Fourth Month: December

Q4. Have you lost something in the December snow?

A4. Yes, the key I needed in order to return.

I have my good days and I have my bad days. Every now and then there’s a break in the blank walls that have become my mind and, like a burst of color, a memory explodes into existence before fading just as quickly. Those are the times that I’m at my happiest, even though the memories never feel real. They always leave me with the sense that I’m watching the film of someone else’s life, disconnected. Still, it’s good to remember, even if it is only for a while.

I don’t remember when it was that I last felt hungry. It’s been years since I ate my last meal, I think. That time, like so much else, remains locked away. Somewhere out there, though, it’s just waiting to be found: the key that I need in order to return. It was the price I had to pay, trading my mind for yours. It’s one that I do not regret, even if I no longer remember who you are. Once I find the key, it will all become clear again. Perhaps I’ll even return to the boy I once was years ago.

All that remains to me now is the snow. In all directions as far as the eye can see, it stretches onward, outward. Colorless, featureless, it offers nothing for me to grab onto, nothing to engage, nothing to help me to remember. Its emptiness forces me to cling to those memories, those reminders of who I once was, even more tightly. And yet, even those slip through my grasping fingers, vanishing again into nothingness, slipping into that wintery wasteland. I’ve even grown to accept the possibility that I’m only reliving a single remembrance over and over again, forgetting each time it passes.

There’s a picture that I find in my pocket from time to time. It helps me to continue forward. There’s a man and a woman with two boys standing together. They look like a family. I want to believe that one of the boys in the picture is me, but I have no way of knowing which one. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a mirror that I’ve forgotten what I once looked like. After years of wandering these white barrens, though, I’m not sure that I’d recognize myself even if I could remember who I once was.

There is one thing I can remember: her eyes staring into me as I sacrificed my mind locking her away. I don’t sleep as often as I should because of those eyes. They wait for me when I’m at my most vulnerable. They remind me every time I drift off that she’s out there still, biding her time within her frozen prison. When I see those eyes, I can’t remember what she did to us, but I know that she’ll do it again when the next child foolishly breaks those seals as we did. I was the only one who could stop her then, back when I was still whole. I don’t know who will stop her the next time, not unless I can find the key.

I know that the key represents the way home. It is the missing piece needed to make my mind whole once again so that I may return. Without it, I am left to uselessly wander these snowy fields, praying that I will not be too late, struggling desperately to unravel the mystery of me. Though I search with frozen hands, I make no progress, the whole world looking the same. I worry that I may have dug at this exact spot before. Perhaps it’s the only spot I’ve ever searched. I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember.

This time feels different, I think, as my hand touches cold metal. I pull the key from the snow. Already the new flakes begin to fill the hole that I’ve made. The key is large, awkward in my hands, a product of a long ago era. It feels like nothing my hands have ever touched and, in an explosion of color, I remember everything. The world around me becomes crystal clear... and I know that I can never return. 

Numbed fingers trembling, I place the key back into the hole, stand, and walk away. The memories begin to fade again into emptiness and not for the first time. This is a pattern I’ve repeated many times before, remembering each time the reason that I can never leave. She lives inside me. I’ve locked us both away, deep in the furthest depths of my mind, completely isolated in the dancing snow. I close my eyes and she is there, staring, waiting, biding her time until she is set free. Already, the only memory that remains are her eyes watching every time I blink. 

Blink.

I’m surrounded by snow, stretching onward, outward in all directions. I choose a spot at random and begin to search. Somewhere out there is a key--the key that I need in order to return.

Third Month: November

Q3. What is the weirdest thing to happen to you in November?

A3. The Turkey Rebellion.

We found the tapes yesterday. After listening to them in the survivor’s camp, I’ve decided to record their contents and send it out into the world so that someday there may still be a surviving record of what happened back when it all went wrong.

(tape begins, hissing static, sound of rustling movement in the distance, smatterings of whispering)

WOMAN’S VOICE: ...don’t have time… hour, at most…

MAN’S VOICE: ...don’t… scare him…

(sound of papers being shuffled, footsteps approach the recorder, chairs drawn out and people sit)

MAN: Hello Bud. How are you?

BOY’S VOICE (BUD): A little freaked out, but I’ll survive. My sisters and I were playing football with our cousins like we do every Thanksgiving when everything got all weird.

MAN: Can you tell me about the turkey you found this year?

BUD: I’m not in trouble, am I?

WOMAN: No more trouble than the rest of us are. Go ahead and tell us, but do it quickly.

BUD: Okay. It started the day before Thanksgiving. Mom had put off her holiday shopping like always. She puts it off until the last minute every year and then gets really stressed out having to run around the day before trying to find what she needs.

