u/CBenson1273

“Daniel!”

He came walking to the door, still dressed from our evening out. 

“What’s up, Love?”

I pointed at the kitchen cabinets. “She did it again.”

He looked to see all of our utensils rearranged. He sighed. 

“I mean, it’s not that big a deal, right? They’re just forks and spoons and knives. You can still find everything.”

This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. His mom wasn’t the worst, but she had an annoying habit of snooping around our house and interfering. She’d rearrange things the way she wanted them, heedless of how much more difficult that made things for me. It was like she couldn’t help interfering in our life. And I’d maybe be ok with it if Daniel had my back, but he always just made excuses for her. 

“This is getting old. She’s your mother - please talk to her.”

“Honey, you know how she is.”

“I know exactly how she is. Which is why you need to talk to her. Why does she even need to have a key anyway?”

“It’s for emergencies, honey. Besides, it makes her feel included.”

“But she doesn’t only use it for emergencies.”

Another sigh. “Alright. I’ll talk to her.”

Two days later I came home from an evening out with some old family friends. I went to put away the bracelet and earrings I’d worn when I realized that my jewelry box had been tampered with. It was still there, but I could tell that it had been moved and someone had attempted to open the lock. 

“Daniel!”

“Yes, honey?” he asked as he walked in. 

“Look at this,” I said, showing him the box and the tampered-with lock. 

“What am I looking at?”

“Well clearly someone tried to force open my jewelry box. I wonder who that might be? Who has a key to the house and has shown an interest in my things?”

“Come on, honey. You aren’t suggesting that my mother tried to steal your jewelry?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Remember that outfit that went missing from my closet last month? The one we saw her wearing in the pictures from her night out?”

“I asked her about that - she said you lent it to her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Maybe you forgot?” he suggested awkwardly. 

“Again, I didn’t. Why are you so willing to take her word over mine?”

“Of course I take your word. But she’s my mother. You know she doesn’t mean any harm.”

“All I know is that she somehow, without my consent, has a key to the house that I bought.”

This had been a bit of a sore subject for us: Daniel was enough of a ‘traditionalist’ to have a slight issue with how much of our life I paid for. I didn’t mind doing it - I loved him and had plenty of money - but it rankled him, so I didn’t usually bring it up. 

“That’s not fair. I asked you if giving her that key was ok.”

“It’s not really asking if you’ve already given it to her.”

He went silent. “I’ll talk to her, alright?”

“Like you did the last time?”

He turned and walked out. It was clear he would never do anything about this. So I’d have to.

A few nights later, I came home from a work event. My husband was out of town, so the house was quiet. I went to the bedroom to change and found a sight waiting for me. 

Sitting on the middle of the floor was my jewelry box. It was fully open - likely because I’d ‘accidentally’ left it unlocked. The jewelry inside had clearly been rifled through. 

But that wasn’t the biggest surprise. 

Standing in the middle of the floor was Daniel’s mother. Impeccably dressed. A shocked look on her face. 

And her body turned entirely to solid gold. 

I went over and picked up the stone she’d dropped in her surprise, putting it back in my jewelry box. I’d had a feeling this might happen - I’d hoped I was wrong, but I’d had a feeling I wasn’t. Well, now that problem was solved. 

I pondered the ancient jewelry box, remembering the story I’d been told when I’d inherited it from my mother, the warnings I’d been given about keeping it in our bloodline. And I read the name etched in Greek into the lid.

“Midas.”

“This is awful! Why are you such a terrible cook?”

That’s what my husband said when I served him dinner. The dinner he specifically requested. I didn’t respond - there was no point.

“Well?” he demanded. 

“I can make something else if you want.”

“Don’t bother - it would probably suck, too.” He continued eating despite the insults. 

I had all of these things I wanted to say in my mind, but no good would come of saying them. It always went the same way if I defended myself - he dismissed me, told me I was stupid, and lashed out if it had been a particularly bad day. Which it almost always was. 

I walked upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. This was the only place I could express my frustration. I looked at myself in the mirror. What are you doing, Julie? I sat there, wondering how I’d gotten into this mess, when I heard a voice in my head:

You’re right.

I wasn’t sure why I thought that - I knew I was right (I did. Right?). But the voice was hard to ignore. I pushed down that line of thought and got back to cleaning the house. 

The next day, Frank came home from work, angry again. 

“Why is this house so filthy? God, you’re even more useless than my first wife. I deserve better! Start actually cleaning around here - make yourself useful!”

I’m the one who deserves better, I thought, but I kept the words to myself. I knew the price I would pay for voicing them. For a split second I was jealous of his first wife for getting out - I heard she’d found a better man and was living upstate. Good for her. 

You’re right. 

There it was again. The words rang in my head like a daily affirmation: nice to hear, but meaningless unless I acted on them. But I wasn’t ready - I didn’t know how. 

The next day, it was more of the same. He came home again, angry as always and taking it out on me. 

“Why isn’t dinner ready yet? I should get more than this from my wife!”

You’re right. 

What the hell; what did I have to lose? “You’re right,” I said, looking at him. 

He stopped mid-rant. “What?”

“You’re right. I should do better.”

“Oh. Well - of course I’m right. I’m glad you’re learning. Just do better next time.”

