A day had passed since my near-death train encounter—real or imagined. Taking the train home had been an exercise in wrangling paranoia. But nothing happened. For a whole 24 hours, I kept the incident to myself. Just in case a day of wakefulness would grant me the sanity to pick the pieces of genuine memory from mad illusion. It did not. Which meant I had to call in the only other mind I trusted.
The glow of my phone screen pulled my attention from the project brief I’d been deciphering. A message from Heather, my designated reality-checker, flashed across the display: Do you have time for a call?
Calls were for seriousness. And honestly, I couldn’t blame her. The text sent that morning had been a digital cry for help. The disjointed summary of my horrific train encounter probably read like a descent into madness.
I needed to talk to someone, to hear a rational voice, to confirm that I wasn’t, in fact, hallucinating my way through life.
I sent a quick ‘Yes. Now?’ and waited, my fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on my desk. A minute later, Heather’s name lit up my screen, and I picked up, bracing myself for the inevitable intervention.
“Hey, Heather,” I said, my voice a nervous tremor, the kind you get before a rollercoaster drop or when you realize you’d accidentally replied-all.
“Hey back. So let’s hear it,” Heather said. Her stern tone suggested she’d prepared for the worst.
Heather listened with her usual patience as the whole impossible story spilled out—the train car, the glitched darkness, the redcap attacker that a Google search confirmed was a blood-soaked, traveller-murdering goblin. Then the dark knight in the peacoat who’d materialized from the shadows with a broadsword. Nothing made sense. Especially waking up safely tucked into my own bed with zero memory of how I got there—just blurry dream scenes of competing voices and a few surprisingly awesome, unconsciously drawn portraits of my redcap slayer and the coffee-shop Adonis.
“You have no idea what parts were a dream and which were real?” she asked, her tone laced with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“It all felt real.” Embarrassment and anxiety burned under my skin, a heat I tried to fan out with a file folder. “And that’s not what’s weird—it’s like I’d seen it before,” I explained, speaking too urgently—like saying it out loud would help me outrun the panic bubbling to the surface. “But not dreamt it—like seen it, seen it. Does that make any sense?” It felt like my whole life had been a dream I hadn’t woken up from until last night—a glitch in the matrix. But that had to be impossible, a paranoid delusion fuelled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“Danielle,” she said my name with so much seriousness that all emotion evacuated my body, leaving me feeling like a wild toddler getting a lecture from an exasperated babysitter.
“Maybe I should stay over a few nights when I get back?” she suggested. She wasn’t bluffing; I knew she’d head straight from the airport to my doorstep, armed with emergency snacks. “Or you could use your parents’ spare room for the weekend? Just until things… I don’t know, get normal, your kinda normal,” she finished lamely, her voice trailing off.
“Heather, I’ll be fine,” I reassured her, trying to fake an air of calm I definitely didn’t feel. “And I’m taking it seriously. I’ve booked a doctor’s appointment just to check in,” I lied, the words sliding out too smoothly, yet my palms were sweating. I never lied to Heather—but my sleep-art episodes always got worse after the doctor, like they were offended by the medical scrutiny. “See if my memory blip means anything or if I’ve just entered my Professor Trelawney era early. I’ve got double locks on everything. And I’ll cut back on coffee,” I added, a desperate, last-ditch attempt to appease her concerns, like offering a treat to a wary guard dog.
“How?” she asked skeptically, a laugh bubbling in her throat, a hint of amused disbelief finally breaking through her worry. “You’ve already cut back. It’s already weird seeing you without your usual buzz. Plus, I’m pretty sure your blood type is caffeine positive.”
“Tea only,” I said, a solemn vow. “Scout’s honour,” I added, hoping to lift a little heaviness from the tense conversation.
Her exhale was a sound of amused disbelief. “Yeah, maybe if you’d ever been a scout, that might mean something. Just swear on your Next Generation signed script, and I’ll believe you,” she commanded, a playful challenge in her voice.
I released a dramatic gasp, a theatrical display of mock outrage. The signed script she’d gotten me for my 21st birthday—a screenplay with pre-printed autographs of various Star Trek: The Next Generation cast members, including Picard—was one of the few truly geeky things I treasured. It had long been an inside joke that only important things were sworn on the signed script. I wasn’t a die-hard Trekkie—but I was very close to being a die-hard Patrick Stewart fan—so Heather knew I had to take it seriously. It was a binding contract.
“Alright, you invoked the signed script,” I said, channelling my inner Shakespearean actor and putting on my very best terrible British accent, a valiant attempt to imitate Picard’s commanding presence. “The oath is unbreakable. I swear no coffee—only tea—until my freaky dreams go back to the regular kind of freaky dreams.”
“And you have to go at least one week without sleep-drawing,” she commanded, also in a terrible British accent. Although hers wasn’t deliberately bad, it was just naturally bad.
Feigning exasperation, I sighed, a dramatic display of reluctant compliance. It was completely normal to go a week or two without a noticeable episode, so it was a fair deal. “Agreed. The pact is sealed,” I said, my voice deep with mock solemnity.
She laughed at our ridiculousness, her amusement echoing through the phone—a welcome reprieve from the tension—like a ray of sunshine breaking through a storm cloud. I could practically hear her eyes rolling through the phone, an acknowledgement of our shared absurdity.
