[Back to the start.]

---

 

Several days passed. Wilkins had not gone back into work the day after his strange encounter; he had not gone back to work at all since, in fact. So concerned was he for his own mental wellbeing — seeing things that clearly could not be true was probably, after all, a sign that something was very wrong indeed — that he'd taken himself straight to his doctor and demanded to be signed off work with stress.

As he sat in his bed, staring at the wall, he wasn't sure that taking himself out of situations involving other human beings had been quite the right thing to do. He found himself alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts, it turned out, weren't overly friendly. They seemingly wanted him to suffer, to recall bad things that had happened in the past — and to worry about bad things happening in the present. He knew that even as he sat there, motionless, the enquiry into the disappearance of Thompson would be doing its best to trawl up any evidence of negligence on the part of Wilkins, and Wilkins knew full well that there was plenty of it, given his general feeling of detachment and disillusionment that he'd been feeling recently.

He'd lost count of the days since he'd last been in to work; he reckoned maybe a week or more. His house had been well-stocked with food and other supplies, though, so he hadn't needed to leave once, and so he hadn't. Now, though, he was starting to get down to the food at the back of the cupboard — things that had been bought and forgotten about months, even years ago, but which were designed to see people through an apocalypse with at least a bare minimum of nutrition.

He got up and walked to his kitchen, boiled the kettle and prepared a cup full of noodles for himself. The smell that emanated from the mug was less than appetising, but at least it was something to eat, and Wilkins had found, ever since delving into the food at the back of the cupboard, that the artificial flavourings in these instant "meal in a pouch" things were surprisingly tasty and satisfying, at least in the short term; he felt hungry less than an hour later, in most cases, but at least they provided something to do, if nothing else.

He hadn't had a repeat of the encounter in his bedroom since it had happened, and he struggled to understand its implications. Who was the strange, shadowy figure? What happened to his room? What did it all mean? Was it real, or was it just a manifestation of the pressure his brain was feeling at the moment?

It wouldn't be long before he'd get an answer.

 

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus deftly hopped from rooftop to rooftop noiselessly, breaking his fall each time with wings of darkness. He'd been surprised and delighted at how quickly he'd come to understand the peculiar changes that had come across him, and he was starting to enjoy using them. The shadowy figure, which occasionally showed up and suggested that he maybe try doing things a little bit differently, had helped him on his path, but for the most part he had explored his capabilities for himself and come to realise that he was, in human terms, virtually indestructible and capable of numerous physics-defying feats.

The strange black tendrils that could now erupt from his hands to order proved to be his most versatile assets. In just the last few days, he'd used them to climb up a seemingly unscalable wall, to give a mugger — and, for that matter, his victim — the fright of his life, and as a somewhat self-satisfied demonstration to the shadowy figure one evening, to retrieve a coffee cup from the kitchen without leaving his seat.

One thing had bothered Magnus initially. Although his new powers were exciting — not to mention a little bit frightening — they did have one impact on his life that he wasn't sure what to make of: they served to distance himself further from normal existence. There was no way around this, of course, and he knew this: there is no way that one can become capable of superhuman leaps between buildings, physics-defying stunts and the ability to summon dark tendrils to do one's bidding and in any way hope that one's life would remain in any way "normal". But still it bothered him a little, at least to begin with: as time passed and he grew more confident with each of his strange powers, however, it started to bother him less and less; he started to realise that his "normal" existence was nothing but a dark and miserable place where very few people cared about him — Dora being the obvious exception — whereas now, now he had the ability to make a difference, both for good and for ill: his powers gave him the ability to both help and hurt, and, in an attempt to understand the situation better — and at the urging of the shadowy figure — he had done both of these things.