He walked away, while I stood there, mind blown. I couldn’t believe that worked. 

For the next couple of weeks, I continued to do the same thing. 

He complained about dinner? “You’re right, I should have made something else.” 

He said the house should be cleaner? “Of course you’re right, honey - I’ll do better.” 

He said I was spending too much of his hard-earned money (despite him not letting me work because it would make him ‘look bad’)? “You’re right, Frank - I should be more grateful.”

It kept working - he seemed not to know what to do when I agreed with him. Many of his criticisms seemed to fizzle out before they turned into screaming and insults. It was an improvement. I let myself believe that sacrificing my pride was worth it if it could make things better. Might our relationship even be worth saving?

Then one day, he came home from work smiling. He never came home from work smiling. I asked him why he was so happy. 

“I got to work today and Jack said that I got the promotion I was up for!”

“That’s fantastic, Frank!” I said. With more money, maybe he wouldn’t be as stressed all the time and things would get better. 

“Right? It comes with a title change and a raise! We’re gonna celebrate tonight! No cooking for you - tonight we eat like kings!” He brought out takeout from my favorite Italian restaurant that we never went to because it was too expensive and a bottle of wine. Optimistic at this turn of events, I set the table. 

“Why don’t you go and change into something more comfortable while I get everything ready?” he said. I went to the bedroom and put on a red dress I knew he liked. When I came back he’d already put out the food and filled our plates and glasses (the fancy dishes and wine glasses we hadn’t used since we got them for our wedding - it really was a special occasion). 

I sat down and dug into my Fettuccine Alfredo, savoring every bite. Then I heard a voice, the same voice I’d been hearing for weeks.

You’re right. 

“Frank, can you grab me a napkin from the counter? Please?”

He got up and retrieved a napkin. He didn’t even grumble. When he came back, he raised his glass in the air. 

“Here’s to our future - may it be brighter than ever.”

He reached out and clinked his glass to mine, then we both took a sip of the rich Chardonnay. It was exquisite. We continued eating and drinking, with him looking at me throughout.

Then, his face turned red. I looked at him, startled. He grabbed at his throat and flailed around. Then his chair toppled and he fell to the ground, making choking noises and writhing around on the kitchen floor. He looked at me, his face full of hatred. “YOU!” he said, his voice raspy, stretching his arm toward me but unable to reach me. Eventually he stopped moving. 

I looked at the table, at the half-empty wine glass that Frank had been drinking from before he collapsed. The glass he’d poured for me. The glass I’d been about to drink from when I’d seen the ghost of his first wife floating behind him. The glass I’d switched with mine while he’d been grabbing a napkin when I’d seen her pointing and realized the warning she’d desperately been trying to give. 

YOUR right. 

Ever since I was a little girl, my Papa has said I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. Mama died when I was a baby, so Papa is the only family I have. But he’s the best Papa in the world. 

Papa is a scientist, which means he’s really smart and works with kemikals. Sometimes he has to work late, so I have a sitter. Amanda is really nice - she always plays games with me and bakes cookies. 

But not everybody is nice. I go to school every day (I’m in the third grade), and I have to see Britney. She’s NOT nice. She always makes fun of me: how I look, what I wear, how I talk. She says my nose is too big and my eyes are too small. Papa says I get my eyes and nose from Mama, and since she was perfect, I must be, too. He says she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and since I take after her, I must be the most beautiful girl in the world. Papa loved Mama very much, and while I don’t really remember her, he says she was perfect. I think he’s still sad that she’s gone. But I try to be a good girl so that maybe he won’t be sad. 

Britney is always mean, but the other day she was SUPER mean. She said that Mama probly thought I was ugly too and that’s probly why she died. That really hurt. When I got home, Amanda hugged me and made me cookies. I didn’t want to tell Papa what Britney said ‘cause I didn't want him to be sad. But I guess Amanda told him anyway when he got home, ‘cause he talked to me after he talked to her. But he didn’t seem sad. He seemed mad. REALLY mad. He kept saying “stupid administrashun” and “give them a piece of my mind” - I don’t know what an administrashun is, but he seemed really unhappy with it. He had to be mad ‘cause he always says we’re not supposed to say ‘stupid,’ but he said it a LOT. 

The next day he came to the school, which he never does. I don’t know what happened, but when he got home that night he still seemed mad. (He said it wasn’t at me, but maybe I did something wrong? I really hope not.) He just kept saying “they’ll all pay.”

This morning I wake up to go to school but the bus doesn’t come. I guess the school is closed? I don’t know what happened, but I sneak a look over Papa’s shoulder when he’s watching tv. The man on the tv says there is something that made all women have their faces messed up. The pictures show woman after woman crying with scars on their faces and the shapes wrong, like my doll when I put it in the microwave. The man says it happened to all women everywhere, but that can't be right ‘cause I feel fine. I wonder if Britney’s okay - if she’s not, I guess she can’t make fun of me anymore. The man on the tv also says it has something to do with kemikals - Papa works with those, so maybe he’ll know what happened. I ask him, but all he does is smile and say “now they’ll have to see that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

I don’t know what he means, but he doesn’t seem mad anymore. That makes me happy.

I was sitting in the living room, scrolling on my phone while home on a break from college, when I heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it!” I said as I got up to head to the door.