“Don’t work late,” she ordered. Her concern was both touching and slightly smothering. “And text me when you’re home. I’ll feel better.”
“Okay,” I agreed. Thursday was sometimes a day of last-minute crises, but after yesterday’s overtime, I was expecting an early day. “What time are you back?”
“Late,” she answered, wearily resigned. She travelled a lot for work—unfortunately, few were peak vacation destinations, more like the forgotten corners of the earth where speedy Wi-Fi was a myth. “About nine PM-ish. Closer to ten-ish.”
“Text me when you’re back so I know you’re safe,” I said.
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m the risky one,” she said with a breathy laugh, forgetting she was the one who regularly ate questionable street food in foreign countries. “Arjan promised to bring his curly fries,” she added, her tone matching a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. She was a fry connoisseur at this point. At some point in the last year, her fiancé had made deep-fried bliss a part of her airport pickup ritual.
“Alright. I’ll let you go,” I said, trying to suppress a chuckle at Heather’s fry-fuelled enthusiasm.
“Same to you—go get your shit done and clock out early,” she cheered, a battle cry for productivity. “Bye.”
As I hung up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that ‘getting my shit done’ might not be so simple. I thought of the redcap sketch I’d made—a freaky unconscious premonition. Maybe, just maybe, I was going to need my own comforting batch of crispy potatoes. Or maybe a knight in peacoat armour to fight my nightmares… But I was willing to settle for the fries.
***
Keeping the weekend uneventful required a deliberate, nagging effort. I stayed in on Saturday, hit the gym, avoided my sketchbook, and on Sunday, survived the mandatory family lunch. Naturally, the details of the train remained absent from the conversation.
We had stopped talking about my dreams years ago, sealed in a transparent glass bottle that collected dust between us every time I submitted to another family event. The fragility of my sanity was clear enough if they chose to look. But everyone knew the rules of the game. It was simply easier to put on our monthly play of normalcy, casting my sister as the accomplished, shining star while I was 2D decor, blending into the background.
Monday evening, my creative itch was too much to ignore. The sketchbook I’d dutifully trapped in my desk was freed for sketching my blue-eyed peacoat knight, Corvus, attempting to capture the haunting intensity of his gaze. Now I had two dreamy guys in my sketchbook—one real, a charming enigma I’d botched a meet-cute with, the other probably a figment of my overactive imagination. To make light of my escalating madness, to giggle in the face of the growing dread, I decided to make my dark knight even more knightly—giving him a full suit of armour, a gleaming metal shell to match his sword. I thought it would make me laugh, a cathartic release of tension. It didn’t. It just made my stomach flitter with butterflies.
Star Trek reruns played on a loop, a nostalgic, formulaic distraction I trusted. Counsellor Troi diagnosed the Enterprise crew’s not-so-inner turmoil while I absentmindedly shaded the familiar amber and sapphire eyes of my dreams. It was supposed to be relaxing. But when the television screen asked if I was still watching and the ache in my hunched spine finally forced me out of the haze, the digital clock on the microwave read 2:14 AM.
My stomach rolled when I looked at my sketches. Smeared graphite, rumpled pages half-torn, deep lines from aggressive pencil strokes. Instead of pages of handsome bachelors, my drawings had summoned a pair of sunken, ancient eyes. The haunting stare, framed by a weave of branched tendrils and deeply carved wrinkles, manifested a malice that didn’t belong to my imagination. The unintentional repetition was unsettling. Those eyes knew me. Those hollow eyes were not happy to see me.
My promise to Heather fully fell apart by Tuesday night. The recurring dream returned, unfolding the usual nightmarish tableau: the split paths, the glittering gold vines, the sturdy obsidian stones, the impossible choice. But it ended differently.
Before an invisible force could yank me back into waking reality, the ground beneath my bare feet liquefied. A bubbling pit of pitch-black, viscous tar swallowed my ankles, a sticky, suffocating substance that clung to me like a second skin. I tried to wriggle out, but every move caused a sinking suction, the tar dragging me down into the putrid sludge with a relentless, agonizing slowness.
The tar pit was a graveyard. Human ribcages and hollow-eyed skulls surfaced, drifting in the black pool among the decayed remains of relics. The macabre trophies half-swallowed by the sludge sparked uncomfortable recognition, a forgotten grief tightening my chest. A cracked mask carved with detailed foliage, the brittle pattern of oak leaves turning to ash in the sludge. A tarnished silver locket on a rotted leather cord, its clasp rusted shut. A string of pearls circled an enamelled gold locket, housing a portrait miniature with features worn indiscernible by decay. The glints of familiar things I couldn’t name slowly sank into the pit around me. I didn’t have time to remember.
The pit swallowed my time, sinking faster and faster, deeper into the suffocating embrace. Desperate, I lunged toward the ledge, reaching for golden vines hanging like a lifeline from above. The moment my fingers brushed the leaves, dipping the gold in sludge, the vines withered, snapping under my weight. I groped the polished stones lining the pit, but the earth dissolved into slick, damp mud, the rocky barrier sliding off and my grip along with it.
The tar rose to my chin. The stench of decay filled my nostrils, the stagnant, bitter damp coating my tongue. I kept my arms raised, still desperate for something to grasp. A hand waiting to save me.
Every movement was slowed by sticky resistance, and my lungs burned with the effort. Dipped to my eyes, kicking and clawing with my arms to try to keep my nose out, to gasp for air, but nothing helped.
