The glow of my phone screen pulled my attention from the project brief I’d been deciphering. A message from Heather, my lifelong BFF and designated reality checker, flashed across the display: Do you have time for a call? It wasn’t just a casual inquiry; it was a digital SOS that radiated the kind of urgency usually reserved for alien invasions.
And honestly, I couldn’t blame her. My text, sent earlier that morning, was a digital cry for help. The disjointed summary of my horrific train encounter probably read like a descent into madness. More than anything, 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 to the entire company.
“Hey back. So let’s hear it,” Heather said. Her stern tone suggested she was preparing for the worst.
I told Heather about my terrifying train encounter, the redcap attacker—which a quick online search had confirmed was a goblin that murdered travellers. I described the sword-wielder in a peacoat who materialized from the shadows like a dark knight, and how I woke up in my apartment with no memory of how I got there. I’d thought waking up outside of my apartment was scary, but it was just as unnerving waking up in my bed, tucked in and seemingly safe, with no memory of the journey—just a few surprisingly good unconsciously-drawn sketches of the peacoat knight and 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. And that’s not what’s weird—it’s just that it felt even more real,” I explained, speaking too urgently—like I was trying to outrun the panic bubbling to the surface. “It’s like I’d seen it before. 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 fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“Morgan,” 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 project 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 sleepwalking 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, trying to inject a touch of levity into the tense conversation.
She snorted, 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, that 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 sleepwalking,” she commanded, also in a terrible British accent. Although hers wasn’t deliberately bad, it was just naturally bad.
I sighed, feigning exasperation, a dramatic display of reluctant compliance. It was completely normal to go a week or two without a noticeable sleepwalking 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, the sound of 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 requested. 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. Which usually means closer to ten-ish.”
“Text me when you’re back so I know you’re safe,” I teased.
“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’s available for pickup duty, so I’m covered. He promised to bring fries,” she added, her tone matching a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. She was a fried fry connoisseur at this point. At some point in the last year, her boyfriend had made deep-fried bliss a part of her welcome home ritual.
“Alright. I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’ve got things to do,” I said, trying to suppress a chuckle at Heather’s fry-fueled enthusiasm.
“Same to you—go get your shit done,” 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.
⧫⧫⧫
My weekend was remarkably uneventful. I stayed in—except for my brief outings to the gym on Saturday and lunch with my parents and sister on Sunday—in an attempt to retain the mundane. I didn’t tell my family the full, chaotic details. But I had let them in on the sanitized version—the possibility that I had sleepwalked from the train to my home on Wednesday night. I got a few sternly concerned remarks about the usual—take your meds, drink less coffee, get a new roommate, maybe living alone downtown isn’t right for you—half-hearted arguments we’d covered a hundred times before. All that was left was a generic ‘I’ll be more careful’ and a promise to keep them in the loop.
I dedicated my Sunday evening to 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 never spoken to, the other probably a figment of my sleepwalking 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.
I watched Star Trek reruns to distract myself, absent-mindedly sketching amber and sapphire eyes. I half-heartedly watched Troi sense more not-so-inner turmoil with her crew. When I finally got up from the couch, my back aching from hours of hunched concentration and my hand cramped from the relentless pencil strokes, I realized afternoon had darkened into evening.
My stomach flipped when I looked at my sketches. Instead of pages of handsome bachelors, I had absently doodled another set of eyes—an aged woman’s haunting eyes. The unintentional repetition was unnerving. The hollow eyes staring at me in graphite were not happy to see me.
I was well on my way to fulfilling my oath—no extra-weird variety of dreams and no obvious signs of sleepwalking—until Tuesday night, when the fragile facade of normalcy shattered. My recurring dream returned, a nightmarish tableau of red hands and the choice of two paths. But it ended differently.
Instead of some invisible force grabbing me and pulling me from the choice, a bubbling pit of pitch-black, sticky tar swallowed my feet, a viscous, suffocating substance that clung to me like a second skin. I tried to yank out, but every move made me sink lower, the tar pulling me down into its depths with a relentless, agonizing slowness.
