with a nasty hunch—likely from leaning over dead bodies all day long. He stank of formaldehyde, vinegar and rubbing alcohol, and he had a sort of permanent grin plastered onto his awkward face.
Every man should be proud of his work—every man except for the coroner that is. But this coroner was particularly proud of his work. For whatever reason, no one will ever know.
Eric wanted desperately to believe that he would walk into that room, and the body on the table would turn out to be some stranger—some kid who looked like Andrew, but was actually just some drifter. He wanted to believe Andrew would jump out from around a corner, yelling, “Got you!” He wanted to believe it badly, but he knew it wasn’t true. He knew the moment Andrew didn’t show up at his house the night before that something was wrong.
He just knew.
The coroner opened a large metal door and walked into a large room, filled with metal cupboards—each containing its own body waiting quietly in escrow.
The coroner walked up to a table, on which a corpse lay covered with a thin sheet.
Eric had spent the past few hours mentally preparing himself for this moment. He thought he would be able to handle it.
The coroner pulled back the sheet.
Eric’s heart shattered. Every molecule of hidden joy in his body seeped out of him and dissipated into the cold, cruel air. Andrew was dead—lying on a cold metal table directly in front of him.
“For God sakes! Put a blanket under him, and get him a pillow!” Eric shouted loudly, suddenly overcome by a rage.
The coroner stood still for a moment, taken aback by the sudden outburst.
“What are you waiting for, man?” Eric shouted.
The coroner scurried away like a frightened shrimp to fetch a blanket and a pillow from the hospital storage room.
Andrew looked down at his fallen brother. “Who did this to you?” Eric asked, his eyes blurring with tears.
Eric was looking down at a corpse—not Andrew. The Andrew he knew was full of life—always dreaming. The Andrew he knew didn’t close his eyes—afraid he would miss something exciting. He was always on the hunt—always alive.
The man in front of him was not.
Eric’s muscles became tense, thinking about the cruel, lifeless human who could have committed such a crime. The last person on earth to deserve this was Andrew Walker.
“I’ll kill whoever did this to you,” Eric promised. “They aren’t getting away with this.”
Andrew’s body continued to lay lifelessly on the cold table. His skin was impossibly pale. All of his dreams of grandeur were nowhere to be heard.
“It’s not fair...” Eric said, holding back his tears.
The shrimp of a coroner scurried back with a blanket and a pillow. He stood still next to Eric for a moment.
“Well? Help me lift him up!” Eric demanded, reaching his hand carefully underneath Andrew’s head.
Eric and the coroner lifted Andrew up gently and slid a warm blanket between the lifeless body and the cold metal table. Softly, Eric placed the pillow under Andrew’s head.
“He didn’t deserve this, man,” Eric said to the coroner.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the shrimp of a man replied.
Eric sighed. He placed his hand gently on his brother’s forehead. “He might have only been twenty years old, but he lived twenty lives. Love you, brother.”
Eric turned around to leave—he’d taken all he could take.
“Wait,” the coroner said, stopping Eric.
Eric stopped and turned back. “What?”
“His wallet, his keys and all of the other belongings he had with him—I don’t know who to give them to.”
“I’ll take them,” Eric said.
The coroner turned to grab a little plastic container with all of Andrew’s things. “We can’t get a hold of his family. Do you know if they’ve moved or changed their phone number recently?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Eric took the box from the coroner, and then turned to leave again.
He walked out of the room and began to head down the hallway.
When he got home, he opened up the little plastic box and looked inside. Something inside caught his attention.
Hanging from a string was the glowing red Sunstone. Eric twirled it around, looking through it. It was incredibly clear, and it glowed seemingly from nothing.
After a moment, Eric took the pendant and placed it in his pocket.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
SECRETS NO LONGER
Exhausted, Connor collapsed into the chair in his mother’s new hospital room. The room was on the top floor of the hospital, with its own door, and its own set of walls—no curtains.
Charlotte was hooked up to an IV, as well as a blood pressure and heart monitor. She looked peaceful as she slept, which was a great relief for Connor.
Within moments of sitting down, the tired Connor began to doze off. His eyes were heavy and his muscles were all sore. Finally, after a long, hectic day, he could rest.
“Connor?” his mother’s voice said softly, pulling him from his near-slumber.
Connor looked up at his mother. She was looking over at him with a smile on her face.
“Hey. What are you doing awake?” Connor asked.
“Why don’t you sleep at the house, where it’s comfortable?” Charlotte asked.