Through the blurred, weeping slits of my eyes, two figures appeared from the distant edges of the paths. They ran in agonizing slow motion, their faces contorted in matching panic. But the pool devoured with unyielding hunger.
Their outstretched hands reached mine—one a radiating, solar warmth, the other a steady, protective chill—but the black grease closed over my head. Overwhelmed by the dark, tar burned my lungs as I drowned, suffocating as the pit consumed me whole.
I gasped awake. Choking, the air sharp as glass, limbs thrashing against the terrifying illusion of drowning. The clatter of the pencil container that my flailing knocked to the floor. Charcoal-smudged dust caked my throbbing fingers. My heart pounded like a war drum, and my skin was clammy with sweat.
I wasn’t in bed.
The room was shadowed, except for the strip of dawn bleeding through a split in my curtains. Slowly, my eyes adjusted, recognizing my desk, the creak of my pleather chair, and the laptop I’d shoved precariously to the edge to make room for my sketchbook.
The nightmare art depicted an old woman—thin, with loose skin hanging from her bones, as if she were wearing clothes too big for her. Something about her face was familiar. Unnervingly familiar, like a word waiting on the tip of my tongue, only to be lost before I could say it. Her deep, hollow eyes stared out from the page—like the creature herself could spy into the real world, watching me sketch her, reminding me that I was not alone.
I quickly ripped out the page, the paper tearing with a sharp, brittle sound, and banished it to the same desk drawer that jailed my redcap sketch. Looking at it a second longer, I might’ve lost my breakfast—before I’d even had any. I felt ill at ease in my own apartment, tormented in my own sanctuary. I needed an escape.
I had planned to work from home that Wednesday, but that was impossible with the walls closing in and the banished drawer sketches taunting me. But I was also too frazzled for office socializing, my colleagues’ forced cheerfulness too grating. The Daily Grind could be neutral territory, a space where I could blend into the background and be soothed by the aroma of coffee. Maybe shaking up my routine would do me good.
***
The Daily Grind had a lighter crowd on Wednesdays, and, like a miracle balm for my wrecked psyche, my favourite window booth was open. It was the little victories that shrank nightmares.
The space was a crowded sanctuary of mismatched furniture—traditional booth seats lined one wall, facing a motley crew of bistro, wingback, and wishbone chairs. In the far corner sat the coveted pair of club chairs, their scratched leather and sunken cushions worn soft from countless hours of deep thoughts and spilled lattes. The overstuffed wall gallery of local art featured a rare open spot, a stark blank rectangle in the charming clutter. My chest twinged. Once had been enough. Other artists could torture themselves by hanging their souls up for public critique. Not me. Not again.
Bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun, I sank into the booth. The worn leather was a comforting embrace. Without an ounce of guilt, I gathered three mismatched cushions, building a cozy fortress against the lingering dread—sharing was only a virtue on days when I hadn’t almost drowned in dream-tar.
The air outside was crisp, but mercifully nothing like the bitter, unnatural freeze from the night of the train. It was the perfect blend of late summer. Inside, the air smelled exactly as it should: roasted espresso beans, burnt sugar, and the predictable warmth of sweet spices. I ordered a dirty chai latte—sorry, Heather, but the standard caffeine allowance wasn’t going to cut it today—and slid back into my fort, determined to ignore the dull ache in my temples.
There was nothing avant-garde on today’s to-do list—another small victory. It was all routine, mundane vector adjustments. The ordinary rhythm of mouse clicks and stylus strokes offered a mental reprieve. If I focused hard enough on the pixels, the monotony might bury the memory of the bone-strewn pit and the malicious eyes I’d drawn. I was an expert at this. You don’t survive a childhood of clinical evaluations without learning how to pack the impossible into a dark corner of your brain and put on a bright face. Last night was a blip. An overactive imagination reacting to the stress of an overloaded work pile. It was meaningless.
By midday, the rising and falling buzz of conversation had successfully muted the static anxiety in my head. Rewarding myself for a few hours of successful denial, I grabbed a second chai—minus the espresso shot this time—and heavy-handedly dusted the froth with cinnamon. The spicy, sweet aroma felt like a shield between me and my nightmares. I could almost fool myself into believing the lie.
But nothing lasts forever.
One of the minimalist logos I was finessing required a simple, geometric eye. It was just clean lines. Digital ink. But as I stared at the screen, the pixels blurred, and my mind’s eye substituted the hollow, rotting sockets of the crone from my sketches. My breath caught. The throb in my overworked fingers returned.
“Pardon me for interrupting mid-creation.”
The familiar voice instantly shattered the creeping panic.
The grey fog of my thoughts brightened into high-definition colour. Standing an arm’s length away was the blonde Grecian statue from the coffee shop collision—the man who had just cameoed in my dream—smiling at me. Up close, he was more imposing than my grey-scaled renderings—a sculpted, golden-toned model who looked entirely too bright for the dim corners of a local café. He stood a full head taller than me, his amber eyes meeting mine with a warm, brilliant intensity that made me entirely forget about the monsters in the dark.
“I hope you remember me,” he continued, his eyes sparkling with playful mischief, “I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly when we met. Do you mind if I sit? Or am I intruding on your artistic genius?”
