A chaotic montage of dreams haunted the remaining hours of my disjointed sleep. The unscripted scenes unsurprisingly called my coffee crash to the stage, his amber eyes and knowing smile adding sparks of light and fleeting moments of warmth in my imaginative subconscious.
While he never wore the starship commander uniform I’d sketched—a minor disappointment—he did wear other costumes, a sense of déjà vu clinging to each vision. He waltzed through eras, each step with clothing from another age, a visual feast of historical allure. A diamond-twill woollen tunic, rough and worn, hinting at ancient battles and forgotten kingdoms; wool hosen clinging to his sculpted legs, the leather scent of a narrow belt holding a small, sharp dagger; rich velvet and brocade, built of stuffed upper sleeves, a long doublet that accentuated his shoulders, and puffy trunk hose breeches, the tactile sensation of rich fabrics against my skin; a leather bomber jacket, slicked-back curls, and dark denim jeans that accentuated his lean physique—a charming rebel without a cause.
In between these stolen glimpses into his past, a shadow drifted at the edges of my perception. A low voice behind me, breath brushed against my ear, and a cold silver locket touched my lips. And then, a jarring shift, a terrifying interruption of the romantic reverie—glowing red eyes, burning with malevolent intent and pointed teeth, a snarling threat that shattered the illusion of safety.
The overly cheerful pop song of my alarm jolted me awake; the transition from a world of suggestive whispers to the harsh reality of morning. So much for feeling refreshed to face the day. The twisted, tangled bedsheets and clammy, sweat-slicked skin were proof of a restless cycle of desire and dread.
Hot water was a welcome sting on my chilled skin, and I stood in the shower longer than I had time for. With my miniature sleepwalking episode and dreamscape through time, I felt like I’d been awake all night. I poured myself a heavy cup of coffee; it was the only way I’d make it through the day with my eyes open.
The day that started wrong continued to suck. The universe itself got the memo to add friction to every hour of my day; it was a cosmic conspiracy to test my sanity. It wasn’t horrible—life would go on, apparently—but everything moved at a snail’s pace. A train delay disrupted my morning commute. The choppy office WiFi stranded even the simplest tasks in limbo. The coffee machine, my mid-morning lifeline, staged a bean-less rebellion just as my sluggish brain begged for a caffeine boost. A client, clearly auditioning for a reality show titled ‘How Many Ways Can I Ruin a Designer’s Day?’ completely revamped their project, effectively turning my week’s worth of work into digital confetti. The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind me that reality was just as capable of being a nightmare as my dreams.
The only spark of joy in my dim, fluorescent-lit day was Heather’s mid-morning message. The photo of a coffee cup with the scribbled name hilariously mangled.
HEATHER: Good coffee, bad spelling.
I quickly texted back, Your name is Header from now on.
HEATHER: Because I wore a hat inside? Protesting to free the forehead.
Her digital wit a welcome distraction.
They saw your head sweating. I added an emoji of a hat and a water droplet—because subtlety was not in my vocabulary—and set my phone aside.
The system was still processing information at the speed of dial-up, absolutely stealing three years of my life. But there were a few offline things I could tackle. As much as I craved a longer reprieve into the realm of procrastination, knowing I’d be chained to my desk long after the sun had surrendered to the night motivated me. Just a little.
Most weeks, deadlines were manageable, even if a client suddenly had a last-minute change of heart about the logo design or promo layout. But today was different. Staying late was a necessary sacrifice to appease the productivity gods and keep the project from becoming a digital Pompeii. The snail-paced WiFi had only added fuel to the already raging inferno of my workload. Fortunately, the fire was somewhat extinguished by the afternoon when the internet finally rejoined the 21st century.
The day had been an exhausting marathon of pixel-pushing. But tomorrow-Dani would thank me in the morning—when I wasn’t explaining to a client why their launch was delayed. By 7:00 PM, my day was wrapped. Relief washed over me the second my laptop snapped shut. Layout, colours, and fonts—all updated to accommodate last-minute edit requests.