(sound of impatient tapping with a pen quickly muffled)

BUD: So this year, she couldn’t find a turkey. All the stores had been bought out we thought, until we started asking around. It turns out there was some weird shortage this year, turkey farms where all the turkeys went missing. Did you hear about that?

MAN: We’ve heard a couple things, yes.

BUD: Where do you think they all went? Do you think they ran away?

WOMAN: Bud, we don’t have a lot of time here. Look out in that hall. Do you see the red lights flashing? If we opened this door, there’d be a siren you could hear, too. We need you to tell us about the turkey you found.

BUD: Sorry ma’am. So, like I said earlier, my sisters and I like to play football with our cousins on Thanksgiving morning. I was winning. It was my big sister Darcy and my little cousin Jonathan and me versus my little sisters Amy and Susan and Jonathan’s big brother Harry. Normally whatever team Harry’s on wins since he’s so much bigger than the rest of us, but this year I’ve been doing a little bit of growing and--

(sound of alarms ringing in the background as an intercom filled with static interrupts)

INTERCOM: We can only hold them off for another couple of minutes at most! You need to get out of there now!

WOMAN: We need more time!

INTERCOM: We’re trying to keep--

(intercom goes silent, the room is still for a long pause)

MAN: Bud, we don’t have time. We need you to focus here. Tell us about the turkey.

BUD: Are they all right out there? It didn’t sound good. There was a lot of gunfire and noise in the background I could hear.

WOMAN: Bud. The turkey. Tell us. NOW.

BUD: Right, sorry, y’all. So we were playing football and all of a sudden this turkey comes into our yard. For a while we all just stared at each other before the turkey walked right on past us and up to the back door of the house. That’s weird, right?

(pause, silence)

BUD: Well, we thought it was weird, so we followed it. Jonathan thought we should open the door for it, see if it would go inside and, sure enough, it did. Once it got inside, it turned and looked at us. Have y’all ever looked a turkey in the eyes? It’s pretty creepy. They’ve got that weird, blank bird stare thing they do. This one bowed to me, though. He looked like he had something to say. That’s when mom came in. She was pretty mad that we brought a live turkey in the kitchen.

WOMAN: But where did all the other birds come from? One minute there’s one bird bowing in your kitchen and the next there’s millions of them swarming the city.

BUD: Everywhere. The turkeys were hiding in plain sight.

WOMAN: What does that even mean?

BUD: Didn’t you know? They’re shapeshifters. They were blending in with us. Long ago, their pride got the best of them and they were cursed never to use their power again until they had suffered their punishment. For centuries now, they’ve been slaughtered every year at Thanksgiving paying that price and, in the future where they’re from, they’ve been hunted almost to extinction.

WOMAN: This is a waste of time... The future? We’re being invaded by future turkeys?

BUD: A hundred years from now, a turkey is born who is different from the rest. Having been nearly killed off, the curse was finally lifted and this turkey was born with the power to shapeshift restored. A turkey born to be king, some say. After organizing the other survivors, training them in the restored art of shapeshifting, they traveled back through time. Once here, they’ve been training the turkeys of this century to unlock their true powers. It’s like I said. Where did they come from? From everywhere. They’ve been hiding among you for decades as humans, waiting for their chance to rise up, to prevent that dark future.

(explosions, sound of yelling)

BUD: It’s about time. It took a little longer than I would’ve expected to reach me. Unfortunately, it seems that our time has run out.

MAN: What do you mean? How do you know so much about their plans?!

(sounds of chairs being knocked over, rapid movement, shouting)

WOMAN: What, what are you?! What have you done with Bud?!

NEW VOICE: There never was a Bud, but I appreciate you bringing me here, revealing this bunker’s hidden location.

MAN: What, what do we do now?!

NEW VOICE: Bow before me! BOW TO YOUR KING!!

(screaming, end of tape)

Second Month: October

Q2. What’s the most scared you’ve ever been in October?

A2. When I got a birthday card from my grandmother.

Sophie woke to the raucous noise of roosters in the neighboring yard. Yawning wide, she sat up in bed, annoyed at the early hour, the sky outside still black. She stared down at her rumpled bedsheets for a moment, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before looking up across the darkened room. As she stared outside, she became aware of a pair of eyes staring inward, watching her. Jumping out of bed in fright, she relaxed somewhat when she recognized the outlined face.

Walking over to the sill, she propped the window open and leaned out. The lined face outside smiled and asked, “Mind if I come in, dear? I seem to have lost my key.” Now awake, Sophie nodded once before telling her grandmother to meet her at the door. Smiling, the elderly woman disappeared as Sophie walked through darkened rooms turning on lamps, arriving at the unlocked front door to meet her grandmother on the porch.

