u/sathanfritz

CWS: Graphic depictions of abuse, cosmic horror, blood, references to alcohol abuse.

Chapter 3- "Voices in the Deep"

“Katrina? Katrina!” Her mother shouted through the storm, the little girl turning around to meet her mother. Tears bristled in her eyes, and ran down her cheeks only to freeze there. Her body hurt, she was acutely aware of this now. Her mother screamed for her, running out with boots and a robe. She was ill equipped for the weather, but it had never mattered when her little girl had been in this weather for much longer than she had. 

“Katrina, what are you doing? What are you-?” 

Her mother stands there, eyes widened. They darted across her body, behind her, scanning the environment her daughter had endured. There were incoherent tracks in the snow, as if she had been running with no apparent direction. Circles, spirals, lines. That had not been the most disturbing part of this endeavor, however. The part that has chilled her more than the temperature was what her daughter had held in her hand. Katrina idled with the bone grasped firmly in hands that were forgetting how to do so. She continued to sniffle and cry, grieving the reprieve that had been handed to her.

Her mother darted towards her, hauling her inside by her armpits. She had not been strong by any means, but in these few minutes she would feel Herculean in her actions. Her mother had heard tales of women who had been stronger in moments when their children were in danger- superhuman reaction times and dexterity that was not proportional to oneself. She has never believed it herself, all she equated it to was simple science - adrenaline. She would have abandoned her beliefs swiftly if this moment proved otherwise. It did not. Her fear had not been of the “wolf” her daughter now sobbed about, or the bone in her hand. Nor was it the safety of her daughter, as cruel as it sounded. It was the idea that her husband could wake to a colder house, shivering women, and he would bring down righteous anger on weary souls.  She did not fear for Katrina. She feared for herself. She shuttled the girl inside, slamming the door shut. By now, she was sure that her husband had heard the two,  and practiced reactions caused repetitive behaviors.

“Katrina! What the hell were you thinking? What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“There was a doggie out the window!” She cried, her voice carrying throughout the house. “There was a doggie, and we played catch, and you scared him away!”

“I scared him away?” The rage in her voice spilled over, hatred for such childish reasoning for punishment that would be coming to both of them.

“Yes!”

“I scared him away? You probably did with your beady little eyes and hideous screeching laughter!” 

She ripped the coat off Katrina, putting it on the coat hanger. They both shed their shoes, as she dragged her daughter to the bathroom. There was no resistance from Katrina, only submission that betrayed her knowledge of what would come next. She had gotten caught, and the idea had been so haunting that it began to make her weep more. She wanted nothing more than to return outside, no matter how much her body had hurt when she began to warm up. She wanted to flee this home and retreat into the woods, just as that wolf had done. She, above anything else, wished so fervently that she could simply disappear with the storm itself. Now that she had a sliver of happiness, the dread that had become normality felt anything but. Her mother paid no attention, blinded by her own emotions that surged like the warm bath she drew. Water swirled in the porcelain frame, Katrina’s mother forcing her to sit on the edge.

“Get in and turn it off once it's halfway. I need to tell your father.”

“No-no no! Please, no!”

“He's going to know anyways, Katrina! What, you don't think he'd notice how cold this house is now? And give me this!” She reached for the bone, Katrina’s two hands clutching around it like a lifeline.

“No!” She yelled back, voice straining at the notion. 

“Yes!” Her mother insisted, unable to pry the human remains out of her daughter's hands. Surely, she should not be able to grasp this hard to something, she was just a little girl- no older than ten. 

“No! No, no! You can't take this from me, I won't let you have it. It's mine, the doggie gave it to me!”

Her mother's gaze turned into an icy stare. The hatred in her own body overflowed, unlike the water behind her daughter. Of course, it all came back to that dog. The nonexistent dog that they had tried to make her forget. Her hand connected to Katrina's face swiftly, causing her to drop the bone to the ground. Her head whipped to the side, tears still streaming down her cheeks. No longer did her face feel chilled, the warm sting of blood pooling underneath skin providing a familiar warmth.

“There is no dog! There never was! You're a psychotic little wretch! Do you hear me? A freak! The only dog is you. You are the dog, and you will never bark again if you ever mention it again!”

Her fragile frame sat against the tub, head hanging low. She had previously felt panic- the terror of returning to a reality like this. To fall to the ground after having the best gallop through a field of withered daisies. Now she had remembered how numb she had to be. The tears stream down her face without a hiccup to accompany it, as she stares down at the ivory on the ground. Her gift was being ripped from her hands. Perhaps, her mom had been right. She was a dog, and though she never wanted to bite- that was all she would know how to do. There was no sense in barking into a silent void, no hope in praying to someone to steal her from this place. The reality of it was that nobody had ever answered, and nobody would hear her cries.

“Wash yourself. Go to bed. And consider yourself lucky that it’s only my hand and not his. Besides, if I cracked a nail- I’d take it out of your allowance.” She scoffs, leaning down to grab the bone. A soft grunt leaves her as she does, the act of advocating for herself slowly slipping from her the further she had proceeded into the wonderful blessing that was motherhood. Arthritis spared no one, no matter the age. The door shut behind her, leaving Katrina alone to process. The water behind her had gathered at the tips of her fingers, a signal to stop the flow. As her quivering figure goes to turn the water off, hushed conversation became more apparent.

“I’m sorry, Viktor. I’m sorry, I’m going to close the window. She’s had another- another episode. I’m not sure.” Footsteps receded, quick in their pace.

“Episode?”

“She was out running around in the snow. Everything she’s saying is nonsense, utter delusion! And look- look at this. What is this, Viktor? What the hell, no- h-how the hell did she find this?”

A brief pause, and a hum of affirmation. Her father’s voice quivered and she could practically hear his swaying from behind the door. Katrina slips into the water, yearning for a transparent blanket could save her from the horrors of two equally evil souls.

“Issa’bone. What about it?”