The new issue was the gradual dimming of the evening outside the windows, a disconcerting contrast to the brightly lit office. Welcome to September, when even the sun ends the workday earlier than you, Dani.
Home was a 20-minute train ride away. While travelling around dusk often meant a greater chance of securing a free seat, it also came with its own risks. Nothing I wasn’t used to, though. Navigating sketchy transit was a lesson city girls learned young. However, my latest string of strange dreams—coupled with the previous night’s sleep-sketching episode—made the dark feel like a trap.
The elevator to the street was quiet, as was the sidewalk outside the building. The usual post-work chatter was replaced by an eerie, muffled silence. There was some traffic, mainly the stragglers finally leaving downtown after work, their headlights beaming through shadows. I kept my laptop bag snug under my arm, my phone in my pocket, and my eyes straight ahead.
The street sign at the crosswalk corner wasn’t the usual reflective green and white; flaking rust corroded the metal, spreading as I watched, waiting for the neon-orange hand to switch. The irritated honk of a car horn drew a glance over my shoulder. The traffic lights turned. The street sign was pristine again.
Just visual static, I told myself, digging my fingernails into my palm. You stare at screens all day. It’s just eye strain.
Downtown was illuminated by city lights, but even the brightest streetlights couldn’t penetrate the deep shadows that clung to alleyways and corners. My mind insisted on being ridiculously paranoid, perceiving every ordinary patch of darkness as a hidden threat. A woman in a sharp trench coat walked past me, her heels clicking a brisk rhythm. As she passed under a flickering streetlamp, she glanced my way—a luminous, vibrant, acidic green that pierced the gloom like a cat’s glare catching the headlights.
My chin tucked instantly, staring hard at the concrete. Do not engage, Danielle, a therapist’s voice echoed in my memory. Acknowledge the stress-induced hallucination, and let it pass. If I started reacting to the impossible, I’d be back on a beige couch talking about my ‘vivid imagination,’ subjected to pitying looks from family and handed new prescriptions only a crazy person would refuse.
It was unsettling to be the only soul waiting at the LRT station. Even at this hour, it was still downtown Calgary, the thrumming, concrete heart of the city. The reason for the deserted station was evident in the air: it was cold. Strangely damp and numbing. My weather app hadn’t seen this coming; my phone screen flashed a lie of mild warmth.
Classic Calgary. Different ends of the city experienced completely different weather. This was nothing to worry about.
The first week of autumn should’ve been crisp with a lingering summer warmth, not this unnatural temperature plunge. Breath plumed like skittish ghosts under the streetlights. The breeze carried the faintest tang of decay, like wet leaves and old garden compost, quickly swallowed by the city smog.
My fingers curled deep into the pockets of my jeans. My trendy, tailored jacket, a flimsy caramel-coloured faux leather, was hilariously inadequate, clearly designed for sipping lattes on a sun-drenched patio, not battling a gust straight from the Arctic.
Great. Just great. I survived my battle with deadlines only to freeze in a freak weather shift.
The train arrived with a squeal of brakes, and I chose a spot in the corner near the door, a strategic position for a quick escape. I liked having a sense of control in an unpredictable environment. The car wasn’t empty, but it was sparse enough that no one sat in the same section, respecting each other’s individual bubbles of solitude.
As I sat down, a man holding a briefcase walked past me toward the opposite doors. The skin on his face rippled, his jaw stretched, elongating into the furred, snarling snout of a wild hound, sniffing the air before he stepped onto the platform.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counting the pounding of my heart until the beat steadied. When I forced myself to look again, there was only a weary businessman checking his watch as he approached the street corner.
Stop it, I berated myself, pulling out my phone with trembling hands and popping in an earbud. You’re just exhausted. No time for breakdowns. Just listen to the music.