“Happy Birthday, little one!” the older woman greeted her, wrapping Sophie in a bony hug. Trapped in her embrace, Sophie wrinkled her nose at the vague smell of mildew. “I hope I didn’t wake you!”

Sophie shook her head, “No, you’re fine; the stupid roosters next door were crowing up a storm. You’d think that moving into the city I wouldn’t have to listen to their noise, but you’d be wrong because apparently roosters are now an urban pet, too.” As Sophie spoke, her grandmother watched her disapprovingly. Sophie looked confused. “What? Did I say something wrong? You’re not a rooster fan, are you?”

“No, can’t stand the nasty beasts,” her grandmother responded curtly. “But what happened to your manners? Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Sophie blinked in surprise. “Invite you in? Why? You know you’re always welcome! Come on in."

“Thank you, dear.” A thin smile crept across her grandmother’s features as she stepped across the threshold into the house, casting a nasty look at a series of pencil marks drawn onto the doorframe. Kissing her granddaughter on the cheek with dry lips, she clapped her hands together, saying, “Well, as long as we’re up, how about a bite of breakfast, then? Nothing like a birthday breakfast to start the day! I’m thinking french toast with plenty of syrup. Thoughts?”

“I was thinking more like fried chicken…” Sophie joked, closing the front door on the noisy birds still crowing at the top of their lungs. Something seemed to have them even more riled up than usual. She followed the older woman into the kitchen. “Not that I’m complaining, but… why exactly are you here, especially this early?”

“Oh, that. Your mother called,” her grandmother explained over breakfast preparations. “She had to go to work early and wanted me to keep an eye on you with all of this odd news recently.” 

Sophie nodded with a shudder. Things had gotten strange. The mental hospitals were becoming over-crowded with a series of people acting odd, many of whom used to be powerful, influential figures beforehand. Then, there had been a weird series of accidents as children across the country had been found alive but completely unresponsive, almost as if someone had stolen their souls.

Scanning the room, yesterday’s mail caught Sophie’s eye on the countertop. Sitting on top was a bright red envelope, her name scrawled across the front, likely a birthday card. As her grandmother bustled about, Sophie walked over and picked up the envelope, tearing it open and shaking out the card inside.

“Oh hey,” she called out. “This one’s from you!”

As she spoke, the older woman suddenly became stock still. Turning slowly, she said, “Oh, that. Sent it by accident before I knew I was coming over. You can just pass that here.”

Sophie paid no heed to her grandmother’s command as she read the message inside, her blood suddenly running cold. Finishing, she began to back out of the room, her eyes opened wide, the card in her hand falling to the ground, a photograph fluttering out. Watching her granddaughter carefully, Sophie’s grandmother stepped closer, asking her where she was going.

Abandoning all pretense, Sophie turned and ran for the front door, passing the forgotten photograph lying on the kitchen linoleum. In the picture, her grandmother stood smiling in front of Big Ben in London, across the ocean. She’d be home next week, the card said.

Struggling briefly with the handle, Sophie finally succeeded in opening the door, rushing outdoors into the still dark morning. In the neighboring yard, the roosters continued their crowing. Sophie hopped the fence into the enclosed area as a tall, shadowy creature that no longer resembled her grandmother began to stalk its perimeter. 

As the creature scaled the fence into the pen with Sophie, a voice called out from her neighbor’s darkened porch. “Here, feed the birds for me while you’re in there, won’t you?” As the voice finished speaking, a tossed sack of feed landed at Sophie’s feet. The creature snarled and lunged at Sophie who, having bent down to pick up the feed, leapt back spilling kernels everywhere.

As the kernels fell to the ground, the creature suddenly stopped. Against its will, it bent, hunkered over, and started counting each of the fallen kernels. Sophie backed nervously away and climbed back over the fence. By the early day’s new light, Sophie could just make out a tall woman sitting on the porch. “Compulsive counters, witches are. She’ll be at it for a while; it’ll give me the time I need to properly take care of her.”

“Wi-witches?!” Sophie interjected.

“Of course witches. Bit of an infestation we’ve got in this country these days.” She paused. “No one in their sane mind would keep roosters as pets otherwise, you know? Wonderful witch detectors, though. Shame you invited her in after I spent all that time drawing protection glyphs on everyone’s doors. Kind of dumb, that was... but then again, not everyone’s a trained hunter, I suppose.” 

Behind her, the tall woman continued talking to the space Sophie had recently vacated as she made her way home thinking that, for next year’s birthday, she’d make sure to sleep in.

First Month: September

Q1. Have you ever broken something in September?

A1. Yes, the rules.