“Are you that legless, Viktor? A bone!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.” He slurs, his tone grating against the ears. Katrina could hear her mother circling back around, and the draft that had once filled the house had gone still. Even if it was chilled, the air was stifling with tension.

“Viktor- I- I think-” Her mother’s voice gives out. “She mentioned the dog.” 

“Oh, Ну вот ещё! Jesus, what is next, you tell me that you heard it too? That we are going to adopt a little mangy baby off the street to replace our good one? Eh?”

“I-” Her voice cuts out. “Please, please believe me when I say this.” Her mother begs, her own voice laden with fear.

“Before I realized she was outside, I heard something.”

“Что за ерунда? What are you saying woman, spit it out!” He raises his voice more, footsteps growing heavier towards the bathroom. Katrina scrambles to pull the curtain, to shield herself with something so flimsy as plastic and fabric. Outside, her mother guards herself with the same amount of confidence that had filled her daughter- none.

“I thought I heard- b-barking..” Her mother says pitifully quiet.

“Great, so now you buy into her bullshit? Has the delirium spread to my own wife?” He raised his hands, waving close to her face. 

She gathered herself- her sane recollection of what happened. She wanted to instill upon the strictly agnostic man that deep within her, an itch had formed in the back of her skull. There was more than a dog, there was more than just mental illness. But how could she, someone with such little power in it all- convince a man of science that there could potentially be more? She hardly believed such things herself. There were tales in her town, when she was around the same age as Katrina. It was a childish terror that filled her- this, she knew. But it could not stop her from shaking, and reliving the moment of seeing her daughter standing idle in the blizzard outside. It did not stop her from questioning how Katrina seemed practically unscathed- when from her calculations, she had been gone for over an hour. Logically, these assertions did nothing to reassure her- and neither did her daughters reluctance to give over an item that clearly had attached herself to her in some way or another. The mangled bone sets in her palm, a reminder that what had happened was real. There was concrete evidence now, more than there had been before.

“Spit it out, Carmen.”

“You said you would believe me!” She frets, pacing away from her husband.

“You said that! I did not say anything. You are rambling like a lunatic! Do we go to the hospital next, all three of us? One happy little family, bound by the ties of a dog that does not fucking exist?” He follows after her, the room swaying with each step taken.

“I don’t think it’s a dog, Viktor. I-it.. you wouldn’t believe me, even if you said you would. Because it’s stupid, unnatural. It is insane, Viktor. All of us are! You can’t stop drinking, I can’t sleep, and she- she’s..” She stood there, arms crossing over herself, gathering the courage that had left upon the mere insult to her intelligence, to her beliefs. She tries to think of how to describe her daughter and finds no words besides ‘other’. That somehow, it hadn’t even been her own flesh and bones sitting in that bathtub right now.

“When I was watching my show, about an hour ago, it started. The barking. I thought nothing of it. Coyotes. The fores around us, adjusting to the winds. The house settling. Then, it came closer. But it wasn’t how a coyote would sound. It wasn’t high pitched. It was like a murmur. I could hear the winds howling, but I could also hear what sounded like- it sounded like someone was pretending to bark. Like there was a man outside our house, pretending to be a dog.”

“What?” He sputters, starting to laugh. The idea itself sounded entirely impossible. He grew closer to Carmen, his hand reaching out to try and steady her- or perhaps and more likely, himself.

“It sounded like someone was imitating a dog! That a man with a deep voice was outside our house, lingering around like some homeless filth, pretending that he could blend in with wildlife! Hell, maybe that’s what she’s been seeing! I don’t know. It started circling the house, over, and over. I could hear it shifting from my window, more towards your office. Then it would grow faint, like it had turned the corner. So that’s when I looked outside my window, terrified that some bearded face and beady eyes would meet me. But there was nothing. Nothing but a trail in the snow, and our daughter running around outside. She can’t possibly do that, that can’t be her. She doesn’t sound like that. But nothing about this makes sense! Nothing- nothing!” 

“Carmen, you’re delusional.” His grip tightened on her shoulder.

“I know what I heard! Do you think I would just say these things without believing it? I’m not mad, I’m not deranged like her!” She twirls, meeting Viktor’s gaze. There was something in it, as if even he had been taken off guard by the claims. It quickly turned into a stubborn, lingering stare that broke down Carmen little by little. The same stare that had gotten him so far within the courtroom, and much obedience at home. The appearance of a hardened man who would not be swayed by pleas or begging. The ruthless expression of someone who knew nothing but the world they could see in front of their eyes. The trust in one’s own senses, that he denies is muddied by outside means.

He did not care to admit that he had heard it too. The tapping of fingernails. The acute sense that something lingered outside those walls, past the warm glow of a fireplace. The sound of his father's voice outside of his closed curtains. His own itch, buried deep in his gut that he had drowned out with alcohol.

“I didn’t hear anything.” He states firmly.

“Of course you didn’t. Of course, because you’re the sane one here. Because you’re the most normal out of us all!” She laughs, putting her hand to her forehead. “ Because we have a heathen of a daughter that is driving us both mad.”

“Throw the bone away.” He blurts out.

“What?”

“Throw it away. Into the forest.” He commands, bringing her closer. His voice was nothing more than a grating whisper.

“You do it!” She shoves it into his hands, which had still remained on her shoulder. The grip was painful, but her adrenaline had been pumping so steadily she neglected to notice. “I’ve already borne the cold more than you have today!”

“Don’t bring that cursed thing near me!” He hisses, stepping back and letting it fall to the ground. He recoils, then advances, grabbing his wife by the shoulder and pushing her into the wall. There was a large clang of skin hitting solid foundation. Katrina knew it well, and she sunk lower into the bath to try and escape it.

“There. Is. No. Dog.” He growls, spit flicking into Carmen’s face.

“You’re right.” She quivers, trying to scramble to appease him.

“Say it!” He raises his voice, pulling her forward and slamming her into the wall again. “There is no dog!”