The pit was littered with bones—human ribcages and skulls, their empty sockets staring up at me—and the decayed remains of decades of relics, macabre trophies of the pit’s hunger. An agate cameo of a Roman-styled woman with butterfly wings, her delicate features worn by decay. A silver locket on a leather cord, its clasp rusted shut. A golden diamond ring on a skeletal finger, its brilliance dulled by the tar. I couldn’t name all the strange things that slowly sank into the pit around me, the familiar treasures of a forgotten age. I didn’t count—I didn’t have time as I sank faster and faster, the tar pulling me down into its suffocating embrace.
I tried to reach out to the golden vines dipping into the far ledge, but the vines withered and broke at my touch. I tried to grip the polished stones lining the pit’s edge, but the pit made the earth damp and muddy; I couldn’t get enough leverage before I slipped, my fingers sliding uselessly against the slick surface. Eventually, I was up to my chin in tar, the stench of decay filling my nostrils, the taste of putridity coating my tongue. I had my arms raised, still desperate for something to grab, something to pull me from the abyss.
The thick substance made breathing suffocating. Every movement was slowed by the resistance, and my lungs burned with the effort. I was drenched to my eyes, kicking and frantically clawing with my arms to try to keep my nose out, to gasp for air, but nothing helped.
I saw two figures running down the paths in slow motion, their faces contorted in desperate urgency, just as desperate to reach me as I was to be saved. But I felt myself slip under, the tar closing over my head as they got close, their outstretched hands a fleeting outline in the darkness. At last, I was completely overwhelmed by the dark, sticky, putrid pool, the tar filling my lungs, suffocating as the pit consumed me whole.
And I woke up. I gasped for air, my lungs burning, my body convulsing as if I had truly drowned. My heart was pounding like a war drum, and my skin was clammy with cold sweat. Once again, I was at my desk after a nightmare-induced drawing session, hands charcoal-black from rubbing different depths of shading.
The nightmare art depicted an old woman—thin, loose skin hung 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, but 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 was home to my other nightmare 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 were taunting me. But I was also too frazzled for office socializing, the forced cheerfulness of my colleagues too grating. I settled on making Wednesday my day at The Daily Grind, a 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 smaller crowd on Wednesdays. And, like a miracle balm for my wrecked psyche, my favourite spot was open. It was little victories that shrank nightmares.
Bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun, I sank into the window booth seat. The worn leather was a comforting embrace. I didn’t hesitate to collect three cushions, building a cozy fortress against the lingering dread (sharing was only caring on other days). I ordered a dirty chai latte—sorry, Heather, but I needed a little more caffeine kick—and returned to my spot, grinning like a goblin counting a gold hoard.
The air outside was crisp, but nothing like the bitter cold that had hit the evening of my redcap-on-the-train nightmare. The perfect autumnal balance of warm meets cool. Inside, the place smelled exactly like it should: roasted coffee beans, burnt sugar, and the new old October classic of pumpkin-spiced everything.
There was nothing avant-garde on today’s to-do list—another small victory. It was all routine, mundane tasks, exactly the kind of workflow that was a perfect match for a day at The Daily Grind. The monotony, the predictable rhythm of clicks and stylus strokes, might be enough to quell the lingering worries awoken by my terrifying dreams.
The buzz of conversation rose and fell throughout the morning, a comforting white noise that muted the void left by my racing thoughts. I got myself another chai—no espresso for round two—sprinkling an extra dash of cinnamon on the froth, the spicy aroma a comforting scent. I could almost fool myself into thinking last night was a blip, that my imaginative nightmares were the natural consequences of a creative mind. My redcap encounter and tar dream were meaningless visions—it wouldn’t happen again.
But nothing lasts forever. One of the logos I was finessing featured a minimalist eye, a simple geometric shape. Despite it being made of clean lines and simple forms, my mind’s eye, haunted by the sketch, recalled the hollow eyes of the bone-crowned crone.
An oddly familiar voice interrupted my thoughts: “Pardon me for interrupting you mid-creation.”
I looked up, my eyes widening. The blonde Grecian statue, the man who’d cameoed in my dreams, was smiling at me. He was taller than I’d realized—now that he was only an arm’s length away—a sculpted, golden-toned model fresh from the pages of a magazine. He was probably 6 feet—and nearly a full head taller than me.
“I had hoped to approach you the other day,” he continued, his eyes sparkling with playful mischief, “but I was cruelly called away by… pressing matters. Do you mind if I sit? Or am I intruding on your artistic genius?”
Be bold, my inner monologue screamed, while my inner introvert was busy constructing a panic room. I shook my head, closed my laptop with a dramatic flourish, and said, “Sure.” Absolute genius.
