"You have one new message. To listen to your messages, press one. To—."

Sighing, I lowered the phone and pressed the indicated number before replacing the device, steadying myself on the seat in front of me as the bus' wheels thumped over the retrofitted bridge. Below, the Agoura River trickled, churlish and reticent, the water depleted by August's heat and California's perpetual dryness, the haze reflecting on the solid concrete embankments rising like unfurled wings on either side of the aqueduct. My eyes followed the water until it disappeared in the distance.

"Hi, I'm Taylor Whitney from Imor Advances' human resources department, and I'm calling for Saryt Gaspard. If you could, call me back at this number as soon as possible—."

Again, I pressed the button, then ended the call to my voicemail. I found myself surprised anyone at work had noticed my absence, let alone asked an HR representative to inquire about my whereabouts. Imor didn't open on Mondays, making today the first day I'd missed, though I could little believe only two days had passed since that night. Numbness still buzzed in my fingertips, still fogged my mind; it felt as if months had passed, or perhaps merely minutes—not two days.

The bus slowed, and I stood, swaying, hand pressed to my middle as sweat dripped along my spine and nausea twisted in my gut. The driver threw an uneasy glance in my direction as I eased my way down the steps and through the folding door, welcoming the sudden, arid heat hitting my bent shoulders and perspiring brow, skin tingling under the brunt of late afternoon sunshine. I held myself upright with one hand against the bus stop and lifted my head.

Rio Verde wasn't as upscale as the Pinegrove neighborhood farther north, or as trendy as the Greenwood district back across the Agoura, but the area reflected none of Evergreen Acres' suburban drudgery or the cheap styles favored by those cookie-cutter tract homes. The apartment complexes stood ringed in healthy, watered gardens and clean streets, the buildings well-maintained and brushed with a coat of paint applied within the last few months, the sidewalks cracked by old-growth trees and their sprawling system of roots. Many who resided in this particular area of the district were working professionals with day jobs, so I encountered no one as I limped along the avenue to my destination.

Tara's apartment nestled between two structures of similar design, comprised of stark lines, wide windows, and stucco walls, part of the facade hidden from the street by a towering eucalyptus drooping against the heat. I climbed the outer stairs, panting, clasping the banister with sweaty hands, and arrived thankful for the shade on the second level. The keys rattled in my hand as I unlocked unit '2A' and, after shutting my eyes, I eased the door open.

A breath escaped my lungs, a tremulous exhale followed by another, then another, a progressive noise building until the sob broke free and I stood inside the threshold, struggling for composure. No one was home.

Despite what evidence I'd gathered—the wound in my side, the demon in my house, the loss of time—some heretofore unexplored part of my mind still clung to hope and had faith in a better world order. Good women like Tara didn't get murdered or, or sacrificed by madmen to summon—creatures from other places. Demons, magic, and whatever preternatural accompaniments attached to those denominations didn't exist. Those elements belonged to the old stories my papé used to tell after dark, in the soft ambiance of nightlights in childish bedrooms, safe from ghoulish things beneath counterpanes and laundered quilts.

That was a lie. I could no longer say the monsters didn't exist. I knew, without reservation, they infested every corner of this world, had done so long before my birth, and would continue to do so long after my death.

Silence waited in that apartment like an overripe fruit left too long on the counter; it had a smell, a rotten portent I could taste in the back of my mouth before I had a chance to shut the door and enter the room. Silence clung to every corner, every inch of space, dripped from the ceiling in wax curtains and shattered with each step I took. Silence dashed my foolish hopes, told me my sister never came home, the monsters didn't disappear with the dawn. It wasn't a dream, and she hadn't escaped her fate, not as I had. She was gone. It was so fucking quiet.

I bundled the hem of my loose shirt in my fist and used it to scrub my wet face clean, softly cursing myself and my maudlin attitude as I sank into the armchair in Tara's sitting room. My sister prescribed the philosophy of quality over quantity in home design, and so her apartment—modestly sized, fit for a small family or a couple—held only a few, better appointed pieces, including the stupid armchair that undoubtedly cost half my salary and now had a fresh bloodstain on the cushion. I swore at the stain, too, watching it grow, until I levered myself upright and limped to the bathroom.

Raiding through the medicine cabinet and beneath the sink, I dumped several tidy stacks of washcloths and towels on the tile floor before sussing out two passable first-aid kits, the first containing the gauze and wrappings I sought. I pried the shirt from my side and craned my neck to see the wound, finding the white bandages already soaked crimson.