“There is no dog!” She cries out, pain shooting through her spine and up to her brain stem. The itch within her mind, the belief that there was something more fading with fear overriding it. “There is no dog, there was never a dog! There was never a bone!” She began to weep, something her daughter had already been doing within the confines of a smaller room.

“Throw it out.”

“O-only if you come to bed with me tonight. I can't be alone, please, I can't -” 

“Throw it out and I’ll go to bed with you.” Viktor’s hand clutches her shoulder harder, grounding her to this moment. A man’s brutal attempt at trying to fix a wound he had caused, only by tearing at the seams and rending new flesh.

“Okay.” She nods, doing so with such vigor that her head appeared to be swivelling at one point. A doll whose joint was attached so loosely that with one firm shake, it would roll onto the ground with a bloodless, meaningless thump.

Her footsteps were measured as she took the bone back into her hands, a qualmish sensation bristling over her upon contact with the object. She struggled to keep it steady in her palms, the rigid carvings inside leaving bone fragments that threatened to bore into her hands. To some extent, it heeded the universe’s sadistic fashion of punishment. The fragments reminded her of the family she had revolved around- an endless carousel of abuse. They had dug underneath her flesh and buried themselves there like a constant reminder. There was no running from Viktor, nor her daughter. All that remained was a storm, and a presence that needed to be cleansed. Her body idled at the door, heartbeat thudding. All of her anxiety had begun piling onto her back, weighing her down like someone standing on her shoulders.  She swivels to her spouse, mortified of the implications. She could not arrive to a conclusion on if she had been more shaken by her husband, or by whatever had been outside.

Even if she had uttered the promise that no presence was out there- her mind could not agree with it.

“Carmen.” His voice knocks her out of her stupor.

“What if-” She starts, eyes surveying the door in front of her. The eerie presentiment that a sturdy timbered door would not protect her. How trivial it would be for something to send a firm kick beneath the doorknob and knock the entire frame loose.

“There’s nothing out there.” Animosity seeds his voice like a venomous garden.

Her hand brushes against the doorknob. Chilled, fixed in place. She bears herself, quickly unlocking the door and casting the bone into the storm. All her strength went into that throw, watching the bone spiral in the air before crashing into the snow with a thud. It imprinted into the powdery substance, and provided no comfort. Outside, the only noise had been the whistling of the wind. The mountain’s sonnet upon a frightened soul. Briefly, Carmen was reminded of the tale of sirens at sea. Insolent men and their lustful desires following blindly into the depths of the sea. The haze of snowfall had made the world outside her house resemble a ship nestled into the expanses of briny surf.

She laughed then. She giggled at herself for believing that her daughter had been right- or that her own senses had been keen enough to hear unearthly things. How silly of her to think such preposterous things. Viktor began to laugh along with her, the drunken stature betraying his shared relief. His heavy stride promptly joined Carmen at the door, as they both peered out into the storm.

Instantly, their breath was stolen from them when a reflection glimmered outside. Carmen had stopped her titter forthwith, while Viktor had lingered in the relief longer. He had been sluggish in his realization, leaning on Carmen and bearing his body weight against hers.

“There’s nothing out there!” He repeated, still howling with merriment. Alcohol dimmed his senses, made him more susceptible to the siren within the murky depths. A dazed man in a doorway seemed awfully comparable to a sailor at the wheel. 

“Viktor.” Carmen mumbled, the tremble in her body resuming as hastily as it had stopped. Of course she had seen it first.

“Whattt?” He leers at her, slurring his words. “You shaking at me now? Успокойся. Close the door.”

“Viktor.” She whispered, her hand reaching out to point into the blizzard. “There.”

He swiveled to follow her finger, peering into the depths outside. The door had been open long enough for a substantial amount of powder to gather on the door’s sill. That was not what she had gestured to, however. Carmen had been specifying two glowing dots in the distance. Both husband and wife had been alive long enough to recognize the sight in front of them, and that had chilled them more than the frost gathering.

It was the reflection of light against eyes. They did not blink. They hardly moved. It was simply two specks of life that had not previously resided there.

“What.. is that?” Viktor asked, his thirst for knowledge dragging him closer to the edge of the entrance.

“I don’t know.” 

The eyes, this presence outside matched Viktor’s pace. They grew closer, a form emerging from the indistinct film outside. It had been hunched low to the ground, it’s edges only defined by the charcoal silhouette that bristled. Something about those eyes, that thing outside- it had been just as chipper as the couple mere seconds before. The closer it came, the more light reflected across it. It’s maw was wide, teeth in the wrong places but resembling a crooked grin. It did not move forward as an animal would, it’s shoulders shifting forward and leaving it’s back end behind. It stretched before the hind would follow, it’s torso dragging along loose extremities that curled into what vaguely resembled hands. It did not leave a print in the powder below it, rather hovering above the chalky snow. It made no sound, the absence of crunching making the couple second guess if it was even there at all.

“Is that-?” Viktor challenges the depths. It called back.

“Woof.” 

The same noise as before, the one both had heard nestled in the safety of their home. The voice had come out deep, echoing off space that did not exist. It did not blend into the wind that whipped by, rather projected through it. It sounded as if a person had attempted to impersonate a wolf. The way a child would finish the end of a nursery rhyme about a farm in a long forgotten land. Now their guards had been down, the door left wide like an open invitation. Maybe they had been the sirens this entire time, not the sailors with poor judgement.

“Close the door- close the door!” Carmen screamed, fleeing behind the wooden aperture. She placed her back against it, pushing with all her might. She trusted that her husband would move into the house, retreat into safety.

But he didn’t. He stared this being in the eyes as it grew closer. It dragged its sullen body across the snow, inching closer. Viktor was never a man to feel dread seep into his bones and rot them into complacency. But he stood still, transfixed on what was in front of him. A muddled mind desperately grasping at the straws of coherent, logical thought. Gears that were not quite turning in synchronous harmony, thoughts that could not be arranged. He prayed for his one inclination to be disproven, to see that this was some sort of inebriated hallucination that plagued his mind. Perhaps he would give up drinking for a day, if this presence in front of him simply scampered away. 