I selected a song from my Train & Travel playlist and relaxed—or tried to—letting myself forget the creeping unease. Now, the hard part—deciding what to make for dinner. If only I’d had the foresight to leave some leftovers.
The train entered a tunnel, and my song abruptly stuttered—a digital hiccup in the darkness. Unusual, but I’d been pushing my phone to its battery limit all day. I didn’t think twice about it. Emerging into the dim, flickering light of the next station, the music resumed as if nothing had happened. That’s what I get for not downloading it. The train briefly exchanged passengers, but the car remained eerily empty. No one sat near me, like a strange, unspoken agreement.
My eyelids felt like they were lined with sand. I’d hardly taken a break all day, a prisoner of pixelated demands. The rhythmic sway of the tracks vibrated through my shoulder as I leaned against the cold glass. Just fatigue, I told myself. The brain gets weird when you run on caffeine and anxiety.
Another tunnel swallowed the train. The track clicking grew louder, metallic screeches resonating through the empty car as speed picked up in the gloom. I turned up the volume to drown out the noise, but a sudden, violent screech brought the train to a halt—a jarring jolt that lurching me forward, and I grasped the nearby pole for stability.
My earbud popped out. The music died.
I opened my eyes to total darkness.
Probably a minor fault, I thought, the rational part of my brain scrambling for a logical explanation to keep panic at bay. It’s just a delay. I’m just tired. Don’t make it a big deal, Dani.
Complete stillness. The only sound was my own uneven breathing. No shuffling feet, no muffled curses from fellow commuters. My fumbled taps on my phone screen were useless. The screen remained unresponsive, not even a flicker when I held down the power button to restart it.
I’d been here before. Not literally on this train, but this headspace. The ‘overactive imagination’ years—my parents’ favourite phrase for my childhood terrors. They’d spent a small fortune on therapists to convince me to stop noticing things that couldn’t be there.
This is just sleep deprivation playing a cruel, sensory-deprivation game. The stiff leather edge of the seat curved under my grip. Ignore that feeling.
The squeezing sensation in my chest wanted me to assume the worst, craziest thing—that there was something with me in this darkness. The rational, sane person I needed to be reminded me that it was probably a passenger I hadn’t noticed.
“Hello?” slipped out, thin and pathetic in the dark. My eyes strained, waiting to adjust to the dark. I’d never been one to speak up first, to break the silence, but a little embarrassment was a small price to pay for sanity.
No answer.
“Hello?” I called louder, trying to sound friendly, rather than one second away from losing my cool.
“Hello?” returned a voice, small, hoarse, and shrill—a distorted mimic of my own. My chest tightened.
It had to be an echo. Weird acoustics in a tunnel.
But the echo sounded less like a perfect copy and more like a mockery. Muscles tensed as I shifted to the edge of the leather seat. If I just waited patiently, the lights would flick back on. I’d see a normal train car. Probably with another confused passenger I hadn’t seen step on. Everything is fine.
But my gut feeling wouldn’t stop squeezing, begging me to find the ‘unseen’ I always ignored.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, my soles scuffed on the seat, perching in a low crouch. It was stupid to feel like something waited to snatch at my exposed ankles.
Focus on doing something useful, Dani.
Could I force the train door open? I wasn’t sure I knew how to work the emergency handle—not in the disorienting darkness, not with the spine-tingling sensation of something watching me, waiting, making my thoughts wild.
“Hello?” The voice was louder, closer, still hoarse and shrill, a sound that alerted my nerves like pulling a guitar string too tight.
Nope. Waiting around to discover another passenger was no longer an option. I held my breath, the stale air thick with the scent of rust, metal, and something acrid and unfamiliar. My heel tapped the floor. Panic flushed heat through me.
There’s no ankle-grabbing monster, Dani, so stop panicking. Take a slow breath. My mental mantra did nothing to slow my pounding pulse.