“NO!!”

I stopped and looked up; my mom was staring at me with a weird look on her face. “Just ignore it.”

I paused. “Ignore the person at the door?”

“Yes. It’s no one.”

“How do you know?”

“Just drop it!” she said, clearly shaken. 

My father walked over. “It’s nothing, Grace. Just some neighborhood kids who’ve been bothering us. If we ignore them, they’ll go away.”

That sounded strange, but it was their house. I sat back down and texted my best friend Beth. 

“My parents are being weird. Again.”

“Aren’t they always?”

“True.” Then I scrolled TikTok for an hour before going up to my old bedroom, my eyes automatically avoiding the room at the end of the hall. 

The next afternoon, we were sitting down for a late dinner when I noticed my parents acting distracted. They kept looking at each other and the old clock over the oven. I glanced at it: it read 10:57pm. 

“So what happens at 10:57?” I asked casually. 

My mother looked at me nervously. “What do you mean, dear?”

“Well, you and dad keep eyeing the clock, so I figure either you’ve developed a newfound appreciation for timepiece craftsmanship or something’s supposed to be happening right now.”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart. It’s just—“

*Knock, knock, knock.*

Mom and dad both tensed up as the knock penetrated the silence. But neither moved to answer the door. 

“Oh, come on,” I said, getting up from the table. “This is silly. You can stay here, I’ll get it—“

“NO!” they exclaimed, my father putting his hand on mine to keep me from leaving. 

“What the heck is going ON?” I demanded. 

My parents looked at each other. “It started a few months ago, after you left for school.”

“What started?”

“…The knocking. At the door. Every night at the same time.”

“10:57pm?”

“Yes,” my mother replied after a pause. 

“Do you know who it is?”

“We’ve never answered. But we have an idea.”

The suspense hung in the air. 

“Ok, who?”

“Well, that time… it’s the time Katie came home.”

“What do you mean?”

“One time she’d gone out and she came home late, after curfew. It was 10:57pm when she arrived.”

“Ok. What does that have to do with you refusing to open the door?”

I waited, but they didn’t say anything else. We just sat there, listening to the knock on the door, until it passed. I went upstairs, leaving the awkward silence behind. 

The next night, I started to get nervous around 10:55. Mom and Dad were out with friends, so I was home by myself for the first night since I’d come home on break. The clock hit 10:57 and…

Nothing. 

I thought I’d gotten lucky when I heard it. 

*Knock, knock, knock.*

I tried to ignore it, but it didn’t stop. I went to the peephole to look outside - I didn’t see anyone. Confused, I had just cracked the door and poked my head outside when I felt a cold pressure on my arm and everything faded away. 

A girl, standing outside the front door. Knocking. Apologizing. 

Voices coming from inside. Refusing. Ignoring. 

A stranger approaching from the street. Smiling. Offering. 

The doors of a dark van parked nearby. Opening. Closing. 

A dark room, shaking in fear. Crying. Begging. 

A knife stabbing into her chest. Bleeding. Dying. 

I came to lying inside the house with the door closed. Were those… memories? They were so vivid that they felt like I’d lived them. But they weren’t mine. So why were they shared with me?

That night, I approached my parents. 

“Mom? Dad? I need to ask you something.”

“Ok, dear. What is it?”

“We’ve never talked about my sister. What happened to her? How did she die?”

I was an “oops” baby - my parents had assumed their childbearing years were behind them. They were good parents, but I’d grown up knowing I wasn’t their firstborn. I knew I’d had a sister who’d died before I was born, but we’d never talked about it. That had been ok. Until now. 

Their faces dropped. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

“We do,” I insisted. “I know I had an older sister. What happened to her?”

“She… she was killed.”

“How?”

“She was out late, and on her way home she was taken. They kept her for two weeks before the police found her body.”

But that didn’t match the visions I’d seen. 

“Did she make it home that night?”

My mother paused. “She… she…”

“Did she beg you to let her in? And did you refuse?”

My mother broke down in tears, deep, racking sobs. “We were just trying to teach her a lesson! She’d been told to be home by curfew - we were trying to show her that actions had consequences. How were we supposed to know?”

In tears, I left her there and ran to my room. I couldn’t believe it. How could they? How could they leave her to die? So much from my childhood made sense now - how they’d been so protective, never let me leave the house, never talked about her. But mostly I thought about my sister. How had she felt being abandoned? How scared had she been? What had she been thinking of as she’d waited to die?

The next night, my parents were upstairs as the clock hit 10:57. 

The knocking started.

I looked through the peephole.

I saw my sister. 

I opened the door. 

She came in, dripping water from the lake where they’d found her body, gazed at me, and floated up the stairs. 

I ignored the screams. My parents had ignored my sister once. They wouldn’t get to ignore her again. 

I was driving along the country road late at night when I saw a young couple on the side of the road. I pulled over and rolled down the window. 

“Hey! You kids doing ok?”

The girl turned to me, looking exhausted and ready to give up. 

“Not really, Mister. Our car broke down about five miles back and our phone died. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Well, I’m headed into the city. Need a ride?”

Her smile lit up the night. “Absolutely, Mister! Thanks so much!” I unlocked the door and they climbed into the back seat. 