It did no such thing. Its head pivoted to the ground, jaw unclenching as it scooped the ivory into its maw. Teeth latched around the meager reminder of what was once human, and held it against its tongue. The flesh lapped at the cracked tribute to a petite child’s dream, before it quickly snapped the bone in half. It rang out through the blizzard, sobering Viktor immediately. He observed as the fragile pieces crumbled into the snow, leaving indents behind. The beast licked at its lips, which snarled back into a grin. Its eyes, heavily defined by the light that had bristled past the static figure of the human in the doorway were a light magenta- nearing on purple.

If Viktor had been waiting with baited breath if this varmint had been anything born in the natural world- this would shatter his expectations and steal the confidence that he had so falsely acquired.

It was then that he retreated into his house, screaming and stumbling. He slipped on the snow that melted beneath his socks, his toes biting with frost that had not been noticed within the chaos of what lurked outside. He crawled his way in, scrambling like Katrina had done so many times. Carmen closed the door behind her, trembling hands locking the door and bracing against it.

“What was that!? What was it!?” She screams at her husband, who had gotten a better view of the creature than she had. She could not bear witness to the darkness, for she had not been foolish enough to stand in the precipice of penumbral existentialism.

“Nothing. Nothing!” He was befuddled, tackling the everpresent task of maintaining the walls that had kept him safe. There was no possible, logical way for something like that to exist- and yet it did. It defied all that he knew, all that he had come to understand about the world and the way it worked. It had scared him, and Viktor had never been fearful in his entire life. Not when his father had gone mad, not when he had immigrated from Russia during the war- never. And he refused to let that precedent be set in his life- he would be afraid of the unimaginable.

“That wasn’t nothing!” She combats his logic, and is only proven by the slamming at the door. 

All at once, the silent house erupted with noise. There was a punishing knock at the door, that made the hinges creak. The wind had picked up in speed, thrashing against windows and tree branches. The forest had no longer sung a lullaby to the occupants- it shrieked with rage and envy. The laughter of wolves circled the house, and taunted the prey inside the flimsy box. If it wanted to, it very well could crack the foundations like the shell of an egg, savoring the soupy innards. But it refrained from such, for reasons unbeknownst to the occupants. Perhaps it only wished to torment them, to rattle the cage they had shut themselves in and remind them of their place. It could conceivably be relishing the panic that ensued inside. 

By the time all of this had occurred, Katrina had gathered enough courage to emerge from her bath. She did not understand what had occurred, why her house had turned into a cacophony of noises that were unpleasant to the ears of all. She had not understood what her parents had been screaming about, but somewhere deep inside her core- she wished that it was the dog. She had quietly clasped her hands together while on the edge of the bathtub. She had been snug in her bathroom, oblivious to the horror. She had been innocent, and she had remained as such throughout all that had transpired tonight. She could not help but let a pleased expression fall upon her face when she heard the barking. Her doggie had come to save her. Her new friend had not entirely disappeared at all. It had been doing what she had hoped for ever since she had laid eyes on it. It was protecting her.

“Thank you, doggie. Thank you.. You’re my best friend, for ever and ever. I’ll never let my Ma take you away, not father either.. It’ll be just us. Always us.”

It was the first time that Katrina had luxuriated in the suffering of her parents. It would not be the last, not that her life had been so irreparably changed.

“What do we do- what do we do!? Viktor, get up!” Carmen wailed, her own tears slipping down her face as terror gripped her in its eager palms. The knocking had not let up, though it was considerably less forceful than before. She could not fathom if her nerves had been withering, or if the assault was dwindling.

“Call.. call the cops..” He holds his head, realizing he had hit it against the floor while fleeing. A stream of crimson blood trickled down the side of his head, and his vision swam with static. Hot gore coated his hand as he childishly attempted to stop the bleeding by pushing harder on his scalp.

“What are the cops going to do that we can’t? Shoot it? What is there to shoot!?” She slipped into her own hysteria, using all of her might to keep the door in its place.

“I’ll.. get the phone.”

He mumbles, standing up slowly, dragging his hands along the wall and smearing his blood as he staggers for the landline. He had pushed for mobile phones in the past- the upgrade rendering a stationary phone useless. In spite of that, he wordlessly thanked Carmen for her insistence. As the case may be, it would be saving his life. His fingers circled the dial, inputting the numbers that he had never been eager to call before this very moment. Viktor used the last of his energy to relay his address and the request for police, before he slowly sunk to the floor. The phone had rested in his unconscious hands, and remained there as he lay still. 

Once he had been lulled into a fitful state of  subconscious torment, the barrage on the door ceased. It pivoted to what Carmen could only describe as heavy thuds against the walls, transitioning to the roof. It travelled across the front of the house, its footsteps tempered and measured. Heavy thuds of feet, and the scraping or tapping of what sounded like perceivably infinitesimal hands. It scoured the roof, satisfaction in the laughter barreling through the storm. It had been ecstatic with its progress so far, and it would take it a step further. Carmen listened acutely, eyes peeled to her surroundings and refusing to even blink. There had been a nagging inclination in her gut that if she blinked, or even closed her eye for a moment- that whatever had been out there would know. That it would take advantage of the vulnerable moment to execute whatever plan it had been. It had barked at her husband, getting contentious when he had fleed. What would it do to her, what would it do to-?

She recognized where the steps were heading when they idled above the bathroom. Her body refused to move, opting to listen rather than act. 

“And maybe, when it’s nice outside, I can bring you inside. I can give you a bath, and take you on walks.” Katrina continues, clasping her hands in front of her. Her soft mutters came as incomprehensible whispers to outside observers, unnerving her mother more than the noises outside.

Had she done this?