A little Heather appeared on my shoulder and whispered, Be bold! Flirt back! Unfortunately, my inner introvert immediately tackled her, stole my voice, and locked it in a panic room. All I could do was nod once, a stiff, uncertain gesture, and snap my laptop shut. Absolute genius.
He sat, adorning the wingback across from me, transforming it from a yard-sale reject to a period-piece drama. He made everything brighter—like someone had cranked up the saturation on the entire room. Even the sun beaming through the window followed him.
“Are you working on a new masterpiece?” he asked, his eyes lingering on my closed laptop.
The design I’d just hidden away was a promo banner for a local chiropractor, hardly a work of high art. His guess that it could be a masterpiece was confusingly comical.
“You’re an artist, yes?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, like he knew something I didn’t.
My voice stayed locked in the panic room. Had he watched me work? No. Why would anyone look at promo banners, logos, and website layouts and think, well, surely that’s an artist at work? Unless he was a secret admirer of mediocre graphic design?
“Your painting of the two paths,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive murmur, “I loved it from the moment I laid eyes on it.”
My cheeks warmed, a blush creeping up my neck. My Adonis was describing my one-and-only submission that had hung from The Daily Grind’s walls a month ago—my visual representation of the recurring dream paths: left with golden vines and right with polished stones.
“You saw my painting?” I asked.
“I acquired your painting,” he corrected, his lips curving into a charming smile. “If that’s alright, of course.”
“Of course! I mean, thank you,” I stammered, my heart doing a weird little dance. My coffee shop crush was also a fan? Maybe my luck was finally turning around, or maybe I was hallucinating from my weekend of caffeine withdrawal. Maybe I’d need a second shot of espresso after all. “I always felt a little silly seeing it up there. I was really touched when someone—when you—bought it.”
“Your first sale?” he asked. Despite his casual tone, there was a strange satisfaction in the curve of his lips, like he’d won some grand prize.
“Yeah,” I admitted, tucking a stray strand of apricot-blonde behind my ear, a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break.
“First of many,” he promised. His enthusiasm seemed genuine. That made my heart flutter.
“I don’t know about that—I mostly paint for myself… and I guess friends and family,” I said, trying to downplay my artistic aspirations, a classic move for a reserved introvert. My gaze dipped to the dissolving foam in my mug. “It’s a hobby, really.”
“But your profession does call for an artist’s eye?” he asked.
“I’m a graphic designer,” I explained, hands clasped around my mug as I tapped the porcelain nervously. “I make a lot of digital art for companies—for marketing and stuff. You know, the kind of stuff that ends up as those pop-up ads you desperately try to close. A lot of deleted emails and trash-bin flyers were designed by yours truly.”
“And you like the work you do?” he asked, his voice laced with playful skepticism.
“I like parts of it,” I said sheepishly, avoiding his gaze. It paid the bills and used my degree, which was a win in my book. But creating my own art at home, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, was what actually touched my soul. A cliché, sure—the ungrateful cog in the corporate machine—but that was me.
“What do you do?” I asked to shift the spotlight’s uncomfortable glare.
He smirked, a long, quiet moment passing between us. A passing car momentarily blocked the window’s sunlight, casting a sudden shadow across his face.
For that fractioned second, the illusion of him fractured. The warm, golden symmetry of his face seemed to sharpen, his eyes glowing an impossible molten gold, and heat that rivalled the hottest summer’s day beamed from him. Sweat beaded my skin.
Then the shadow passed. The sunlight flooded back into the booth, and he was just an attractive guy in a local café again. Breathtakingly hot, sure, but human. I blinked hard, my heart doing a strange, irregular skip. Great. Now I’m hallucinating.
“I manage a family business,” he said, his voice dripping with playful mystery, as if he were sharing an inside joke.
I stiffened slightly, a tiny prickle of suspicion creeping up the back of my neck. He was being vague—frustratingly so—but the distinct impression of wealth rolled off him. Old money. He was impeccably dressed, an ochre short-sleeved polo neatly tucked into classic high-rise pleated trousers. The tailored, vintage look was a luxury trademark, making the heavy black leather gloves he still hadn’t removed feel less like a fashion statement and more like a deliberate boundary. A precaution.
He was definitely out of my league—way out. And in a very different tax bracket.
“My name is Kay,” he said, extending his gloved hand across the table.
My throat tightened. Sudden dryness made it hard to swallow. Strange that his name really was Kay. A perfect echo of my dream.
Panic flared for a microsecond before my rational brain scrambled for an escape hatch. Calm down. You just saw it written on his coffee cup during the collision the other day. Subconscious memory. Déjà vu. That’s all it is.
“Oh—sorry, I’m Dani,” I stammered, awkwardly sliding my bare palm against his gloved one.
A static heat snapped between us, blooming up my arm like I’d stepped into a sunbeam. Kay’s eyes dropped to our joined hands, narrowing with a quiet, intense curiosity. How do I know you?
I wasn’t sure if I was the one awkwardly refusing to let go, or if his gloved fingers had tightened just enough to keep my hand trapped in his. In case it really was me—clinging to a gorgeous stranger like a desperate barnacle—I forced a breathless laugh to cover the awkwardness and pulled back. I tucked my hands into my lap, squeezing my cold fingers into my warm palm.
If he was put off by my sudden retreat, he didn’t show it. He smoothly claimed the space, resting his relaxed, gloved hand over the table’s sticky, ringed varnish. Kay remained charmingly unflustered. Maybe the moment had just felt long to me—an eternity in the space of a heartbeat.