Both the "helping" and the "hurting" had come in the aforementioned case of the mugger. Magnus had been out practising his ability to leap and float between rooftops when he had spotted the unfolding situation in a darkened alley he was familiar with from a few years back: although unlit and rather frightening to walk through late at night, it was a popular thoroughfare for student revellers returning from an evening's debauchery at a local nightclub: it was a quick, direct route between the street which housed both the nightclub and a fine selection of questionable kebab shops, and the main student residential area in the city. Because of its popularity and usual level of activity, it remained surprisingly free of crime; certainly during Magnus' time as a student, he'd never known of anyone getting attacked there. The girl had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She'd been walking home slightly unsteadily; she was tipsy, but not falling-down drunk. She was, however, alone; a disagreement with her friends earlier in the evening had seen her storm off in anger, desiring nothing more than to get back home to her nice warm bed and forget about the silly things alcohol makes people do. A lone, vulnerable girl had proven too tempting a target to resist for her assailant, who had been casually walking back and forth around the area, up and down the alleyway, for the past hour or two. So unremarkable a figure he cut that no-one had paid him any mind; most people passing through the area were on their way somewhere, so had no way of knowing that he had been loitering with intent. But he had.

He'd followed the girl in the alleyway and struck quickly, grabbing her from behind and covering her mouth, threatening her not to scream. Then he shoved her violently against a wall and drew a pocket knife. She couldn't have screamed even if she did think it was a good idea; she was too terrified to even move, let alone make a sound.

Magnus saw all of this, as did the shadowy figure, who had been accompanying him. She urged him on to intervene, to test out his powers and the way in which he should respond to a situation. She encouraged him not to think, just to feel, and to do what felt most natural, to do what his instincts told him to.

Magnus had leapt down into the alleyway, floating noiselessly to the ground a short distance from the confrontation. The lack of lighting in the alleyway meant that his entrance had gone unnoticed; the pair were still far too preoccupied with their own situation.

Before he could let himself think about what was the "right" thing to do, Magnus caused the black tendrils to erupt from his hands, and they charged through the night air until they ensnared the girl's assailant. They wrapped around his legs and around his body, binding him like a constrictor snake traps its prey, and slowly started to squeeze the life out of the mugger. Gasping for breath, his face going pale, the mugger attempted in vain to remove the tendrils from around his body, but they were far too tight, and touching them gave him an indescribable sensation of terror that he had no desire to repeat ever again.

He knew that he was going to die; he resigned himself to it. Magnus felt it, and he knew he had to make a choice, quickly. Without hesitation, he retracted the tendrils, which reversed their course and coiled back into his hands — rather like a vacuum cleaner cord retracting, Magnus thought with detached amusement — to leave the breathless mugger collapsing to his knees, gasping for sweet, sweet air.

The girl, meanwhile, who had been frozen to the spot during this otherworldly display, came to her senses enough to realise that this would be a good opportunity to run far, far away and, perhaps, to never, ever come out from under the covers again.

Tonight, Magnus had come across no such incidents that required his intervention, but he knew now that if he did, he would not hesitate to step in. He had, in his lifetime, read enough superhero comics to know that he needed to use his power responsibly, but he figured that no-one would really object to a few more muggers being taken out of commission.

He wasn't on the hunt for crime tonight, though; he had a greater purpose in mind. The shadowy figure had earlier explained to him the situation of Officer Wilkins, who appeared to be teetering on the cusp of the Darkness. It was Magnus' job to keep him safe and ensure the Light didn't get to him first; it was Magnus' job to ensure that Wilkins didn't end up as another Stacey Barman.

When he thought of the Light, he couldn't help but think of Dora. He hadn't seen her for several days; hadn't even heard from her. Simple, normal things like text messages and phone calls seemed to mundane in the context of his new existence, but he still found himself missing her and worrying about the plans the golden figure had for her; he found himself worrying that they'd end up in a confrontation with one another, and that one would end up having to hurt the other — something that he knew neither of them wanted to do, despite the opposing sides on which they'd found themselves in this otherworldly conflict.

He couldn't get hung up on that now, though; he had more important things to do. He was approaching Wilkins' home — the shadowy figure had known right away where to send Magnus, much to his surprise — and he had a job to do. He hoped that it would be a boring and uneventful job, but he had the sneaking suspicion that, going by the pattern of recent happenings, things were probably not going to be that simple at all.

And he would, it transpired, be right about that.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

Officer James Wilkins slumped back into his sofa and flicked the television on. He hopped through the channels, but as usual, there was nothing interesting to watch; he just wanted some background noise. He eventually settled on some sort of cookery challenge show; it seemed to run with the theme that "celebrities" were not, on average, particularly good at cooking, with some of them even struggling to throw together a convincing omelette.