“And maybe, if I wish really hard, we can both find Molly.” Tears had brimmed at Katrina’s eyes, a grin cemented to her features. “Can you help me find Molly, doggie?”

The house had descended into a macabre silence shortly thereafter. Whatever had lurked within the storm was quickly swept away with it. Wind died down to a comforting hum, swirling between branches that had been knocked from trees. Pine needles littered the ground like freckles on a newborn baby, and an eerie peace descended upon the Volkov residence. It remained frozen in time, analogous to a polaroid photo snapped in the reserves of a memory.

When the unmistakable strobe of red and blue lights had blared through the windows, no figure within the house had moved with it. Everyone remained stationary, processing noiselessly. Carmen had been plastered to the door, hyperventilating and quivering. It took almost ten minutes before responders could encourage her to open the door. Police and EMTs responded with the monotonous repetition of desensitized veterans. 

They had seen families wracked by cabin fever, and this one had seemed no different. Outside, the house had appeared to have taken wind damage, strong gusts from the blizzard being blamed for the noise. The door’s frame had been cracked along the edges, spanning inwards. Flimsy installation had written off any concerns that had been brought up. Tiles had been ripped off the roof, flung feet away from the house haphazardly and buried within snow. Windows had been frosted over, save for the bathrooms, which had been the warmest room in the house. The rest of the house had been freezing, breath being caught in the air like plumes of smoke. The window to Katrina’s room had remained open, never closed from the initial excursion. It had been open long enough to frost the edges, leaving it as a point of entry that was never used. There had been no presence outside, and if there had been- the prints were swept away with the blizzard, no tracks to be found.

When Carmen had initially relayed her story to investigators, she had been considered a mental health risk. She had recounted how her daughter had snuck out of the house, how they had run a bath to warm her- then were assaulted by an unknown assailant. Something that had sounded human, but wasn’t entirely based in reality. The notion against Mrs. Volkov’s sanity dropped when investigators had provided substantial evidence leading to extreme weather damage. Carmen was hasty to agree, denying just the same as Viktor would- once he regained consciousness within the hospital he was brought to. 

First responders had considered the entire household to have been gripped with hysteria, only fueled by substances. It had been only by reputation that the story did not leave the loose lips of those who had been at the scene. Even if Viktor had suffered a grade 3 concussion, his prowess in court had rendered him untouchable by most authorities. Anyone who dared try was often met with an honorable discharge, or precinct change. It had been no surprise to anyone that Viktor had alcohol in his bloodstream, that his concussion had come from a hard fall. He had no recollection of that night, and upon a follow up interview, Viktor corroborated the story that he had heard something outside, but firmly believed it to be hallucinations brought on by extreme alcohol usage. While his blood alcohol level did not indicate that extreme of a case, Viktor would not change his stance.

The most frightening thing, to investigators, had been the little girl inside the bathroom. The Volkov’s daughter, who had been smiling upon discovery. She had been entirely unaffected by the entire ordeal, kicking her feet and singing  songs quietly to herself. She was unscathed, only sitting in her mother’s bathrobe and bobbing her head to a nonexistent song.  She did nothing but babble about a dog in which the family did not own, but Katrina had claimed to ‘know very well’. In the ambulance escort to the hospital, she sat on her mother’s lap the entire time. She asked many questions, most related to the equipment in the ambulance. Investigators had described her as charismatic, well-mannered, and entirely unlike the girl that her mother would insist. She had minimal frostbite from her exposure outside, and was treated for any lingering abnormalities related to such.

The family concluded that they would contact a pre-existing mental health counsellor. Any further questioning was deemed as unneeded, and the family received a clean bill of health. A Christmas miracle, deemed as such by the practitioners that worked with them. Once again, the Volkov's were the outstanding family that everyone had knew them to be- a perfect fit into society as a whole.

Underneath the facade, cracks had formed between them all. Both parents had deemed the situation Katrina’s fault, and she was promptly punished at home. There was no dog, and there had been no bone. There was no savior for the little girl who had prayed in her bathroom to find her sister that had been lost long before the storm. There was no us, it had been just her, and the small room that she lived in. That had been assured.
--

TW’s: Graphic depictions of abuse, cosmic horror, blood, references to alcohol abuse.

Chapter 1- “All you are going to want to do is get back there.”

“There was a doggie out my window.”

She kicks her feet, sitting on a pleather couch. She was perched like a small chick in a nest, dangling over a raging stream. Her hair is tied into low pigtails that bob with her movements. It's the most active she's been in the last few sessions, though she would never notice herself. The watchful eye of a professional would catch it- if that was what they were worried about.

The person across from her, however, has no interest in dogs or dreams that would never come to be. Instead, they sit preoccupied in their own swirling thoughts. It had not been the first time this client- their client, Miss Volkov had mentioned a dog. No, in fact, it was the entire reason she had been here in the first place. Her parents could not understand nor comprehend her obsession with small details, or her volatile temper. Such emotional outbursts had become particularly bothersome in accordance with her schooling. Miss Volkov had only been in the fifth grade, but her disciplinary reports tended to speak for themselves. An absent daydreamer, a child who stared out of the windows and would not answer questions. At recess, she would often wait by the door to come back inside, stating that the playground was often too loud for her liking. She had no desire to interact with other students or any of the content she was given. It wasn't for a lack of trying- the school counselor’s notes read as much.

They had referred Miss Volkov to the plum-wearing psychologist for the same reason they continued to be befuddled by her ramblings. A dog. 

There had been no reason to suspect autism, they had concluded. Miss Volkov- who insisted that she be called Katrina, not Miss- was like solving a jigsaw with nothing but the center pieces. There was no corner to begin from, because she simply had not cared to give all the pieces.  Perhaps she did not have them herself, or they were lost within a panopticon mentality in a youthful mind. There had been some concerning behaviors from her parents, but nothing worth risking an assumption. The psychologist was only paid to dissect, not to confront. There was only so much they could prod at with Katrina, for the Volkov name did not come without a chill down the spine alongside it. 