“I’m Carl. What do you two go by?”

“I’m Bobby,” replied the young man. “And this is my girl, Jackie.”

“Nice to meet you. Where are you two headed?” I asked. 

“We’re trying to get to Macon. I’ve got a job waiting there,” Bobby added.  

“I can't go all the way to Macon, but I can get you into the city. You can get a room for the night and get a mechanic in the morning.”

“That’d be fantastic, Mister. We’d really appreciate it,” the girl said, stressing really suggestively. 

I continued to drive down the road, the unchanging view and rumble of the engine lulling me into a sense of calm. 

“So how often do you drive these roads, Mr. Carl?” asked the young man, breaking my train of thought. 

“About five times a month.”

“That’s a lot of driving,” said the young girl, whistling. “Do you ever worry being on the road alone at night?”

“Nah. I’m used to these parts. Besides, it’s pretty boring here.”

“Seems kind of spooky to me. You never know what could happen.”

“Well, whatever does, I reckon I can handle it.”

I refocused on driving, the music from the radio calming my thoughts. 

“You seem sad, Mister.”

“My wife passed away recently. This was her favorite song.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “It must be tough, losing someone like that.”

“It is. She died of a heart condition. She was my whole world.”

“How long have you two been together?” I asked, changing the subject. 

“We grew up next door to each other,” the boy replied. “I guess you could say we’ve been together our whole lives.”

“Do you spend a lot of time on the road?”

“This is our first trip in a while. If the car hadn’t broken down, we wouldn’t have stopped ‘till we got to Macon.”

I kept driving, relaxing into the silence as the miles passed behind me.

“Hey, Mister. What kind of car is this?”

“It’s a Ford F-150. The finest truck in America.”

“It’s nice. How much do you figure it’s worth?”

“I don’t know. Maybe $35K. Why? Looking to buy one?”

“Maybe someday. For now, I think we’ll take this one.”

I felt a pressure on the back of my seat and heard a gun cock. 

“This is your own fault,” she said coldly. “Picking up hitchhikers in the middle of the night? You really have only yourself to blame.”

“So this is why you’re out hitchhiking at night? To steal people's cars?”

“Actually, the cars are just a side benefit. It’s really about the feeling.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Have you ever stood next to someone when they’re about to die? When their life is literally about to end and you know that you’re the cause? It’s the most amazing feeling in the world. Powerful, like God, dispensing life and death. There’s nothing like it.”

“Enough talking, babe,” said the boy. “Let’s just do him and take the car.”

“Be patient, baby. We’ll kill him soon enough. Let’s make sure we’ve got everything first.”

“Hey, Mister,” she said innocently, then giggled. “Why do men always fall for that? Idiots. Get out of the car.”

I got out, standing while they exited behind me, the boy with his gun pointed at my back. 

“March,” she ordered, pointing to the woods beside the road. I walked until I came to a stop underneath a tree. 

“Empty your pockets,” the girl ordered. “Wallet, phone, and keys.” I handed them over. 

“So, how does it feel to know your life is about to end?”

“My life ended a year ago.” I stared at the trees behind me. “Remember when I said my wife died of a heart condition? Technically that’s true; she died of a broken heart. A year ago, our son Billy was out driving this road when he stopped to pick up some hitchhikers. But these ‘hitchhikers’ wanted to steal his truck. They killed him. Left his body lying in the woods. Right about here, actually.”

“After he was killed, we tried to go on, but Beth couldn’t handle the grief. She died shortly after. I lost them both in a month.”

“Since then, I’ve been driving this road, hoping to run into the bastards who killed them.”

I looked her in the eye. “Sound familiar?”

She looked back at me arrogantly. “That kid was your son? God, what a loser. Did you know that he begged for his life at the end? Pathetic.”

I stared at her. “You’re both going to get what’s coming to you.”

“Keep dreaming, old man. Bobby, finish this.”

The boy raised his gun toward me. 

“Last chance, son.”

“Too late, old man. No more chances.”

Before he could pull the trigger, there was a loud creaking and the boy dropped the gun as he was raised in the air. His face was twisted in pure, unadulterated terror. 

“Bobby!” The girl screamed as she stared at her boyfriend, being held aloft by a thick tree branch as another punched through his chest. 

The girl tried to run, but a third branch wrapped around her, lifting her and tightening until her screams and the sound of her ribs cracking reverberated through the forest. 

I looked at the tree - tall, majestic, standing proud in the night. In the patterns of its bark, I thought I could see Billy smile. 

James and I were lying in bed one night when he started talking. 

“So Teddy got laid off last week.”

“Oh,” I replied. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. He can’t afford the rent on his apartment. He’s not sure what he’s going to do.”

“I’m sure he’ll find another job soon.”

“He’s not so sure,” my boyfriend replied. 

“Maybe he can move back with your parents.”

“I suggested that, but he says he needs his independence.”

“So what is he going to do?”

“Well, I was kind of hoping he could stay here,” my boyfriend said sheepishly. 

What?

“You have lots of space, and it would only be for a couple of weeks…”

I looked around my bedroom. MY bedroom. In MY house. The house I worked weekends and holidays for, ate ramen nightly for, skipped vacations for. The place where I could be myself without having to answer to anyone. 