“This is fine mom. I’m comfortable here.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m sure. Go back to sleep. You need the rest.”
“Okay...”
Charlotte let her head roll back and she began again to doze off. Then, she suddenly turned her head back to Connor. The smile dissipated from her face.
“Connor?” she said again.
Connor looked back over at his mother. “Yeah, mom?”
“That girl—be careful with that girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl who drove me that night. She’s not right, that girl.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
Charlotte froze for a moment, thinking of the best way to formulate her next sentence.
“What is it, mom?”
“She’s—She’s not human.”
Connor stared at his mother, unsure of how to respond. If it wasn’t for that night, where he saw Constable Hendricks get launched into the wall by some supernatural
entity, he wouldn’t have believed the claim. But unfortunately, given all he’d been through in the past twenty-four hours, he believed it.
“I know it sounds crazy—but for me, please be careful,” Charlotte begged.
“I’ll be careful,” Connor said.
“Just stay away from her. Please.”
“I will mom... I will,” Connor said.
He loved Hanna, but his mother was right. Hanna wasn’t human. He didn’t know anything about her. As far as he knew, she was the town murderer. As far as he knew, she was the “demon child” that the vandals accused her of being.
Connor watched as his mother dozed back off to sleep. His poor mother had sacrificed too much of her life for Connor for him to go risking it all on some girl he only knew for a week.
He was going to have to cut her loose, and keep his distance.
As Connor dozed off, he felt something lingering deep in his bones—that same sensation of dread that he’d felt just hours earlier, except this time it was less specific. This feeling had nothing to do with Hanna, or anyone. This was something different.
Something strange.
And Connor wasn’t the only person to feel it on that cold winter night.
As Tarun lay in bed, dreaming about the beautiful Megan Gold, he was awaken swiftly. A loud gust of wind whistled against his bedroom window.
He felt it too.
It was a cold and cruel feeling. It filled his body with a peculiar anxiety that he’d never felt before.
In that same building, Brittany felt it too. She sprung awake on Kane’s bed.
“What is it?” Kane asked, waking up.
“I—I’m not sure. I think I just had a nightmare,” she said.
“What about?”
“I—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“It’s alright. It was just a nightmare,” Kane assured. “Go back to sleep.
Normally, Kane would have just gone back to sleep, but he felt it too. As that Arctic wind whistled against his apartment window, that gripping dread clutched his gut.
Something was coming.
Everyone could feel it.
Every single person in Snowbrooke.
It was something big.
“All that is now, and all that is gone, and all that’s to come, and everything under the sun is in tune, but the sun is eclipsed by the moon…”
—ROGER WATERS, DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
FLOWERS DO BLOOM IN WINTER
As a child, I was disappointed when I learned that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. I was disappointed when I learned that there was no such creature as The Easter Bunny, and that there was no omniscient fairy who came and took my teeth while I slept.
I was especially disappointed to learn that there was no such thing as magic.
As the idea of “magic” became fantasy, the magic of my childhood began to slip away. I believe they call it growing up. As an adult, I’ve come to realize that, as a child, I had misunderstood the concept of magic from the very beginning. Magic was never the act of making objects vanish, or the creation of adorable bunnies from the thinnest air. Magic was never plumes of colourful smoke, incredible spells or insidious incantations.
Magic is just a word—a word to describe things that we don’t understand.
Before the advent of modern science, people would witness new technology and shout, “It’s magic! She’s a witch!”
The word magic was recklessly attached to vanishing bunnies and illusions, because those things fit the description—they were things we didn’t understand. And although we like to think we understand the world, sometimes we really have no idea. Gravity—seems simple enough? It is everywhere, after all. The truth is, we don’t understand how gravity works, scientists haven’t been able to crack the Gravity Code. Sure, we have theories, some good and some questionable, but gravity remains a big mystery. We don’t understand how a moon such as our own can actually exist in our orbit, so we make theories. Another planet crashed into The Earth, hurling a chunk of our world into space. No! Planetary dust formed the moon! The Earth’s orbit captured the moon as it flew nearby! Surely, that must the how the moon came to be!
In reality, we have no clue why some things exists—why some things happen. By the very definition of the word, that means we’re surrounded by magic, does it not?
That there are no plants that flower in below freezing conditions. I heard that on a television program a few years ago. I didn’t believe the program. I started to search through the online world to debunk the program’s claim. To my surprise, I could not find the contradiction I was looking for.
A few days later I walked past the local florist. I decided to go inside and ask. She told me that, as far as she knew, there were no flowers that bloomed in the ice of winter.