A misdiagnosed daughter to a lawyer whose finger hovered over his paperwork would mean the end of their practice entirely. They knew that fact well. So once again, the conversation circulated in a steady flow between the two, the psychologist taking a listening role. Originally, they had the Volkov's accompany their daughter, but those sessions were uneventful and wasted the time and money of both parties. The psychologist did not redirect themselves to active listening until a sound caught their attention, the squeak of fabric on pleather.

“Katrina, tell me more about the dog.” They pry, trying to play at what Katrina seemed to care about the most.

“No.” She said firmly, standing up and lingering near the couch. A threat, that she might just leave this place all together.

“Why not? I was listening.”

“..You don't care about it. You care about other things.” She crosses her arms over her chest, eyes glued to the ground. Her affinity for getting discouraged quickly had been something new; usually, her parents reported her being more combative. 

“What would I care about, other than what you have to say, Katrina?” They decided on an inkling of pressure to test how reactive she would be. They held their hands in their lap, pen held like a vice in between their fingers. They crave a cigarette quietly, but do not even consider acting on such a matter.

“All you do is write. All you do is ask, and you don't listen. You want to use me.”

“Use you?” They crack a smile, but it's something that comes out of a purely dumbfounded domain. There could be a corner piece sitting right in front of them that they had not yet even considered.

Katrina studies their face intently. She was intelligent, that had not been a lie. Her instincts were on point, and she had constantly been in a state of defense. Perhaps traumatically so. She had not made a breakthrough in this particular office yet, and she was dancing gracefully along the edge of it. She had learned at an early age how to juggle her own emotions, and what to look for in others. She would not come to this realization until she was much, much older.

All she could think about was the dog. It had appeared out her window just last night, yet nobody had experienced it except her. She can remember the way its ruff had bristled in the moonlight, how the face had been obscured by shadow. The gleam of its eyes mirrored that of a billiard ball, one that clacked around in her father's study every night. The smell of cigarette smoke and heavy liquor had come along with it, but not this dog. This dog smelled like the Earth, dust settling and sweltering cold. It had never approached Katrina directly, only lingering out of her window or in the distance at night. At first, she had thought the thing itself was prowling for a meal, preying on Katrina's small defenseless form as an easy filling. But it never lunged, it never bowed down to pounce.. it simply stared. Its teeth glinted in the low moonlight, a pearl white sheen with sharp and gnashing jaws. 

“My ma keeps changing doctors. None of them believe me.” She finishes her sentence after her counterpart clears their throat. She notes the way they're tilted forward, as if hanging off every word she had to say. They were interested in the dog. She was, too.

“Maybe the other doctors weren't what you needed.” They sit back in their chair, tilting their head and killing the smile that had invaded their face.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some doctors help with your physical health.” 

Katrina raised an eyebrow, her eyes already settling into canyons in her face. Her skin had not yet seen pubescent blemishes or the sun’s scorching rays. If it had not been for her attitude, one would think she was a preserved porcelain doll. It was something that aged her by thirty years, this expression alone. Distrust. She says nothing more.

“Like when you scrape your knee, or get your eyes checked.”

“Oh. They check your eyes?” She held a hand up to her face, fingertips brushing against her eyelashes. Katrina’s eye twitched against the action, and she found herself recoiling from her own actions.

“Have you gotten that yet? An.. eye doctor appointment.” They watch her explore her face just as though she had never regarded its existence before.

“No. Only ones that talk.”

“Not even your vaccines?” 

“Oh, yeah. The needles?”

“The needles.”

“Yeah.”  She went quiet after that, looking at the ground next to her. Her brief moment of clarity relapsed into stark silence within seconds. They had lost her to the fog that surrounded her- engulfed her wholeheartedly and would not relent.

It had been a rule- and not one that had been unspoken. ‘Do not talk about the dog.’  Instructions from the parent, ones that were heeded graciously. It was common knowledge that if a patient had delusions, it was unwise to feed into them. But perhaps, maybe- there was something to uncover here. There was something more to the dog than just a delusion; there was a corner piece in a puzzle. They had no clue as to why the parents were so avoidant of a topic such as this, something menial and unassuming such as a dog. Little beings that had no higher intelligence. Perhaps it was the blind loyalty of a dog, the self-sacrificing nature in servitude to their masters. Moreover, it was a probability that Katrina longed for the protection from a being like that, the protection from what had been the question. The notion began bouncing around in the confidant’s head, not unlike a pinball machine. So, betraying the wishes of her parents and absolving their own curiosity, they continue.

“What did the dog look like, Katrina?” They pick up their pen, putting the felt tip down onto the paper to begin transcribing.

A long silence out of the girl, her lip sucking in as she determines if she wants to relay this information. She too, was told to never speak about the dog. Yet here she was in a seat that was all too sizeable for her, making her resemble something rather diminutive.

“..You'll think it's silly.” She finally sits down, abandoning the idea to flee.

“It's not silly to me. That's why I asked, what you say matters here.”

“You won't tell my ma or pa?” 

“No.”

She curls in onto herself, hands clasping together as if she was preparing to purge a great worth of pain and knowledge onto the person in front of her.

“It was dark. But the doggie was dark too. It had a big puff of fur around his head, and he looked fluffy.”

They smile.. Katrina seems to bristle at the positive attention. How curious. They lean back, lifting the pen from their page. It had made a blot of ink that seeped through the paper and stained the clipboard below. They laugh at themselves, putting a cap on their pen.

“Why are you.. laughing?” She watches them carefully, eyes darting between their hands and face.

“You said all I do is write. I suppose you weren't wrong. Tell me more, Katrina. It was fluffy, but what about the rest of it?” 