“I don’t know, James. You know I need my own space.”

“I know, but he really needs help.”

I sighed. “I’ll think about it, but no promises.”

Three days later I came home from work to find James’ brother arranging his stuff in my guest room. I dragged James into my bedroom. 

“What the hell?!?” I shouted as I closed the door behind us. 

“What,” he replied nervously. “You said it was ok.”

“No, I said I would THINK about it! In what world does that mean to move him in while I’m at work?”

“His landlord kicked him out and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. I knew you’d understand.”

“Does it look like I understand?”

“Come on, Livvy. Please?” 

He gave me those damn puppy dog eyes. 

“Okay, we’ll try it on a short-term basis. But he buys his own food and does his own laundry. I’m not taking care of a grown-ass adult.”

“Absolutely,” my boyfriend agreed. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

At first, it was ok. But slowly, things started to slip. I’d come home from work to find my food gone, dishes in the sink, dirty clothes on the floor. And James just kept making excuses: “Teddy’s going through a hard time, he’s adjusting, he needs our understanding.”

“Our understanding? I don’t see you cleaning up his messes or paying for the food he eats.”

“I’ll help more, okay? He really needs this.”

Two weeks later, I came home to find a woman on my sofa. 

“Who are you?” I asked. 

“I’m Allie, Teddy’s girlfriend. Who are you?”

“I’m Olivia. I own this house.”

“Oh. Thanks for letting me stay, I guess.”

I went to James. “What the fuck? Who is this woman and why is she in my house?”

“Calm down, Livvy. I told Teddy she could stay with us for a while.”

“You told her? Is this your house now?”

“Livvy, be reasonable. You don’t want to separate them, do you?”

“This is not okay, James. I need privacy, not unwanted roommates.”

“They have nowhere else to go.”

“Then they need to start looking.”

But two weeks later, they were still in my house. Every day I came home, cleaned up, and went to bed angry. 

One day, Allie came in while I was cleaning up. 

“Allie, how did this mess get here?”

“Oh,” she giggled. “Teddy and I were messing around and decided to heat up some stuff we found in the fridge.”

“By stuff, I assume you mean my food? That I made?”

“I guess so. But it’s all our food, right?”

“Did you buy it?”

“Don’t be so hung up on money.”

I fumed. “And is there a reason you didn’t clean up after yourself?”

“Teddy said you’d do it.”

“Do I look like your maid?”

She didn’t reply, but her face said it all. 

“Okay, good luck!” she said, turning and leaving the kitchen. 

That night, I sat James down to talk. 

“It’s time for your brother and Evil Barbie to go,” I said without preamble. 

“Livvy, we’ve discussed this. They don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“I don’t give a crap! They need to leave my house.”

“You want me to tell them that they aren’t welcome here?”

“They were never welcome here! You need to fix this. Today.”

He looked stricken. “Livvy. Please.”

“No! I’ve already been turned into a maid in my own house. Now I’m supposed to be her maid, too? I’m done, James. I’m done.”

“Fine,” he sighed resignedly. “I’ll take care of it.” He headed to Teddy’s room to talk.

The next day, I came home from work to enter my house. 

My key didn’t work. 

I called James. “James, why can’t I get into the house?”

There was a pause. “Well, Teddy and Allie weren’t okay with you kicking them out. So they had the locks changed.”

“You let them lock me out of the house I own?”

Silence. 

I hung up and called 911. An hour later, two officers arrived, knocked on the front door, and explained to Teddy and Allie that it was illegal to lock out the homeowner. Reluctantly, they stepped aside and let me in. The police explained that if I wanted them gone I’d have to file for an eviction. Then they left. And I started making plans. 

Three days later, James, Teddy, and Allie awoke, each on their own plastic-covered table. 

“What is this?” demanded Teddy indignantly. 

“Welcome to my basement,” I replied. “I admit, it’s not that visually appealing, but you won’t have to see it for long.”

They shifted their eyes back and forth; bare walls surrounded them, filled with knives, saws, and other tools. 

“Let us go, you bitch!” screamed Allie. 

“Aw, don’t be like that. You wanted to stay here forever. Now you will. And you won’t even have to do any cooking or cleaning. It’s a win-win!”

“Livvy, please,” begged my boyfriend. “You don't have to do this.”

“I’m sorry, James,” I replied, raising the saw. “But I did tell you I need my privacy. You really should have listened.”

I used to be able to see exact member count at the top of my community (I use the iOS app). Now I can see an approximate, rounded count on the Insights tab, but I can’t find the exact count anywhere. In addition, I keep seeing references to devvit, but I’m not sure how to add widgets (when I go to the directory/communities tab, I don’t see the “Add to community” option that’s referenced. Can anyone provide insight here? Thanks!

“April! Where’s my breakfast!”

It’s the same every day. Where’s my breakfast? Why isn’t this place cleaner? What makes you think I’m interested in your opinion? What makes you think you get an opinion? Jack wasn’t always like this. He used to be a decent man - at least I thought he was. Then he lost his job and couldn’t find another one, and the bitterness changed him. 

And then the world went to hell and our marriage went with it.  

I put the plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. He immediately began eating. There was no thank you. There never is. 