Once again, I wasn’t satisfied, and the notion was starting to frustrate me. I asked everyone. I called my old high school teachers and left messages on their answering machines. I even left a message on the answering machine of the head of agricultural, at the local university. I searched for hours at the library. I had become obsessed.
You may think that my obsession was insane. You may be thinking, “Of course there are no flowers that bloom in winter!” But I was determined to discover an exception to the rule. I was determined to find anything.
I never found the answer I wanted, but there was a silver lining; my efforts were not totally wasted. I learned a whole lot about flowers, blooming conditions and the process that they call photosynthesis.
Weeks after giving up, I received a phone call from the university professor. He told me that perhaps a flower could bloom in freezing conditions if kept warm either artificially, or by gas released from the Earth’s core—much like a naturally occurring hot spring. But that answer didn’t satisfy me, and I told the professor just that.
“Why do you ask?” the professor asked.
I was obsessed because I’d seen the flower with my own eyes. Not in a dream, not on the television, not in a science lab, not in a movie—I saw it in real life. I saw it just outside of Snowbrooke, during a particularly frigid winter. The flower had a long confident stem and smooth red pedals. I know there was no “Earth Core Heating” because it protruded directly out of the snow—not melted snow, but regular old fluffy snow. There was no mistaking it—it was a living, real-life flower. Even more astonishing and unbelievable, the flower bloomed at night, and closed during the day.
“Maybe somebody put it there, moments before you saw it,” the expert said. “Perhaps it died just shortly thereafter.”
Not the case.
There is an old abandoned cabin just outside of Snowbrooke. I do not know who built it, and I do not know if anyone knows about it except for me—I found it by accident during a summer hike years ago, as a child. There is no road that will bring you there. There are no trails that can lead you there. It is simply there.
I saw that strange winter flower day after day for weeks as I hiked to the cabin, where I would spend my times writing short stories. It was a cold hike—violently cold at times. Perhaps the flower was just a strange figment of my imagination—I was crazed enough to hike an hour in the winter mountains to get there, after all.
I prefer to believe the flower was real. To me, it was the most real thing in the whole town of Snowbrooke.
What does all this mean? Despite what they tell you—despite what the Internet claims, despite what the experts and professors say, and despite what the textbooks and literature says, there are things out there that we don’t know or understand. There are things out there that defy our logic. But there is another implication, which is the most important of all…
A flower can bloom in the worst, darkest and coldest conditions.
No matter what anyone tells you, flowers do bloom in the winter.
I told the head of agriculture, “I know it exists, because I saw it.”
He replied with a laugh, “Well�
� Maybe it was magic then.”
He was right.
It was magic.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
NEVER SETTLE
They have done studies, conducted surveys and created computer generated images of what they claim is the picture of the perfect woman. Scientists mapped the ideal features of what they call “the perfect face”, and the “perfect body”.
But somehow, the very real beauty of the young blonde Megan Gold makes all of the mock-ups and digital models look like lepers and cavemen. Megan was the absolute model of beauty—the epitome of physical perfection. Better yet, she was real.
It was not uncommon for men and women alike to stare in awe of her perfection. Every single strand of hair on her head was worthy of its own shampoo commercial. Every square inch of skin on her face was worthy of a skin care poster.
She radiated as she walked. She never stumbled or tripped. Never once did let so much as cough or sneeze slip through.
Even the most strong-willed, independent, intelligent men couldn’t help but get lost in her magnificence. Tarun Mumbar—possibly the most strong-willed, independent, intelligent man in all of Snowbrooke, was no exception, another victim of Megan’s indescribable exquisiteness.
Tarun couldn’t help but stare at the girl, even when she was bundled in a thick coat and toque. Eyes glazed over, Tarun stood there like a slack-jawed owl as the blonde beauty walked past the window of his father’s apartment building.
As Megan passed, she turned and looked towards Tarun. She smiled. Tarun froze like a stone statue. His heart skipped a beat before it sped up to a million beats per minute, trying to break free from his chest to chase the beauty. After a couple of seconds, which could very well have been a couple of days, Tarun returned to his senses. He returned a delayed smile—an awkward, goofy delayed smile. Megan giggled as she continued on her way.
Tarun’s unblinked pupils were wide enough, you could fit a truck through them.
“Tarun!” Vish said.
“Huh?” Tarun turned swiftly around to see his father, standing in the empty apartment’s doorway.
“That drywall isn’t going to come off by itself!” Vish exclaimed.