“So, is this also your favourite coffee shop?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral territory. Maybe he felt familiar because he was a fellow frequent patron.
“It’s one of,” he said. He turned his head, taking in the cozy, claustrophobic clutter. Behind the counter, the espresso machine hissed violently, shrouding the barista in a cloud of white steam. “I’ve grown much more fond of it lately.”
“It’s always better around holidays,” I prattled, gesturing around the cafe. “The downtown decorations don’t peak until November, but The Daily Grind always delivers. Any excuse for themed lattes. Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, April Fool’s, Halloween. You’ll see it next week.”
“Samhain,” Kay said.
The word was oddly archaic, but it sounded regal when he said it. Like he was bestowing a title on the holiday instead of just naming it. Right as the syllables left his lips, the café’s heavy front door swung open. A sudden, humid gust of September wind swept through the room, sending stray napkins dancing and a reader’s pages fluttering in the draft.
“Yeah. Exactly. And they have special drinks and treats all the time,” I continued, fully aware I was nervously babbling to distract myself from whatever uncanny thing my mind wanted me to notice. “I’m really into seasonal stuff. Holidays. You know, the whole… festive thing.” God, was that too much info? Was I turning a meet-cute into a total meet-turn-off?
“So you must already have plans,” he suggested, his amber eyes sparkling.
I laughed—nervous, self-deprecating—at the ridiculous suggestion that I would have elaborate holiday plans. But a tiny, embarrassing flicker of hope ignited in my chest anyway. Even the assumption that I had plans meant I looked like someone who had a life—someone desirable, who did things outside of work and streaming shows under a blanket.
“Not yet,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Flirting was definitely not my forte, but I really, really hoped my tone teased just enough to pique Kay’s interest.
He laughed lightly, a low, rich sound that made my heart throb a few quickened beats. He leaned forward across the sticky wood.
“I’ll remember to ask again,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet promise that locked my eyes to his.
Why not ask me now? I wanted to blurt the thought out. But my tongue refused to cooperate. Instead, I shyly gazed downward, a blush creeping up my neck as I nervously traced a finger along the rough, unglazed handle of my mug. The lukewarm, spice-dusted dregs of my chai rippled slightly from the vibration of my touch.
“So, have you acquired any other local artists?” I asked, desperate to break the magnetic pull of his stare. “I mean, anything else you’ve liked in here?”
His gaze slowly drifted to the walls, taking in the chaotic patchwork of canvases—a dizzying array of styles, from flat acrylic landscapes to deeply layered oil studies of fruit. A few repeat names sat in polished frames near the register, but most were like mine: single, hopeful attempts to prove our art had value.
“I don’t think anyone else’s work speaks to me,” he said, his eyes sliding back to me, heavy and deliberate. “I’d like to see more of you.”
A wave of heat made my cheeks burn. I had definitely misheard him or read too much into his casual comment. “See more of my work?” I clarified.
His smile widened, eyes bright with mischief. “Sure,” he said, the teasing in his tone muddling my thoughts.
I decided to take a sip to buy myself time to think. I lifted the mug to my lips, mentally trying to cheerlead myself into shooting my shot. He’d given me an opening. Kay wanted to see more of… my art.
Instead of the sweet-spicy flavour of chai, something slimy slid into my mouth, a bitter mass that sent a jolt of revulsion through me. Ungracefully, I spat the thing back into my mug, my stomach churning. It was dark and viscous, a putrid clump that looked like the tar pit from my nightmare.
The mug dropped with a clatter hard enough to earn a few stares. The black tar moved, writhing in the dregs of my chai. A slug-like thing trailed an oozing, black slime that stained the porcelain. It lifted its blob head, trying to crawl up the side of the mug. My stomach lurched—a full 360 that made me double over. Bile burned in my throat.
Kay grabbed my mug, his movements swift and decisive, and scowled down at the slug. I was disgusted, but he was enraged—a consuming fury that made my blood run cold.
“I don’t want to know how long that was in there,” I choked, another wave of nausea washing over me. Something thick welled up in my throat, a slimy lump that made it hard to swallow. I grabbed a paper napkin and pressed it to my mouth. An oily clump rolled from the back of my throat to slide onto my tongue as I coughed and gagged. I spat a dark, slick mass onto the napkin. “Oh… I’m going to be sick,” I whispered.
I stood—too quickly—and stumbled, my legs weak and unsteady. My head spun, my vision swirling past me in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colours and shapes. Kay caught me, appearing by my side with a firm grip. I closed my eyes, desperate to regain my equilibrium. Waited until the rush of nausea settled. When I opened my eyes again, the world was back in focus.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, my voice weak and shaky, “I need to… go be sick.” I gestured to the washroom in the back.
“Of course,” Kay said. He didn’t let me go; his arm linked under mine, his warm hand resting on my back to support me. Like a storybook gentleman, he escorted me to the washroom. “I’ll deal with this,” he said, a flash of a scowl aimed at the mug. He released me when we reached the door, his eyes burning with a dark intensity.