It had not been a good day. The escape of the suspect Magnus Thompson had raised more than a few eyebrows, particularly as Wilkins had already submitted his report stating that he intended to release him. Thompson apparently still feeling the need to escape despite the fact that he had seemingly been telling the truth in his interviews suggested to Wilkins, Jensen and their superiors that there was perhaps something more to the situation than there had initially appeared; it certainly looked suspicious, anyway.

A big question hung over the case: how on Earth had he done it? The next morning, his cell was empty, but it was locked up just as tight as it had been the previous evening, and there was no evidence that anyone had forced entry — or, indeed, exit. It was simply as if he had never been in there at all, though the paper trail said otherwise, of course. Thompson had been processed just like any other suspect, and there was both written and recorded evidence of his time in the police station; there was just no sign of him whatsoever.

Wilkins sighed and closed his eyes, the dull murmuring of the TV show proving a relaxing backdrop.

He was roused from his almost-slumber by the "ding!" of the bell on the microwave, indicating that his meal for one was ready. He sighed again, pushed himself up out of the soft sofa, which had been threatening to swallow him, and walked through to the kitchen. He emptied the unappetising-looking pasta bake into his last remaining clean bowl, quickly wiped off a fork that was in the sink and took it back into the living room to eat in front of the TV, as was his custom these days.

His heart wasn't really in anything these days. He had once enjoyed his work as a police officer, but nowadays it felt hollow and empty, more like he was enforcing rules for the sake of enforcing them rather than to help make society in any way better. He had actually been excited — and slightly sickened at this admission to himself — to find himself investigating something more interesting than yet another crowd of youths standing on a street corner saying "fuck" a little too loudly for the taste of an old lady who lived close by, or a shoplifting incident whose value added up to less than the price of a packet of cigarettes.

Now, though, this case was proving to be just as troublesome as everything else in his life. The escape of Thompson had, of course, been blamed on him, since he was the last officer to deal with him. There was to be "an enquiry" — the station seemed to launch a thousand of these daily — and he had, for the moment, been temporarily removed from the case pending its findings. He knew that by the time the "enquiry" had finished chewing through the reams of red tape that sustained it, Thompson would be long gone, Barman's body would be in the ground and there would be little hope of ever finding out what the truth really was.

He finished his pasta as the cookery show finished. He put the bowl on the floor and leaned his head back on the sofa, closing his eyes once again. It didn't take him long to drift off to sleep.

 

*       *       *       *       *

When he awoke, the sun had gone down. The TV was still on; now it seemed to be showing some sort of outdoor survival program, and as Wilkins' eyes came back into focus he was treated to the sight of the presenter gobbling down some sort of beetle-like creature. Wishing he hadn't woken up at that exact moment and wincing, he fumbled around for the remote and flicked the screen off. The room filled with darkness, and he just lay there for a moment, contemplating the silence.

Then he started to think, and he didn't want to do that right now, so he forced himself to stand up, letting out a grunting moan as he did so — he'd been on his feet all day, and his legs were feeling very stiff — and shuffling towards the stairs, intending to head upstairs to bed.

The house was all too quiet now, and far too big for him to live in by himself. This was why he spent the majority of his time when he wasn't working in the living room watching television; it distracted him and kept his mind busy, and prevented him from thinking about why the house was so quiet.

He trudged up the stairs one at a time, pulled off his clothes and got into bed, closing his eyes right away.

"You want to talk about it?" came a voice he'd heard once or twice before. It was soft, feminine, soothing. He knew it wasn't really there, but it brought him comfort nonetheless. He said nothing.

"Uh-huh," said the female voice. "It's been a bad day, I know. And I bet you're thinking that things probably can't get much worse right now, can they?"

His continued his silence.

"Well," said the voice. "What if I told you that the man you're looking for can help you out?"

He opened his eyes and sat up groggily. He blinked a few times, then gave a start. A shadowy female figure seemed to be straddling him, but he felt no weight whatsoever from the figure; she seemed to be completely incorporeal, as if she was made from dark mist. But she was most definitely there; he could see her moving and hear her talking.

As he looked at her, the walls of his room seemed to bend and shift around him; must be my eyes adjusting to the dark, he thought.

Then he considered the strangeness of the situation. There was no way there could be a black, shadowy figure made of mist straddling him, but there seemingly was, so perhaps his walls really were bending and shifting, too?