“It had eyes like.. like a button. Like your button.” She points to their coat, which had not gone heavily unscrutinized. The pantsuit that lay beneath the faded white- now cream colored coat glimmered through to Katrina, and she had never noted how odd they appeared. The crows' feet by their eyes wrinkled as they continued to smile at her, but she did not fear it as much as she had sessions before. For once, she concluded that she could speak her mind.  Maybe this one was different.

“It came close last night, very close. I wanted to reach my hand out, but it didn't want to be pet. Plus, father would be mad if he knew my window was open.”

“He doesn't let you open your window?” 

“Not unless there's a fire. Because he says if the windows are open, dirty things get inside. Like bugs, and rats, and little girls who don't listen.” She cuts out, skipping over that fact with a quick redirection. “But I always open the window for the dog. It isn't dirty, it wouldn't be.”

“Why not? It was outside.”

“I'd give it a bath. A nice bath. I'd use ma’s good shampoo, the one in the purple bottle.” She insists, a smile flickering across her face. A glimmer of hope.

“I'm sure it would like that.” A soft smile comes across their face. There’s a kindness there that makes Katrina relax more, and they acutely note how her fidgeting dulls. Like a fire being dampened by a sweet summer storm, they had found a corner piece to their puzzle.

“Yeah. I’d make sure its all scrubbed up. Maybe then it could come inside.” Katrina pauses, leaving the room silent before she continues. “You ask a lot of questions.” 
“It’s my job, Katrina. Remember, you never have to answer anything you don’t want to. But I ask to understand. If I understand, then maybe we can make your parents understand.”

“They think I’m crazy.” 

She spits with a sudden hatred, balling her fists in her lap and scrunching the dress she had adorned. Usually she had always tugged it lower to prevent it from bunching- now that was just a forgotten notion in the wake of onset anger. Their eyes widen. A stunning amount of  self consciousness from someone of her age. She was intelligent, that was assured upon initial observation. But to repeat something so inflammatory, paranoid-? That was something to note, even if they did not have their clipboard. 

“I don’t.” 

“Is that why you ask questions? To tell them?”

“No, not everything.”

“But you tell them.”

“..I have to tell them, some, yes. But if you don’t want me to tell them, then I won’t. It can stay between us.” They speak softly, trying to discourage her from closing up again. They had gotten this close, gotten progress in their pocket. 

“Would you tell them about the dog?”

“No.” 

“..Why not?”

“I.. assume you wouldn't want me to.” They know better. They know what would ruin all that they've worked for, the entire puzzle and every piece involved.

“I don't. They don't believe me. They say there's no dog, but that's not true. I see it.”

“Do you believe everything you see?”

“No.” She says quickly, in such a way that the question itself bothered her. “But this is real, I- I don't know how. But I get this funny feeling in my stomach when I see it. That's how I know. I know it's real.”

They purse their lips, looking down at the girl. She matches their gaze, just as apprehensive as they are.

“You don't believe me, do you?”

“I do.” They grin, dispelling all of the tension in the room. “Do you know what the word intuition means? Have you heard it before?”

The girl shakes her head, conscious of her own ineptitude. Her body prepares herself for a scathing comment, but nothing comes. The person across from her simply lays passive, no hand being raised nor harsh tone. There is simply a quiet observation that is mutually shared between the two.

“It's that feeling you get within your stomach. A feeling when you know something without knowing. You don't think about how it might be right, you just know it is. You have great intuition, Katrina.”

“That means..?”

“You listen to what your heart tells you. You're smart, and you don't doubt what you feel. That's very good. It's valid.”

“Valid?”

“Justifiable.” They pause, seeing no reaction. They hesitate, putting a finger to their chin as they scratch while thinking. “Logical- er.. Supported by facts. The way you judge your surroundings, it's okay. It's not wrong.”

“Then I know what I-”

The two's conversation is interrupted by an egg timer, something the two both know well. Their time together was over, and they wouldn't meet for another week. Usually, Katrina would spring out of her chair and go flying to the door, but today's mentality continues to be different. Today, she cries. Katrina remains a static corner piece in the puzzle that had yet to be completed. 

“Katrina?”

“Why can't I stay here? Why can't I just have more time?  I just want more time.” The tears slip out easily.

“We can see each other next week.” Their tone is even and measured, despite the small pang within their heart, that they could not comprehend at the current juncture.

“NO! No, I want to stay. I don’t want to go back. Don’t make me go back.”

“I can’t, Katrina.” They sigh, standing up. The girl in front of them jolts to life, scrambling to cling to their pants. Her small hands thread through the fabric, as if trying to ground the two to this moment. It was the first moment she had accepted an embrace, or even initiated it on her own. This had been a turn, one for the betterment of her health- but at what cost?

“Please don’t tell them.” She chokes out, terrified. They can understand what she means- because this is more about the dog, this was about trust.

“I won’t.”  They conclude, assured in their choice from the moment she had started opening up. Something like this was too precious to let slip through their hands. Like a flame threatened by a billowing wind, or a deserter's fickle alliances, this moment was something more than a cry for help. The worst part was that they couldn’t help, not yet. They had to wait, pile evidence. They were a mandated reporter, that was the job of all therapists and licensed professionals, but to report something on the child of a well known lawyer.. That was a different story altogether.

“Thank you.” She sucks the tears that had leaked out of her eyes back in, as she had done so many times before- and would continue to do until it hardened her heart into black stone.

“You’re most welcome. Remember, I will always be here. I’m not going anywhere.” They smile, and for once, Katrina smiled back. 

It felt like a sin to put a hand on her shoulder and lead her out of the room and back into the arms of a mother who was too busy reading the latest news on a two-week-old crumpled newspaper. She seemed to be hiding within a place that felt oddly alien to her, despite the layout of the buffering room. The room was cozy, harboring warm colored lights that were not hanging from above, but rather from the visage of candlelight. A Himalayan salt lamp sat on a coffee table in the middle of a rather quaint nook of couches and plush chairs. Books piled in the recesses of the room, abstract paintings with plentiful colors adorning the walls. A brass cross resides on a wall, overlooking all the weary souls that walked past it. The small form of a man nailed to it oversaw those who tread this footpath, bringing quiet blessings to those who chose to give it a wordless thanks. In the corner, a middle-aged man who was greying all too early sat looking out the window. His hand rests on his chin, while another rests in his lap- finger tapping quietly in such a way that appeared to be counting the seconds itself. He looks outside at a tree whose leaves had fallen much earlier in the season. It was the dead of winter, and snow coated the ground like heaven itself had come crashing into Earth.