My stomach churned. My head pounded. I twisted the cold metal knob. The smell of crisp lemon, musty mildew, and a hint of ammonia wafted from the open door, a nauseating cocktail that did not help my queasiness. I rushed inside, closed the door, and knelt in front of the toilet. The ammonia smell was stronger around the rim, but my senses dulled when I suddenly retched, the contents of my stomach heaving. More black ooze—a putrid substance that mirrored the slug’s trail. It made my skin crawl. My throat burned. Had I swallowed that slug’s grotesque twin? How many oozy parasites had invaded my chai? Had I lost all trust in my favourite coffee shop?
For a few minutes, I surrendered to the waves of nausea, semi-collapsed over the public toilet. Absolutely humiliating. The thought of the camera clicks and social media posts turning my vulnerability into a viral sensation worried me. How many people had noticed? I probably wouldn’t come back here again. Not without the memory of my new close relationship with the toilet.
And I wondered how Kay was dealing with the mug slug. I didn’t want anyone unleashing fury on minimum-wage baristas. But part of me really hoped he brought it up with an employee—politely—so I wouldn’t have to say anything. Confrontation was my kryptonite.
Eventually, enough strength returned to my legs—and enough time between stomach upheavals—that I was determined to exit the washroom. I flushed the toilet—again—and then stumbled over to the sink, my movements slow and unsteady. Water cupped in my palm, I gulped mouthfuls to rinse out the taste of slime and bile. I spat in the sink, but there was no trace of black ooze left.
Bloodshot eyes studied a ghostly pale reflection. My hair still looked okay. Not the miracle I was looking for, but it’d have to do.
I half expected Kay to be long gone, leaving me to face the embarrassing aftermath alone. To my surprise—and toe-tingling pleasure—he was right outside the door. I was so moved by his gentlemanly behaviour that I almost forgot to be embarrassed he’d heard me retching through the door. Almost.
“Sorry you had to witness that,” I said weakly. I was feeling better—but jittery and shaky, my nerves frayed.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured me. He helped me slowly return to the window booth, his hand a warm, reassuring presence on my back, only taking his hand off me when I reached across the seat for my workbag and laptop.
“I’m going to go home now,” I said awkwardly and uncertainly. The mug was missing from the table. However Kay had dealt with it, the slimy creature was gone.
“I can drive you,” he offered, his amber eyes meeting mine.
I slowly tucked my laptop into my bag, my movements deliberately slow. Was accepting a ride from a stranger a good idea right now? Even cute strangers were dangerous. But I also wasn’t looking forward to the train home. And walking wasn’t an option with shaky legs. I gently tugged at apricot-blonde strands to frame my face, hoping to hide a little more of my pallid complexion.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said bashfully, smiling in a weak attempt to look more confident than I felt.
“It’s no trouble,” he promised, “and it would be my pleasure to see you home safely.”
His words melted my heart. How could I refuse such a chivalrous offer? My empty stomach filled with butterflies. “Okay,” I surrendered, a sigh of relief escaping my lips. “Thank you.”
Kay’s protective touch returned, his warm hand guiding me towards the exit. Strangely, no one was looking at us. Or maybe I was too caught up in the moment to notice gawkers. He opened the door, his movements fluid and elegant, and he kept a constant supportive pressure on my back. I thought about just letting myself swoon, but then I remembered my remaining sliver of dignity and decided it might be best to maintain some semblance of composure.
Parked on the side street adjacent to The Daily Grind was a sleek, black Bugatti, a gleaming beast of automotive ego. I knew nothing about cars—my knowledge extended to identifying the difference between ‘van,’ ‘truck,’ and ‘SUV.’ Still, I knew I was looking at money on wheels. Damn, he had that kind of family money. No wonder he walked like a king—he was probably a trust fund baby.
“You know, I’m still feeling a little… nauseous,” I warned him nervously. “Maybe getting in that isn’t…”
“I’ll go slow,” he promised, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
I didn’t have the courage to tell him it wasn’t the speed that concerned me—it was about what my stomach might do to an expensive interior. It’d take me a lifetime to pay off that kind of cleaning bill, a debt that would haunt my dreams—maybe more than redcaps and crones. I said a silent prayer to whatever powers that be were listening that my stomach would be calm.
Kay escorted me to the right side door and gently helped me ease into the laid-back seat, a luxurious cocoon of comfort. Before I could fumble around for the seatbelt, a clumsy attempt to avoid eye contact, he was already sliding it over me and clicking it into the lock. Inside was just as sleek and modern as the outside, with matte-finished leather everywhere and that heady new-car smell. The steering wheel had a silver symbol at its heart, a declaration of its pedigree.
Kay slid into the driver’s seat with the confidence of a cat claiming a perch. He examined me, his eyes scanning my face with concern, looking more worried about my safety than the presence of a pauper in his million-dollar ride. With a tap on the buckle and my washed-out smile, I reassured him that I was ready to go—an awkward gesture that made him chuckle, a low, resonant laugh that sent a shiver down my spine. The engine revved with a smooth purr, a powerful beast ready to lunge.
I gave him directions to my mid-rise—in a very non-Bugatti neighbourhood—and then we were off, gliding through the city streets like an opulent phantom. It was my first time riding in something fit to enter the Daytona 500, a surreal experience that made me feel like I’d stepped into a music video. But, as he promised, Kay did go slow. It was a thoughtful display of restraint. The car’s potential was wasted on downtown speeds—like watching a thoroughbred being led around a petting zoo. But I was relieved Kay didn’t test the car’s (or my stomach’s) limits. I had never, in my life, felt the need for speed.