The distance was short, but every inch toward the doors felt like a mile. Trembling fingers brushed the seat cushions, only to recoil instantly. The vinyl wasn’t smooth. Long, deep gashes had carved the seat covers, the shredded edges scratching my skin.
Vandalism, I rationalized, though my stomach churned. Teenagers with box cutters.
I reached out further, more determined to reach the doors. A handrail dangled at an odd angle, brushing my cheek as I tiptoed around with a clumsy dodge. The metal was brittle, hanging loose and rusted, like it would turn to dust under the slightest pressure.
That’s not vandalism; the dangerous thought surfaced. It was like the handrail had aged decades in minutes.
“Hello?” The voice, a low, guttural rasp, moved steadily down the car, no more than three rows away.
The copper-and-soil stench of rot obliterated any lingering thoughts of tiredness or stress hallucinations. Logical explanations failed completely. My brain stopped trying to file this under logical explanations.
Instinct overrode any remaining ‘don’t cause a scene’ programming. My heart raced, not with the flutter of anxiety, but with the primal thumping of prey. I didn’t know self-defence, but I knew the feeling of being hunted.
Crouched low, trying to be as small and invisible as possible, I scooted forward. My hands found a wide, open space, and I turned. I could hear it now—the sharp, slow dragging closer against the floor. Closer.
Every nerve begged me to run. Shaking fingers scrambled for the door, finding the flat, vertical space. Everything was so dark, except for a few inches from my face. Squinting, desperately trying to trace the difference between metal and plastic to find the button that usually opened the door. Nothing happened when I pressed it. Definitely no power. Pulling the mechanical latch would create noise—and I couldn’t read step two for an emergency release in the dark.
This was the moment of decision. Fight, flight, freeze. Pull the latch, and hope step two was as simple as pulling the doors apart. Break the heavy-duty plastic window to escape, risking broken bones. Wait, hope my imagination had run wild and it was just someone else trapped on the train, someone equally terrified.
But instinct screamed danger. I knew—with nauseating certainty—that whatever was waiting in the dark wanted to hurt me.
I swallowed, my throat dry and scratchy, my mouth tasting copper and musty soil. Rotting, putrid smells filled my nostrils, acid burning my throat as my stomach churned. It didn’t matter anymore if this was a sleep-deprived hallucination or a dream. Surviving was the priority.
Before I could decide if taking the risk was worth it, a cold, dry wind brushed my face—a caress that turned into a clawed grip.
“Hello,” the voice hissed, right next to my ear.
Panic drew out a whimper as I tried to scramble away. Long, skeletal fingers clamped around my arm, tugging me down with unnatural strength. My back slammed against the floor, the impact jarring my teeth. I opened my eyes, expecting to see more empty darkness, but two glowing red pinpricks pierced the space above my feet.
The rational wall in my mind shattered completely.
In the ruby glow of the creature’s eyes, I saw it: a short, humanoid nightmare with bone-thin arms, skinny fingers like talons, a grisly, grey beard, wearing a long, shapeless cap dyed a deep, disturbing red. The redcap from my midnight sketch.
“Hello,” the redcap creature rasped with malicious glee. Rows of long, pointed teeth like serrated wire bared in a hideous grin. His beard was matted with dried, rust-coloured red. Talon-sharp fingers scratched up my arm, easily splitting my faux-leather sleeve as it reached my shoulder. His chipped, dirty nails traced upward, pressed into my throat.
“No, no,” I pleaded, my strangled voice strained from his tight hold around my neck. Kicking, shoving, twisting wildly—not even one inch of freedom. For something half my height, the creature had a strength that defied logic. A desperate, frantic sweep across the gritty floor in search of a weapon found only the cool, smooth surface of my phone screen. I grabbed it and slammed the phone into the redcap’s ruby eye.
The sickening squish distracted the creature with a howling burst of agony. The redcap recoiled to cover his injured eye, releasing my throat and leaving stinging scratches in my skin.