“I’m going out,” he said. “Make sure this place is cleaned up when I get back.”

I’d suggest going with him, but I knew he wouldn’t let me - no matter what I said, he was convinced I’d only slow him down. Ever since society fell when the virus hit, the world no longer belonged to us. It belonged to the Roamers. Anyone who didn’t acknowledge that didn’t live long. 

I locked our shelter behind him, making sure the bolts and barricades were secure, and then moved around quietly, cleaning dishes, straightening up, washing the blood from his clothes in the sink. He’d had a close encounter the other day; I’d been a nurse before, so blood wasn’t new to me, but there was a lot. After I was done, I sat around in the dark and waited for him to get home. 

There was a pounding at the door. I unlatched everything and let him in, redoing the locks once he was inside. 

“How did it go?” I asked. 

“Had a close call - I barely made it out.”

“Roamers?”

He shook his head. “Hunters.”

The Roamers (not ‘zombies’, this wasn’t a science fiction movie) were dangerous - they were slow, but they didn’t feel pain, didn’t get tired, didn’t stop.  But they weren’t the only threat. Equally dangerous were the Hunters - wandering bands of once-civilized men who constantly moved around, stealing what they wanted and shooting anything that moved (human or Roamer). If you came across them, you ran. 

“How many?”

“At least twenty.”

I whistled in amazement. “That’s gotta be one of the biggest bands we’ve seen, right?”

He looked at me dismissively. “We? Were you there next to me?”

“That’s not fair. You know I’m willing to be out there, but you won’t take me.”

“And what exactly would you do against Roamers? Offer to do their laundry?” He walked past me dismissively. “I expect dinner to be ready when I’m out,” he said, and closed the bathroom door. 

I sat on the couch, wondering if safety and comfort were really worth the price I was paying. I couldn’t leave - I didn’t have anywhere to go or any friends who were still alive. Better to stick it out. 

A few days later, he came home angry. 

“What happened?”

He threw his backpack against the floor. “I had it! I found a hidden stash filled with tons of supplies. It would have set me up for weeks! But a group of Hunters came and I had to run. They took everything! Those bastards! That stash was mine!”

“Well, you can find another one - you always do,” I said, trying to be supportive. 

Suddenly I saw a flash and fell to the ground. I reached for my cheek, feeling a sharp pain. 

He hit me!

In all our time together, he’d never hit me. I stared at him in disbelief. 

For a moment he looked like he regretted it, but it passed quickly. “Just get dinner ready - I’ll eat after I clean up.”

I sat on the floor and thought about what my life had become. During dinner, I spoke. 

“You need backup. Wouldn’t having someone to watch your back be better than being out there alone? At least I could keep lookout and signal if more Hunters tried to sneak up on you.”

He paused, weighing my words. 

“If I let you come, you do what I say, when I say. And if you screw up, you’re on your own.”

“I won’t be a problem. You’ll see.”

I wasn’t sure if this would go the way I envisioned it. But if not - well, maybe it was better to die all at once than a little bit every day. 

A week later, he came to me, fully prepped. “There’s a spare pack by the door. Keep up.”

I grabbed the spare pack, put my bag inside, and followed him out the door. 

It was the first time I’d been outside in months. Everything looked completely the same and completely different. Buildings that once gleamed now looked run down and decrepit; office parks had been overtaken by nature. It was a new world. And it no longer belonged to us. 

We were walking when we heard a noise. 

“Jack. Jack! I saw something.”

“Relax, it was probably just a fox.”

“Do foxes usually look like five men walking upright?”

He paused. “Where?”

I pointed to his left. “Over there. A group, moving that way.”

He turned and looked. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I responded, sliding the syringe into his neck. “I’m sure.”

An hour later, I watched through binoculars from my hidden spot two hundred yards away. I watched Jack wake up and realize something was wrong. I watched him grab at his throat, realizing he couldn’t speak, only moan. I watched him try to stand, stumbling as he realized he could barely walk (due to the partial paralytic I’d administered). I watched the band of Hunters approach his position from around the corner. 

Silently, I thanked my father for the survival skills he’d taught me that Jack had never known about because he’d never listened. It would be tough surviving in this world alone. But as I watched Jack try to flee as the Hunters approached the groaning, shuffling figure and took aim, I thought: sometimes alone is better. 

“Take care of that fucking dog or I’ll do it for you!”

Daddy then kicked Max. I ran to Max and led him from the living room. I scratched behind his ears as he whimpered. He always liked when I did that. 

“Don’t worry, Max. It’ll be ok. Mommy says so.”

Then I whispered so Daddy couldn’t hear me. “Don’t listen to him. Good dog.”

Max was my best friend. I didn’t get to go out much except for school, and no kids wanted to come here, so I was alone a lot. But I was never really alone. Not when I had Max. 

I went to the kitchen and filled his food and water bowls in the corner. One was blue and one was white, and they both said “Max” in gold letters on the side. Once I filled them, Max ate and drank until he was done. Then we went up to my room. 

While we were there, I heard Mommy come home from her job at the grocery store. After a while, she and Daddy started talking really loudly. They did that a lot. Sometimes I’d see her the next morning with marks on her arms or face, but she just said she was clumsy but everything was fine. “Everything will be ok, baby.” One time I asked her when, but she didn't answer. 