Kay checked on me a few times, glancing over—like he half-expected my seatbelt to fly loose. Like I’d tuck and roll at every stoplight, dramatically exiting his luxury vehicle. He asked if it was easy for me to get out of work for the day, his tone gentle, inviting me to confide in him. While the answer was technically yes—a slug chai was a very good excuse for a sudden sick day—I had every intention of finishing my workday once I got home. So, I vaguely told him I’d be fine, a non-answer that didn’t really address his chief concern.
“What happened to the slug?” I asked, hoping to prevent any awkward silences.
“I burned it,” he said nonchalantly, his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “It’s the only way to keep it from following you,” he added.
I laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. But his expression didn’t change. He wasn’t joking.
“You what? With what?” I shook myself, trying to dispel the unsettling feeling that crept over me. “Never mind, I don’t want to know,” I said quickly, cutting him off before he could elaborate. The thought of sharing a ride with a potential pyromaniac made my palms sweat. “Um, did you tell one of the employees about the slug?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to a semblance of normalcy.
“They wouldn’t be able to see it,” he explained, his tone light—amused by the secret he was sharing.
“They wouldn’t see it… after you burned it…?” I guessed, my intuition screaming that it wasn’t that simple.
“Most humans can’t see magic,” he explained, his voice low, aware it was a dangerous confession. He casually brushed back his wavy golden locks with one hand on the wheel. His eyes darted back to my face, watching my reaction as much as the traffic.
Oh no. I’d gotten into a car with a crazy rich guy.
“Right,” I said as casually as I could muster. But I was stunned. And I was suddenly battling a headache—a piercing, cold spike of pain behind my eyes. Fingers slowly rubbed under my eyebrow to soothe the sharp pain without drawing too much attention.
I looked out the window, trying to gauge our location and assess my escape options. Was it too late to tuck and roll? We were still driving in the right direction, no strange detours, no sudden turns into dark alleys. He was probably taking me straight home. Probably.
I stealthily slid out my phone and texted Heather: I’m in the coffee guy’s car. We met at DG. I started vomiting because of a slug. Now he’s driving me home. He might be crazy. My digital SOS was just in case my charming chauffeur drove further into crazy town.
“Magic slug,” I mouthed, just to test if maybe it sounded less insane if I said it. It did not. It sounded exactly as insane as it was.
“It sounds impossible,” he admitted, his eyes locking with mine, a hint of sadness in his voice. He was still watching me like I might disappear if he looked away too long, a hint of uncertainty and worry in his gaze.
I nodded, my voice trapped in my throat. No sound could come out. If I opened my mouth, I’d either laugh hysterically or demand to be let out. I wasn’t ready to face the consequences of either.
“I was hoping…” He trailed off and sighed heavily, deeply. His amber eyes tightened, concealing a flicker of pain in their molten depths. He suddenly appeared unbearably sad.
My heart ached with a sympathy that defied all logic. Despite all rational thinking urging me to run away, to leap from the moving vehicle and sprint to the nearest police station, I couldn’t resist the urge to touch him, to offer a moment of comfort. I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He glanced at me almost nervously as if he suddenly recalled where he was—waking from a memory. His fingers untangled from his hair, and he took my hand from his shoulder. He pressed his lips to my knuckles, a gentle, almost reverent gesture that made my breath catch in my throat.
“I am sorry if I worried you,” he said softly, sending a swell of heat through me. “Everything will be right soon.”
Kay held my hand for the short remainder of our trip. He did bring me straight home. He’d won me back—in part—with his natural charm and disarming smile. But I wasn’t ready for him to know which apartment was mine. No way was he walking me to my door.
Living in denial was the only sane option. I was absolutely unwilling to dive into the type of delusion that thought magic was real. Sure, I’d always wished magic was real—but what nerd hadn’t secretly wondered why their magical school acceptance letter was lost in the mail? But that was a fantasy, a comforting lie. In reality, redcaps didn’t board trains, and slugs in mugs were nothing more than a mundane food safety hazard.
Kay pulled up to the front of my building, smoothly gliding to a halt. He let me out with no fuss, no dramatic farewell. He promised nothing like the slug incident would ever happen to me again, his confidence intimidatingly certain. I wasn’t sure how he could make that kind of all-encompassing promise, so I just said, “Okay. Bye.” I turned away, hastily retreating to my building’s entryway.
It was smart that I’d never given Kay my number. It was ridiculous to be so disappointed he’d never offered his.
My phone buzzed when I reached the elevator—inside the first safety net of interior doors. The vibration in my hand felt like a defibrillator, jolting me back to reality. The screen was a bright, frantic cascade of texts from Heather:
Is this a 911 situation? Send any emoji if you need help.
Dani?
Send an emoji.
Or text me U R ok.
What street are U at?
A wave of relief washed over me. The strangeness of the afternoon had ended, and I was so grateful for her frantic protectiveness. Home now, I typed back. Still not sure if he’s crazy, but he’s gone.
Less than a second after I responded, she called. I picked up, laughing—a nervous, brittle sound that echoed too loudly in the empty elevator’s steel walls.
“Oh, so now it’s funny?” Heather asked, her voice high and dripping with sarcasm. “Giving me a heart attack?”
“It might be shock,” I admitted, leaning against the handrail as the elevator lurched upward. Nervous energy tingled under my skin. At least the headache was gone. “I’ve had the weirdest day.”