Adrenaline fuelled a desperate run toward the opposite end of the car, lunging past the thrashing monster. Maybe the creature would be surprised enough by my attack to buy me time to open the other door. My heels scratched the floor as I slid and fumbled again to find a latch. It jiggled, but I couldn’t get it to budge. I hoped the cinema hadn’t lied to me and jabbed my elbow into the narrow window in the door. A painful tingle radiated through my arm. Instant, searing agony. The shockwave seared through my entire arm, forcing a gasp. So much worse than a funny bone jab.
The window had wobbled, a slight tremor, but nothing more. I yanked off my shoe and slammed the heel against the window over and over. The glass slipped from the frame—a narrow, open gap.
“Help!” I shouted, my voice raw, pleading for someone to hear me. “Please—there’s something in here! HELP!”
Skinny talons like steel claws clamped onto the back of my jacket, wrenching me away from the exit with terrifying force. A feral, burning rage radiated from the creature’s red gaze. Claws shredded long gashes through my jacket with the ease of tearing tissue paper. The suffocating stench of sewage and damp rust filled the train, my stomach heaving into my throat. I tossed my other shoe at the creature’s face, but he dodged with unnerving speed. Another lash of claws snagged my mangled jacket, trapping me.
“Little morsel,” hissed the redcap, drawling, clumsy syllables, like a wild animal mimicking human speech.
A violent jerk split my jacket into ruined swatches, giving enough to slip my arms free. Arms tucked tight to my sides, I crashed back into the control room door—another locked barrier between me and safety. The creature laughed, a chilling, snarling sound. I couldn’t stop myself from closing my eyes, bracing for another inevitable, agonizing strike.
But the pain never came. Instead, the doors crashed inward, crumpling under an impossible, unseen pressure with a metallic crunch that echoed through the train car like a thunderclap.
The redcap and I both stared, stunned, at the large figure that emerged from the wrenched-apart entrance. The shadow coalesced into the form of a man who stepped between me and the redcap. The creature shrieked, red eyes wide with terror. A flash of silver, a swift hum through the air, and the redcap’s head slid from his shoulders, landing with a wet thud. The man held a gleaming broadsword, the blade dripping with dark liquid, a medieval weapon of deadly elegance wielded with effortless skill.
He barely fit in the narrow aisle, his broad shoulders and imposing frame a contrast to the cramped space that’d be comical under any other circumstances. Despite that immense size, his movements remained fluid and graceful, quick as a leaf on the wind as the sword vanished beneath a heavy, dark peacoat. He knelt in front of me. Deep-set eyes, a pale, piercing blue, searched mine with a gentleness that made my breath catch in my throat. He was a dark knight from a gothic fairy tale, a creature of shadow and steel, with pale skin and black hair that framed his face like a living shadow. His thick, dark brow furrowed, a hint of concern in his otherwise stoic expression.
“You’re safe now,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. Slowly, so as not to startle me, he placed a calloused hand over mine. Every action was controlled and careful, with a quiet intensity.
It’s you.
My lip quivered as hot tears welled up. Aches bloomed along my back. The scratches on my arms stung. My throat throbbed with every breath. The relief of rescue opened the floodgates of panic and pain, a swell of emotion that drowned out my last rational thoughts. My hand clamped around his sleeve.
Too many questions tumbled in my head, but, ridiculously, the chaos of my mind prioritized one single concern: “W-who are you?”
“Corvus,” he said.
The name was familiar, whispered in a thousand old dreams, dragging buried sensations from the deepest depths of my subconscious. Mayflower blooms. The low, evening-shadowed slope of a green hill by the quiet river. The delicate, cool weight of a silver chain on my collarbone.
A sudden, crushing heaviness pounded my temples, the pressure of an impenetrable wall blocking any chance of chasing lost memories.
“With your permission, may I take you somewhere safe?” Corvus asked, his request a gentle command.