The demon had disappeared four, going on five, hours ago; ostensibly, I should have remained behind, but I had never claimed to be wholly sensible at any given point in my life, and sitting alone in my cramped bedroom breathing in the lingering fumes of rubbing alcohol and fine ash made me nearly sick. I came here instead, seeking what I knew existed beyond my grasp now, finding nothing but that dreadful, haunting silence and malingering exhaustion.

Sitting on the tub's edge, I used a pair of cuticle scissors to cut through the ruined bandages and set about applying a new layer, surveying the demon's stitches with clinical, scrunched-nose queasiness. Most of my injuries were well on their way to healing, alarmingly so, given how my many bruises had already settled from puffy purple lumps to mottled blue spots ringed in yellowed fringes. This injury, however, remained raw and inflamed, the stitches beginning to fray about the edges.

Hell, I thought as I covered the area in a thick, antiseptic malaise. I might die before the demon ever has a chance to find those monsters.

When I finished the dressing, I threw the refuse into the tub with little thought and stood. I leaned on the sink's edge, gripping the chilled porcelain, leaving bloody fingerprints behind, and stared at my reflection in the frameless mirror bolted to the wall. A gaunt woman returned my scrutiny, her eyes smudged with fatigue, her skin almost sallow, hair unwashed, untidy, and unbrushed. Spotting an errant hair tie left on the counter, I used it to pull back my hair and tucked the loose strands behind my ears. It did little to improve my look.

"What am I doing, Tara?" I whispered, wanting an answer, knowing it would never come. "God, wake me up from this nightmare, please. I can't—what am I supposed to do without you?"

A sudden sob tore through my center and throbbed in my bruised ribs, aching in a physical manner that exacerbated the emotional agony plaguing my every thought. Frustrated, in pain, and growing angry, I lashed out and my foot collided with the second first-aid kit, sending it skittering along the tile into the tub's solid side, where the lid came popping off. Something inside rattled.

Frowning, I eased myself onto the tub's edge again and bent to pick up the box, wincing all the while at the burning ache in my middle. My fingertips slid over the cool plastic bottles, and once more pills rattled in their orange containers, my frown growing as I read words like Lortab and Vicodin, Percocet and OxyContin on the labels, little tablets of Dolophine and Exalgo lining the kit's bottom along with two clear, medically sterile syringes.

"What in the world...?" I dug through the bottles and slim booklets that came with the prescriptions and detailed dosage regularity and symptom management, and as a free vial slid against my questing fingers, I caught it before it could fall and shook the powder within. White powder—or so I assumed. The light seemed to...glow where it penetrated the glass, glittering in faint hues of blue, and the substance clung to the vial's sides as if caught in a vicious static charge.

What is that?

I shoved the vial and bottles back into the box. I hadn't come here for this; Tara must have had some reason for keeping these drugs on hand, and her reasons were none of my business, even if she was—.

A jagged breath caught in my throat. My thoughts drifted, vague and distorted, warped in a nebulous cloud of emotional tumult lacking real cohesion beyond hurt and loss and guilt. I took the OxyContin bottle, as I'd been prescribed this particular opiate several years ago after dental surgery and knew what to expect of it, and threw the rest back into the vanity below the sink. The towels and miscellanea followed after.

Where now? My fruitless and frankly delusional search for my sister had proved pointless, as I should have expected, and so I had nowhere else to go but back to my house. I needed to find out what had happened to my car, as I doubted finding a bus leaving Verweald proper for the high desert suburban wasteland of Evergreen Acres would be feasible at this hour. I would need to call a cab, or use a ride-share app. Groaning, I kneaded my brow and slouched.

Out in the apartment, a door opened, and then closed.

I froze. For an instant, my heart seemed to stop cold in my chest—and then it galloped, blood roaring in my ears despite leaving my face pale and waxen as a corpse's. A thousand thoughts leapt to the forefront of my brain, all screaming out various invectives about my stupidity in coming here, how I'd made myself vulnerable, that I needed to stand, move, do something other than sit and gape like a hooked fish, because I knew it wasn't Tara, and it wasn't Rick, and no one else had her apartment key, not even stupid Eleanor or dad—.

Silent footsteps in the hall drew closer, a sense of presence I couldn't rightly define, inexplicable weight given to the shifting shadows, silence splintered by measured breaths, my whole body buzzing with shock and rage and fear, unable to do anything at all—.

Someone paused in the doorway. Looking up, I stared into a familiar face I'd never seen in person before, one that haunted magazines and tabloids, news stations and music channels—and Daniel Fairchild, the multimillionaire, the philanderer, the the twice-voted, 'Sexiest Man Alive,' dressed in a silver suit with a striped, loose-necked shirt under his jacket, stared in return.

He blinked dark eyes and said. "Huh. You're supposed to be dead."