“Nothing new.” The therapist informs, retracting their hand and leaving Katrina stranded there. She resembled a bridge stuck between two pillars- one of them crumbling at the seams.

“God, great. Just great. Thank you for trying, anyhow. I just don’t see why they have us do this.” Her mother scoffs, putting the paper down with a harsh thud on the table. She seemed to have held it up to her face, hiding from the gaze of the other soul in the lobby. She looked guilty, without even acting upon any heinous impulses. The woman just seemed to have that aura about her- that she was privy to something terribly wrong, but would not utter a word to a single soul.

“Sometimes extra support can encourage development. Ease the mind, create a safe space to share thoughts and self-reflect.” The woman’s face skewed into an insulted look. They clear their throat, continuing on.

“Not that she doesn’t have it already. But the pressure of presenting that to a parent is different than an unbiased party. It allows them to- regain confidence in herself, yes? A school resource officer is a start, but they don’t have the.. tools.” They move their hand in circles, as if dismissing the thought as soon as it leaves their mouth. The mother relaxes, standing up and clutching her purse close to her waist.

“I suppose so. Then it is worth the cost, despite it all. Come on, Katrina, or we’ll be late to the fitting.”

She turns sharply, walking off with clacking heels that felt like judgment bells to the young girl following behind her. She gives a final glance back before her vision traces to the floor, following along like a dog on a leash. The two of them disappear into the blizzard outside, not before the mother reaches down and fits an all too petite parka over her daughter. It barely does enough, her wrists and hands still being exposed to the cold. Their silhouettes blend into that quiet afternoon with a somber dread weighing heavily on the therapist’s mind. There is a silence that falls in this purgatory, as they adjust their coat and look to the man in the corner.

“Do you really think-?” He starts, eyes trailing to a two-wheeled car that struggles to get out of the snow. A woman who throws her hands up in agitation, the glitter of her jewelry catching the fleeting glimpses of sun behind cloudy skies.

“I do. Absolutely.” The therapist nods, turning and folding their hands at their waist.

“..Not my business.” The man scoffs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in accordance to the mayhem outside. “But they might need a sandbag in their trunk, if they keep driving around like that.”

“Quaint.” The therapist strides over to the window, smile wrenched onto their features. 

“..You know, you look awfully uncanny when you do that.” The man stands, a grunt as his knees pop. He is aging faster than he would like, though the knowledge that he has gathered over the years serves him well.

“Am I not allowed to be excited?” The therapist regards the man, their acquaintance, the one who owns this office building and many more. A man who adjusts his cardigan over himself, as though trying to keep the chill off of his weary bones.

“You are. I just haven’t seen it in a long time. What’s gotten you so excited then?”

“...A new development is all. I think I’ve got it figured out.”

“And how long has that taken?” Another short, breathy laugh.

“Not long.” They tilt their head, watching the car outside dig a hole into the snow with its tires, a tireless- haha- attempt to meet a deadline.

“You know, that lady’s wretched. Can smell it on her. Fake, artificial perfume.” The man wipes his nose, sighing and looking back to the office. “Can I use it, now?”

“Yes, it’s all free. I’m going to go.” The therapist states, watching the car unlodge itself from the snow, and quickly take off. Reckless driving, at the very least.

“Where?”

“I feel like doing a jigsaw puzzle.” They state pleasantly, a smile never dropping from their face. They take off their coat, hanging it up on the coat rack. Their dress shoes, entirely unfit for the weather, pad down the hallway as they push open the door, a gust of chilled wind filling the room. Evidently the very presence of cold itself had filled the empty spaces and left nothing but the need to return to warmth.

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I have a Clip Studio Paint PRO Dual-device plan that is prepaid. I believe the maintence tonight has made my CSP bug out. It wouldn't let me log into the Clip Studio app (which was stated with the maintenance notes) but now that I have logged back in/restarted the app, this notification is still the same. Will it go away in three days, or do I need to contact support? If anyone else is having this issue, let me know 😄

I really want to start testosterone and get the physical changes (bottom growth, voice changes, hair growth, passing, etc.) butI am terrified that my anger issues will spiral out of control. have autism, BPD and CPTSD and take 50mg of Seroquel. I talk to a therapist regularly but just genuinely do not know how to deal with my anger except isolating myself or ending up coping unhealthily. Will testosterone make this worse? want to help my dysphoria and it would be amazing for potential endometriosis, but even small things like annoying coworkers or overbearing online friends make me so angry that I have to step away to regulate or else will snap. I feel so stuck and I'm not sure what to do. I have been in therapy for half my life, and every single type you can name. EMDR, somatic, group, CBT, DBT, mental hospitalizations. I have tried an entire rigamarole of meds to the point my psychiatrists are starting to run out of sustainable options. Will testosterone make it worse for me, or would it finally grant me a moment of peace?? I guess I'm just looking for how it's made others feel or their experiences.

I really want to start testosterone and get the physical changes (bottom growth, voice changes, hair growth, passing, etc.) but I am terrified that my anger issues will spiral out of control. I have autism, BPD and CPTSD and I take 50mg of Seroquel. I talk to a therapist regularly but I just genuinely do not know how to deal with my anger except isolating myself or ending up coping unhealthily. Will testosterone make this worse? I want to help my dysphoria and it would be amazing for potential endometriosis, but even small things like annoying coworkers or overbearing online friends make me so angry that I have to step away to regulate or else I will snap. I feel so stuck and I'm not sure what to do.