“But you’re okay?”
“Mostly,” I said quietly.
The doors slid open to my floor, and I dragged myself down the hallway, my limbs growing heavy with exhaustion. Heather lectured me about the insanity of getting in a car with a guy I just met, her voice a soothing drone in the background, while I unlocked my apartment door, stepped inside, and went through my re-locking routine.
My apartment windows didn’t face the front entrance, so I couldn’t check if Kay’s sleek black car idled by the curb. I wasn’t even sure which outcome I was hoping for. Not lingering was the sensible answer. But the reckless part of my brain wanted him to linger. He made me feel like a little crazy might be… fun.
“So, explain the slug again?” Heather asked, her tirade finally deflating into a sigh of defeat.
I outlined the ordeal from start to finish—from Kay confessing his painting purchase to dropping me at my building. I tried to stay as real as possible, but I couldn’t help exaggerating his strange allure. Even after his unsettling talk about magic humans couldn’t see, I weirdly wanted Heather to like him. I wanted her to give me permission to see him as a prospective romantic lead instead of a potential serial killer. It was a dangerous desire that made me question my own judgment.
“So if you see him again,” Heather said, her tone dropping into a flat, non-negotiable command, “you’re going to say, ‘Have a nice life,’ and walk away. Right, Dani?”
A rebellious urge quickened my pulse. “Maybe I misheard him,” I said.
“Dani,” Heather said in a thin, strained whisper. “You don’t… believe that guy, right?”
My key ring clattered on the kitchen counter. I should have laughed. A sane, functional adult would’ve scoffed and said ‘of course not.’ But Heather was the one person in the world I could be myself with. Crazy as it was, saying a simple no would’ve been a lie.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” I quoted softly. “Arthur C. Clarke.”
“You’re such a nerd,” she whispered.
There was an unfamiliar, heavy sadness in her voice—a sour, melancholic edge that made my brow furrow. Heather was bold, affectionately bossy. Never this fragile.
“This guy isn’t an alien or a time traveller, Dani,” she continued, her breathing sounding shallow over the speaker. “He said people can’t see magic. That’s not a stage magician. That’s crazy.”
She was right. It was crazy. But it was also odd that the barista hadn’t seen the writhing mess in my cup. It was odd how the latte had looked normal until I took a sip—as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes for a split second. Just like magic.
“Dani, seriously,” Heather pressed, her voice trembling now, like she was swallowing panic. “Tell me you don’t believe in magic.”
The question slammed into me, unsealing the bottle I’d buried in the stormy sea of my childhood. It was the question my parents had asked with disappointed, exhausted eyes when I was ten. You don’t really believe what you’re seeing is real? It was the question vacant therapists asked in clinical offices, taking notes on whether their heavy dosages were successfully dampening my ‘hyperactive imagination.’
My teenage years had been a dull parade of bitter pills—a long, agonizing lesson in denying the strange, flickering glimmers in my periphery. The redcap on the train had to be a stress hallucination. The slug in my mug was a fluke. Déjà vu happened to sane people. It was all just a neurological blip.
Because if it wasn’t… if it was real…
It meant I wasn’t defective. It meant I was never crazy. It meant there was still vibrant colour waiting in a world that had trained me to see in muted grey. The longing for that to be true burned like a sudden spark in my chest. Things are only impossible until they’re not. Picard’s words offered a comforting anchor from a universe where the strange was simply waiting to be understood.
But if the magic was real, the nightmarish glimpses were real, too—and those were too horrible to accept.
“Like there’s any magic in my life, Heather,” I forced out, giving her the hollow, rehearsed script I’d practiced for years. “I’m not ten anymore.”
The line went quiet. For too long. An uneasy, tense silence. It stretched so long that I pulled the phone away from my ear to see if the call had dropped. “Heather? You still there?”
A sharp, shaky exhale came through the speaker—a ragged breath, as if she’d been holding it, terrified of what I might say next.
“Yeah—still here,” she choked out, clearing her throat aggressively. “Sorry. Just… worried. About stuff.”
It was such an evasive, un-Heather answer that a faint knot of suspicion tightened in my gut. What was stuff? Why did she sound like she was the one who had just gotten out of a car with a stranger?
Before I could ask, she inhaled deeply, forcing her usual cheerful boldness back into her tone. “Right. Well. Stay away from him, Dani. He’s obviously weird. Expensive car or not, stay away. And we’re finding a new coffee shop—The Daily Grind is dead to us.”
“It’s not like he has my number,” I mumbled, slipping back into my own defensive shell and letting the fleeting strange beat pass. Shoes kicked off. Workbag dumped by my desk. I flopped backward onto my unmade bed, feet dangling off.
“Thank God,” Heather declared, back on solid ground. “And at least you had the sense not to invite him up. Sucks that he knows your building, though.”
I stared up at my ceiling, thinking of the dream I’d had right before meeting him—where he was already standing in the dark corner of my bedroom. Scratch that—two dream guys in my room—twice as many as in reality.
I kept that detail to myself. If Heather knew he was already invading my sleep, the lecture would never end. Besides, as I closed my eyes and felt the lingering warmth of his hand on mine, I realized I wasn’t entirely against the idea of him visiting my dreams again tonight.
If this was what crazy felt like, maybe I didn’t want to be cured.