Daddy used to work at the factory, but I think it closed because he doesn’t go there anymore. Instead, he usually goes out to the garage every day to work on his projects. He’s always building something down there, sawing, running wires, hammering - Mommy says it makes him feel like a man. Most nights he goes out to have his “alone time” and comes home stumbling. Mommy says that makes him feel like a man, too. He is a man, so I’m not sure why he wouldn’t feel like one, but maybe I just don’t understand. 

I came home yesterday and Mommy and Daddy were talking loudly even earlier than usual so I quietly ran to my room, trying not to listen. After a while, I heard a loud sound and a thump. I peeked down from my room - Daddy stood looking really mad and Mommy laid on the floor holding her face. I think she was crying.  Daddy went to the garage and slammed the door. I started to go to Mommy, but she got up and rushed to their bedroom and closed the door. I was scared and wasn’t sure if Daddy would come back, so I went back to my room, locked the door, and stayed in there with Max. 

Eventually, I was starving and Max was pawing at the door, so we left my room and went downstairs. No one was in the kitchen, so I filled Max’s bowls with food and water and poured some cereal to eat. I ate and waited for Max to finish, then we went back to my room and closed the door. 

Hours later, I woke up to a scream. It didn’t sound like normal, though. It sounded scared. I left my room and went downstairs and followed the noise to the garage. I peeked out before Mommy saw me. Daddy lay on the ground, his body black and steam coming from it. He wasn’t moving. Near him, one of the wires he works on sometimes lay on the ground. 

Mommy turned and saw me, and she hurried to me and rushed me from the room. She told me to stay with Max while she called 9-1-1. After that, she sat down, breathing funny. I’d never seen that look on her face before. She looked sad but also… relieved?

I told Mommy I had to go to the bathroom while she sat holding her head. But I really went out to the garage. I had to. In the corner I saw a white bowl with “Max” written on the side. There was no water left in it, but there was a trail of droplets and a small puddle next to Daddy where the wire was. It was like someone had poured the water on the wire and hidden the bowl, but that was stupid. I guess it was something else I didn’t understand. 

I turned to walk back into the house. Max was sitting at the door, looking at me and out to the garage and wagging his tail. He seemed happier than he had in a while. It was almost like he was proud of himself. I guess he was really looking forward to playing. I reached out and scratched behind his ears. He always loved that. 

“Good dog.”

I couldn’t believe it. 

I was coming home from another crappy day at work and I decided to stop at the Food Mart and pick up some snacks, a few beers, and, on a lark, a couple of lottery tickets. I never played the lottery - my father had always called it a ‘stupid tax’ - but I’d had a bad week and figured what the hell. So imagine my shock when watched the local news that night and saw my numbers on the screen. I was frozen - my brain literally stopped working for two minutes. Then it hit me. I won. I WON!!

I immediately started jumping up and down and screaming. My husband came down to see what was going on and I couldn’t even talk, I just pointed at the paused tv and at my ticket. Eventually he started screaming, too. 

We wanted to be smart - I’ve seen the horror stories of people whose lives have been ruined by winning the jackpot - so we made a list of all the things you’re supposed to do. Don’t tell anyone. Hire a good lawyer. Take the lump sum. Stay anonymous if you’re able. Don’t make new friends. Don’t be too generous. After taxes, we ended up with $117 Million. We tried to be responsible - we paid off the house and all of our debts. We’d always talked about retiring someplace warm, so we started looking around. We were finally living the life we’d always wanted. Our ship had come in. 

I wanted to get my husband something nice for always working so hard for us. I also thought it might sooth his pride - he’d made several comments about how he’d played the lottery for years and never won anything, but I played it once on a lark and won the jackpot. “Ironic,” he called it.  He tried to play it off as a joke, but I could tell he was a little bitter. I tried to tell him that it didn’t matter who bought the ticket, we were a team, but it didn’t really help. He’d always wanted a sailboat, so I decided to go to the marina to look at some so I could surprise him with one. But when I got near the dock, I saw him already there, looking around. And not alone. 

In shock, I hid behind a nearby wall and watched him looking at boats with a young, attractive blonde. Her face looked familiar but I couldn’t place it. When he left, I went to the last boat he’d looked at. Pretending interest, I told the owner I was thinking of buying it and asked if I had any competition. He said that in fact a young engaged couple had just been here but hadn’t made an offer, so it was mine if I wanted it. I asked him to give me the day to think about it. I then left, went to a nearby bar, and cried. 

He was the love of my life. How could he do this to me?  After all our years together? Was this because I won the money - now that he was rich he wanted to upgrade? Or had he been cheating all along? I wallowed in misery for an hour, then I decided to act. 

I did some research online and found out she was a coworker at his job. And apparently she wasn’t too bright - I found her online profile and she’d posted pictures of them together going back six months. Six months! Now I was pissed. 

I thought about outing them, but things would likely get messy. I wanted a clean break.

Two days later, I surprised him at home. I cooked his favorite dinner (steak and baked potatoes), put on my best lingerie, and told him I wanted to thank him for being the best husband in the world. After we’d eaten and celebrated, I gave him his final gift - keys to the boat I’d bought! He was thrilled. I told him he was worth it and suggested he take it out for a spin with his boys. He quickly agreed. 