This knight in shining armour—well, a peacoat—had saved me. That would’ve been enough reason to accept his help. But I also felt an unshakable instinct that he’d protect me at any cost. My voice locked behind a swell in my throat, so I nodded and gripped his sleeve tighter.
Corvus scooped me up like I weighed nothing, his strength a comforting shield. My forehead slumped against his broad shoulder, the scent of stone, leather, and clove filling my senses. A breathy, weeping release of pent-up fear overwhelmed me. Somehow, I cried myself to sleep, trusting him to keep me safe.
A brief, disoriented fracturing of sleep pulled the world back into view—or maybe exhaustion had morphed dreams and reality into a liminal haze. My vision was bleary and unfocused. My rescuers’ steady, protective pressure remained close, even as my weight shifted from his side to the soft curve of a mattress. The familiar soft cover of my duvet and the clean scent of my laundry detergent welcomed me.
But through the distorted veil of fatigue, a shimmering light brightened my bedroom. The golden-haired Adonis from the coffee shop materialized, taking my hand. His presence was a solar contrast to Corvus’s velvety shadows. This was the weirdest dream.
“What happened?” my coffee-shop crush asked, his tone frantic and threatening. Amber eyes burned like hot coals even in the dull light of my bedroom.
“Back off, Kay,” Corvus said, a deep, grumbling warning of violence directed at the golden intrusion.
Kay. The name floated through the heavy fog of my mind, tingling warmth under my skin. Kay and Corvus. Even in a hallucination, the pairing felt right.
“What happened to her?” Kay demanded, his voice sharp with urgency, cutting through the hazy air as his grip tightened.
My surroundings slowly registered through a dull, dreamlike filter. It was the familiar layout of my apartment bedroom, yet altered, warped by a thin, unnatural veil that made the ceiling stretch and the walls bleed into shadow. My heavy eyelids slipped shut against the strain.
“Redcap,” Corvus answered, low with suppressed rage.
“Damn that rotting witch,” Kay hissed. His grip turned desperate, a string of archaic, unrecognizable syllables slipping from his lips—words that sounded beautiful and dangerous, like poetry woven from thorns and fire. “Let me have her.”
The possessive note in his voice was unsettlingly sharp, even for a dream, so I squinted my concern through bleary, narrow slits.
Corvus held me firm, his arm a steel band around my waist, unyielding. His icy eyes, sharp as winter moonlight, looked at Kay’s hand as if it were encroaching weed. They were playing tug-of-war with my hands. Too heavy to move, too tired to care who won the territorial battle, I closed my eyes again.
“Come now, Corvus, we both know healing is my court’s specialty,” Kay said with spiteful amusement. “We can fight after I’ve healed her bruises.”
My knight reluctantly loosened his grip, a grudging concession. Corvus kept a hand on my shoulder, tense and coiled like a wolf ready to lunge, but he leaned back, weight shifting off my mattress. The movement was enough to switch my focus to the ache in my back.
A scorching, almost painful heat flashed against my shoulder, my eyes involuntarily opening from the shock. Then the heat gentled, and I traced the sensation to Kay’s ungloved hand brushing along my arm. The heat gentled, dropping to a soothing, comfortable warmth. The dull throb from the redcap’s clawed grip dulled, then vanished entirely. The sting of the scratches faded, replaced by a humming heat beneath my skin. The bruised soreness dissolved, leaving behind an intoxicating euphoria that I leaned into, hunting the feeling.
The warmth made my mind feel too awake, too alert to stay dreaming. Bleary eyes fluttered, trying to focus on the two faces in the dark and make sense of what I was imagining.
“Rest for now,” Corvus murmured.
A cool, solid palm descended over my eyes, a careful touch that plunged me back into absolute darkness. The intense heat under my skin cooled, the artificial euphoria replaced with the inescapable pull of exhaustion. Sleep claimed the last of my thoughts, anchored by a distinct, contrasting sensation: radiating warmth holding my left hand, and an unyielding cool touch cradling the right.