He sat, adorning the wingback in a way that transformed it from a yardsale reject to a period piece drama, a throne fit for a king. He made everything brighter—like someone had cranked up the saturation on the entire room. I could swear the sunlight through the window followed him like he was a walking sunbeam.
“Are you working on a new masterpiece?” he asked, his eyes lingering on my closed laptop with a knowing glint.
I glanced at my laptop, utterly confused. The design I’d just hidden away was a promo banner for a local chiropractor, hardly a work of high art.
“You’re an artist, yes?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, like he knew something I didn’t.
I was stunned into silence. Had he been watching 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 less than 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 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 caffeine withdrawal. Maybe I’d needed that 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 voice laced with a genuine enthusiasm that made my heart flutter.
“I don’t know about that—I mostly paint for myself… and I guess friends and family. It’s a hobby, really,” I said, trying to downplay my artistic aspirations, a classic move for a reserved introvert.
“But your profession does call for an artist’s eye, does it not?” he asked, his gaze lingering on mine, a friendly interrogation.
“I’m a graphic designer,” I explained, “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 trashbin 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 was a job that paid me for what I went to school for, which was a win in my book. But making my own art at home, in the quiet solitude of my apartment, was where I poured my soul, where I truly felt alive—where I wasn’t just a cog in the corporate machine, but a creator. “What do you do?”
He smirked. “I manage a family business,” he said, his voice dripping with playful mystery like it was an inside joke.
I stiffened; a prickle of suspicion crept up the back of my neck. He was being vague—frustratingly vague—but I got the distinct impression he had money. Family money, from the sound of it. He was fashionably dressed and still wore the black leather gloves, which were starting to feel less like a fashion statement and more like a…precaution. Maybe he was out of my league—okay, definitely way more out of my league than I first thought—like a whole other tax bracket.
“My name is Kay,” he said, extending his gloved hand.
My throat tightened. Sudden dryness made it hard to swallow. Strange that his name matched the one I’d heard in my dream. But maybe I’d seen it written on his coffee cup the other day.
“Oh, Morgan,” I stammered, awkwardly reaching to shake Kay’s hand, a nervous flutter in my stomach.
It was an ordinary handshake. But it felt like a lot more, a spark igniting between our skin. Kay’s eyes lingered on my hand. How do I know you?
I wasn’t sure if it was me awkwardly refusing to let go—or if he was the reason my hand stayed in his. In case it really was me, clinging like a desperate barnacle, I laughed to cover the potential awkwardness. I pulled both my hands back, hiding them on my lap. If he was offended or put off, he didn’t show it. He remained charmingly indifferent. Maybe it 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.
“It’s one of,” he said. “I’ve grown 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 coffee shops always deliver. This place always goes big—Christmas, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s Day, April Fool’s….and Halloween, obviously.” I waved excitedly toward the faux pumpkins tucked everywhere and the slightly rabid-looking plastic bats I’d watched a bored barista hang less than an hour ago.
“Samhain,” Kay said. It 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.
“Yeah. And they have special drinks and treats all the time,” I continued, fully aware I was nervously babbling, distracting myself from thoughts of who’d be sharing those special treats with Kay. “I’m really into seasonal stuff. Holidays. You know, the whole… festive thing.” God, was that too much info for a meet-cute? Was I making it into a meet-turn-off?
“So you must already have plans,” he suggested, his eyes sparkling.
I laughed, a nervous, self-deprecating sound. At myself, at the ridiculous suggestion that I would have elaborate plans. But I was also flattered, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest. Even the suggestion that I already had plans meant I looked like someone who would have plans, a desirable person, someone who had a life outside of work and streaming platforms.
“Not yet,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Flirting wasn’t my forte, but I really, really hoped I said it flirtatiously—just enough to pique Kay’s interest.
He laughed lightly, a sound that made my heart flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, and said, “I’ll remember to ask again,” his eyes locking with mine, a tempting promise.
Why not ask me now? I wanted to blurt it out. But I couldn’t get the fully formed sentence to move from my mind to my tongue. Instead, I shyly turned my eyes downward, a blush creeping up my neck as I nervously traced a finger along the handle of my mug. The last dregs of my chai rippled slightly with the sudden touch.