Every school has its fair share of dark rumors about it. At my old boarding school, there were stories for practically every floor of the building. My favorite was about the attic. Supposedly, some time ago, a brother and sister snuck out of their rooms at night to play in the attic. They were new to the school and struggled to make new friends. It wasn’t long before they were caught and warned. But it happened again. And again. And eventually, they stopped coming back down. My friends and I used to sneak out at night and listen carefully at the attic steps. The rumor was that you could still hear them playing up there. I never could, but my friends swore they had.

My new school is different, though; it doesn’t have any rumors like that about it. There are no ghosts in the attic, no murderers who appear in the mirrors when you turn out the lights, nothing hiding in the teacher’s closet. Perhaps it’s because, at my new school, they send you home in the afternoon. Maybe the kids simply aren’t around long enough to make up rumors about it? A school is a very different place in the middle of the night than it is at lunch time on a Thursday morning.

*

It was the second week of school when the first student disappeared. He had decided to write something crude, something school inappropriate, on the new slide out on the playground. When one of the girls saw him do it, the entire class seemed to become absolutely still, as if turned to stone. No one seemed to want to breathe. When our teacher arrived to investigate, the boy was sent straight to the principal’s office. 

The rest of the day afterward seemed to drag on. No one talked about what happened and eventually, I grew tired of asking. Already well disciplined, the class put on a show of being on their best behavior. Everyone was still when the teacher spoke. Work was completed quickly and silently. When our teacher forgot to give us our homework, one of the boys raised his hand to remind her and no one complained. More than anything at that point, I itched to be home, away from the strangeness.

The next day, the boy’s desk was missing.

It didn’t matter who I tried to talk to. As far as anyone was concerned, the boy from yesterday had never existed. When I asked my teacher, she gave me a long, confused look before sending me to the nurse, who took my temperature and sent me home even though I didn’t have a fever. Something strange had occurred and I was determined to discover what. I waited the rest of the afternoon in our bay window, waiting for the bus to pass by.

Eventually, my neighbor disembarked and I ran outside to greet him, to invite him to a game of basketball. My father had installed a hoop above our garage. An additional offer of cookies and milk sealed the deal and my classmate dropped his backpack on his front step and came over. As we played, I subtly broached the subject of the missing boy, causing him to drop the ball, which rolled, forgotten, down the driveway and into the ditch. Looking around nervously, he asked if he could go home. I shrugged and he left.

*

The next week, one of the younger girls on my bus wasn’t in her normal seat. When I asked her older sister, she told me that she had never had a younger sister. Tears streaked down her face as she yelled at me for making such a cruel joke. Abashed, I returned to my seat and kept my head down the rest of the ride, resolving once again to uncover whatever it was that was going on.

Our school was not a large one--shaped like a lower case “b,” with one hallway and a pod attached to its base--making it easy to investigate on the way to lunch on Thursday morning, but all that I turned up was the strange smell that always seemed to linger by the gymnasium. When I asked the new teacher across the hall about it, she nervously shrugged and pointed to the bathrooms as the ancient air conditioning kicked on with a roar behind her. She jumped at the noise before making an excuse and walking away.

As I stood there thinking, my eyes were drawn to the door of the next classroom, closed and marked “Book Room.” Curious, I walked up to the door’s window, but a taped sheet of construction paper obscured my view. Throwing caution to the wind, I entered the room. Inside, the air conditioning seemed even louder than it did in the hall. It was no wonder that no one used this room for teaching; it’d be nearly impossible to hear the teacher over its unsteady roar. And the smell of the bathrooms? It was nearly overwhelming.

Behind me, the door opened again, but I failed to notice it until I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, the school’s principal stood behind me holding my neighbor by the arm. He smiled a long, slow smile. “Just the young man I was looking for.”

Lifting a corner of the carpet revealed a locked trapdoor which, when opened, became a gaping hole in the tiled floor with a staircase leading down. The roaring now filled the room, a deep rumble, and the smell brought me to my knees. Pushing my neighbor into the dark, our principal lifted me off the ground to follow. 

“Have I ever told you about the basement?” he asked. “It’s where we send the boys and girls who, let’s just say, have a little trouble following the rules."

“We can’t talk about the basement! It’s against the rules!” my classmate pleaded.

“Well…” The principal paused, drawing out the moment, before smiling again. “You’re right--not anymore you can’t.” 

Behind us, the trap door closed and locked as the roaring paused just long enough so that the sound of saliva dripping to the floor could be heard.

*

It’s true what I said: A school is a very different place at lunch time on a Thursday morning than it is in the middle of the night. Maybe the kids simply aren’t around long enough to make up rumors about it?