That weekend, he left for his afternoon on the water. Unsurprisingly, his “fiancée” was with him. They were about half a mile out to sea when my husband finally went below deck. Unfortunately I couldn’t see below the deck from my hiding space, even with the binoculars I’d brought for the occasion. So I could only imagine the look of horror that crossed his face just before the boat exploded. 

The last thing I saw as the boat and its occupants sank beneath the surface was the name on the side of the boat. The name he’d always wanted. 

Freedom.

My husband would have loved the irony.

“Hey, babe. I’m working late tonight - gotta finish that project for Hendrix. Don’t wait up. Love you.”

I listened to the message for the third time. I couldn’t believe he was doing it again. 

When he’d gotten his new job two months ago after being fired from the lab, I’d been happy for him. But once he’d started working there, he started acting differently, becoming crueler, more arrogant. 

“Hey, babe. Have you gained a couple of pounds?”

“Babe, you always look so stressed lately. You know that’s not great for your face, right?.”

“Why is the house so messy, babe? You’re slacking off.”

It’s true that I had less time to clean lately, and that I’ve put on a few pounds; carrying the financial load by yourself can do that to you. Funny how all the “veiled” insults started at the same time as all his “late nights” working.

I was no fool. But Darrin denied everything and told me I was overreacting. I needed proof, but he never left any clues - he was too smart. 

So I followed him. I felt pathetic doing it, but I had to know. 

One day, after he left work, I followed him to a house in the suburbs. After waiting a few minutes, I crept to a side window and looked inside. I saw a figure moving around; I could just barely make out a woman’s body. 

That bastard! I got up to storm inside and give them a piece of my mind when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, then nothing. 

I woke up and tried to reach for my head, but my hands wouldn’t move. I looked down and realized my arms and legs were bound to a chair. I looked up, and what I saw shocked me.

My husband stood there, staring at me hatefully. And standing next to him was another woman. No. Not another woman. 

Me. 

At least, me in almost every way: the same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair, the same dimple in my chin. She looked exactly like I used to look before the last few years. Before Darrin. 

“Yes, it’s amazing, isn’t it? How she can be so exactly like you yet so different?”

I stared at them, stunned. “But… how…?”

“I was working to create a temporal viewer, a window into the past. But then we realized the machine wasn’t showing us another time, but another place. Another Earth. Like ours, but different. And the most amazing part? It had versions of us on it. All of us. So I went there. 

“The Darrin Westbrook there was a loser, single and alone. Then I looked up their Elizabeth Grant. She was… amazing. Thin, gorgeous, vivacious - like you before we got married. But she’d had some hard breaks and was looking for a new life. When I told her about our world, she asked if she could come with me. I said yes. Why wouldn’t I? I deserved the best version of you; now, I’d have it. 

“Of course, we couldn’t have two versions of you walking around; someone was bound to notice. So we made a plan. A few insults, a couple of hints, and you followed right along, like a desperate puppy.”

Then the ‘other’ woman walked toward me. “I can see what Darrin meant,” she said, examining me like imitation jewelry. “You’re like the bargain basement version of me, a bad copy. How sad it must be to be you. But don’t worry - it’ll all be over soon.”

With that, my doppelgänger raised her hand to reveal a knife, light glinting off the blade. She was going to kill me, and tied down I couldn’t stop her. But from the corner of my eye I saw another light, a…red dot?

I heard a soft ‘thwip’ and there was a hole in her head. As she fell, I looked over; Darrin was laying on the ground, his hand trying to stop the blood pouring from his chest. 

I felt someone pulling at the ropes on my wrists and legs. As they did, I saw a masked figure standing over Darrin’s gurgling form. 

“Got you, you son of a bitch.” She lifted her mask just enough to spit on his face. 

“Who are you?” I asked, looking at my rescuers. “What’s going on?”

They looked at each other, then at me. The one who’d spit on my former husband took off her mask, then the other two did the same. 

They all looked exactly like me. 

“I’m Elizabeth Hastings, neé Grant,” said the first. 

“Elizabeth Mackey - Beth,” said the second. 

“Elizabeth Porter, but you can call me Lizzie,” said the third with a half-smile. 

“But… I don’t…”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” said Lizzie. “Basically, your husband was right about all but one thing. There isn’t just one other Earth. There are thousands.”

“And in many of them,” continued Beth, “we ended up with your husband, or some jerk like him. Different names, same asshole.”

“So why are you here?”

“We tend to keep tabs on other versions of us, and we found out about your husband’s plans for you,” Beth said harshly. “So we got involved.”

I looked around at the five figures in the room - three standing, two not. “So what happens next?”

The leader, who I’d started thinking of as Elizabeth Prime, looked at me. 

“Well, these bodies are going to cause questions. You can stay here and deal with them, or…”

“Or…?”

“You can come with us and help other women who’re going through what you did.”

I paused and thought. About my life. My job. My ‘happiness.’

Then l looked at Elizabeth. “May I?” I asked, gesturing at her gun. She raised an eyebrow at me and gave a slight nod. 

I took out the gun, aimed, and put a bullet through Darrin’s head. 

“Call me Ellie. When do we leave?”