“So, have you acquired any other local artists?” I asked, trying to shift the focus and distract myself from the intensity of his gaze. “I mean, anything else you’ve liked in here?”
His eyes poured over the walls, taking in the chaotic collection of artwork—a gallery that housed varying levels of skill. It was a dizzying array of styles and subjects. There were a few repeat artists who’d sold more than one piece through The Daily Grind, a sign of their talent or perhaps their persistence. But some were like me, single attempts to prove the value of their art.
“I don’t think anyone else’s work speaks to me,” he said, his gaze returning to me. “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.
He grinned wolfishly, his eyes bright with mischief. “Sure,” he said, his voice a low, seductive purr, leaving me wondering if he was referring to my artwork or something else entirely.
I decided to take a sip to buy myself time—to gather my thoughts. 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, the contents of my stomach churning. It was dark and viscous, a putrid clump that looked like the tar pit from my nightmare.
I put the mug back on the table hard enough that the clatter drew a couple of stares. The black tar moved, writhing in the dregs of my chai. It was a slug-like thing, leaving a trail of oozing black, a syrupy 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. I coughed, feeling the oily clump move from the back of my throat to slide onto my tongue, a grotesque sensation that made me gag. I spat it out into the napkin, a dark, slick mass that mirrored the slug’s trail. “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 was beside me in a second, his arm catching me, his grip firm and reassuring. I closed my eyes, desperate to regain my equilibrium. I 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, tilting the mug still in his hand. He released me when we reached the door, his eyes burning with a dark intensity.
I nodded weakly, my stomach churning and my head pounding. 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 of scents 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. 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?
I remained semi-collapsed over the public toilet for a few minutes, a humiliating surrender to the waves of nausea. I probably wouldn’t be able to come back here again. Not without the memory of my new close relationship with the toilet.
I wondered how many people would post about me on social media, turning my moment of vulnerability into a viral sensation. Had anyone snapped a picture of my stumble?
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. I cupped water in my palm, gulping a mouthful to rinse out the taste of pungent smile and bile. I spat in the sink, but there were no more traces of black ooze.
I looked ghostly pale, my eyes a little bloodshot. But my hair still looked okay. Good thing I’d curled it that morning.
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 also jittery and shaky, my nerves frayed.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured me. He helped me slowly return to the corner table, his hand a warm, reassuring presence on my back, only taking his hand off me when I reached for my coat and scarf piled on the booth seat.
“I’m going to go home now,” I said awkwardly and uncertainly. I looked at the mug—now empty—that Kay had placed on the table. Whatever Kay had dealt with it, the slimy creature was gone.
“I can drive you,” he offered, his amber eyes locking with mine.
I slowly tucked my laptop in my bag, my movements deliberately slow, and put on my denim jacket. 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 bus home. And walking wasn’t an option; my legs were still unsteady. I pulled the ends of my hair from under my coat, trying to rearrange the apricot-blonde strands so I could hide a little more of my pallid face.
“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 any 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,’ or ‘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 slide 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. The interior was just as sleek and modern as the outside, but with matte-looking leather everywhere, still carrying that heady new-car smell. The steering wheel had a silver symbol at its heart, like a fancy ‘B,’ a declaration of its pedigree.
Kay got into the car fluidly, 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. I reassured him that I was buckled and ready to go—an awkward reassurance 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, only meeting the speed limit. It was a thoughtful display of restraint. Yet it felt a little sad to see the car’s potential wasted on downtown speeds—like watching a thoroughbred being led around a petting zoo. But I was also relieved when Kay kept to the exact speed limit instead of testing 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, his eyes glancing over—like he half expected my seatbelt to fling loose and me to tuck and roll, 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 work day 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. I froze with the sudden realization that 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. I watched his eyes dart to me, watching for 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. I slowly rubbed under my eyebrow to help 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 depths. He suddenly appeared unbearably sad. My heart ached with a sudden pang of 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, a tentative gesture. 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’m 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 seemed to want to offer to walk me to my door—maybe even to my apartment—but I quickly shut that down. 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. I was still happily in denial that my redcap encounter was just a scary dream. 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, slugs in mugs were a biohazard, 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. Goodnight.” I turned away, hastily retreating to my building’s entryway.
I was a little glad I’d never offered Kay my number. But I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or grateful he’d never offered his.
My phone finally started buzzing 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.
Morgan?
Send an emoji.
Or text me that you’re okay.
What street are you at?
I smirked, feeling a wave of relief wash over me. The strangeness of the afternoon had ended, and I was so grateful for her frantic protectiveness. Home now, I typed. 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.
“Oh, so now it’s funny,” Heather said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “giving me a heart attack.”
“It might be shock,” I admitted, still grinning as nervous energy buzzed in my veins. At least the headache was gone. “I’ve had the weirdest day.”
“But you’re okay?” Heather demanded, her voice tight with genuine concern.
“Mostly,” I offered hollowly, a vague response that didn’t quite reassure her—or myself.
The elevator opened to my floor, and I dragged myself off, my body heavy with exhaustion. Heather lectured me about getting in a car with a guy I just met, her voice a soothing drone in the background, while I trudged to my apartment, stepped inside, and went through my re-locking routine. My windows didn’t face the front, so I couldn’t check if Kay had lingered—and I wasn’t sure which option I hoped for. No. Not lingering was the right answer—the rational choice. But he did make me feel like a little crazy might be…fun.
“So, explain the slug…?” Heather asked after she’d finished her tirade, giving in to her curiosity with a sigh of defeat.
I explained the ordeal from start to finish—from Kay approaching me to dropping me off—to paint a vivid picture of the day’s escalating strangeness. I tried to be as real as possible, to convey the sheer absurdity of the situation, but I may have exaggerated his allure. Even after the crazy talk, I weirdly wanted Heather to like him, to see him as something more than a potential serial killer. It was a dangerous desire that made me question my own judgment.
“So if you see him again, you’re going to say have a nice life and never be alone with him ever again, right?” she asked, leaving no room for debate.
But I wanted to debate. It was a rebellious urge that made my pulse quicken. “Maybe I misheard him.”
“Morgan, you don’t…believe that guy, right?” she asked, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.
I almost said no. I should’ve said no. A sane person would’ve said no. But I was second-guessing. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” I quoted, “Arthur C. Clarke.”
“You’re such a nerd,” she said, with an unusual tinge of melancholy, the affection in her voice soured by an unfamiliar sadness. “But this guy isn’t an alien or time traveler, Morgan. He said the word, magic, right?”
I sighed. She was right. But it was odd that the barista hadn’t seen that mess in my cup. No, it was odd that I hadn’t noticed it until after I’d had a drink. Almost like its real appearance had been hidden. Just like magic.
“Morgan, seriously,” Heather said, her voice tight, like she was struggling to speak, “you don’t believe in magic, right?”
It wasn’t a question I’d ever been asked. Well, maybe when I was ten, and my parents had to have the ‘Santa talk’ after my sister had overheard her classmates talking. Since it was time for her to stop believing, they’d decided it was time for me, too. Everything magical in my world was a question after that shattering evening. Ordinary things replaced the endless imagined fantasies of childhood. So, for years, magic had been the fun of fiction—something I enjoyed, but didn’t believe.
Slugs in coffee mugs had to have a rational explanation. Even if the thought of it being something else stirred something in me, a forgotten longing, a sense of wonder…it was just some part of me in no hurry to grow up and get a grip.
“Like there’s any magic in my life, Heather,” I said, the words a hollow echo of the truth I had always told myself. “I’m not ten years old.”
The line went quiet. For too long. An uneasy, tense silence. I looked at my screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. I held the phone back to my ear and anxiously asked, “Heather? You there?”
A sharp, shaky exhale, as if she had been holding her breath for the entire conversation. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry. Just…worried. About stuff.” She inhaled deeply, holding her breath, and then exhaling slow and long. “Right. So, stay away from that guy, Morgan. He’s obviously weird. Expensive car or not, stay away. And find a new favorite coffee place. We are not going back there with chai slugs on the menu.”
“It’s not like he has my number,” I mumbled, feeling like the proverbial baby who’d had her candy taken away, a childish pout forming on my lips.
“Thank God,” Heather declared sternly. “And at least you had the sense not to invite him up. Sucks that he has your address, though.”
I thought of the dream I’d had where he’d already been in my room. Scratch that, two dream guys in my room—which was twice as many as reality. I decided not to tell Heather that detail. If she knew I’d been dreaming about him already, she might launch into another lecture. And, honestly, I wasn’t against him visiting me in my dreams. A little magic in my life might not be so bad, after all.