He reached over to the bedside lamp and tried to switch it on. Nothing happened. The figure did not move, but as his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness — he was at least partly right about what he was experiencing — he started to feel like he could make out things that had not been there before; his walls seemed to be covered in black, scrawled writing: words, phrases, short poems and indecipherable symbols. Everywhere he looked, he saw the strange designs; he didn't know what they were, and they were frightening. But he could not scream; he found himself strangely fascinated, despite the adrenaline of terror rattling around his body.

"What's going on?" he asked in a cracked voice.

"Oh, this?" said the figure, moving off him and gesturing flamboyantly around the room. "It's probably a little early to start getting into the details of it all, but rest assured, all will become very clear very soon indeed. I'm glad that you've seen it, though; that tells me something important that I needed to know. See you soon."

The figure vanished, the room seemed to distort again and suddenly Wilkins was dazzled by the light from his lamp, which apparently he had managed to turn on at some point.

He looked around, his heart racing. His walls were clean, albeit shabby, with the wallpaper peeling here and there, but there was no sign of the strange black scrawl that had been there moments earlier. This was, he was sure, the room he knew very well, but he didn't feel quite so safe and cut off from the rest of the world here any more. Something seemed to be intruding on his sanctuary, and he didn't like it.

Oh how pathetic they'd think I look if they could see me now, he said to himself as he pulled the covers up over his head and hid beneath them, leaving the light on. He closed his eyes and tried to get to sleep, but his mind kept whirling around a cycle of images like a hyperactive slideshow screensaver: first there was his darkened room as he'd seen it a moment ago, then there was Jensen, then Thompson's empty cell, and then there was her face, just for a split second. Then the cycle repeated again, and again, and again.

Wilkins screwed up his face as if this would protect him from the mental assault his own imagination and memories were inflicting on him, but it was to no avail; still the images came, cycling around their sequence faster and faster and faster until, eventually, his exhausted body succumbed to sleep.

The assault continued in his dreams, but this time instead of still images he was reliving those moments. In each instance, he tried as hard as he could to escape, to run away from the things he was seeing, but everywhere he turned, the world seemed to turn with him; he could not get away.

He could just about deal with the simpler images. But then he came to the last situation again, and it was painfully vivid in its detail; he walked up to the gurney with that cold, grey, still body on it, looked up at the medical examiner, nodded his mute agreement that the body was indeed who it was thought she was, and then he found himself just staring down at her face, beautiful even in death, even battered and broken and bloodied as it was. She was still beautiful.

His eyes snapped open and he realised he was covered in sweat and breathing rapidly.

There would be no more sleep tonight.

[Back to the start.]

---

They were flying.

Dora knew that she was in a bad situation, and worried about Magnus, but she couldn't help enjoying the exhilarating experience. The golden figure — whom she had by now met several times before, but was quickly coming to dislike intensely — had snatched her up before she had realised what was going on, and was now carrying her under his arm like a cheap flatscreen TV scored in the January sales; a gift to be taken home as quickly as possible; a prize.

She was insulted by the implications of the way she was being carried, but also knew that were it not for her being carried like this, she might not be able to experience the euphoria of physics-defying flight she was enjoying right now. She felt pulled in two different directions at once; she hated the golden figure for the way he had behaved, but she loved him for the things he was letting her discover.

She had lost track of how long they had been flying or even how far they had travelled; the ground beneath them had flashed by in a blur, and she hadn't been able to make out where they had headed. Abruptly, the flight came to a stop, however; the golden figure slowed and stopped above what appeared to be a country church, then gently lowered himself and his prize to the ground. When his feet touched the ground, he released Dora from beneath his arm, allowing her to stand on her own two feet. She staggered unsteadily; it felt strange both to be on terra firma again, and also to no longer be travelling as fast as they had been.

"Whoa there," said the golden figure. "Take a minute to get your balance back."

Dora frowned. She couldn't understand this bizarre character; as she'd been snatched up, she'd felt like she was being kidnapped, but now he was concerned about her wellbeing? He wasn't restraining her or holding her against her will? What was the deal with him?

Of course, he might as well have been restraining her or holding her against her will, since she had absolutely no idea where they had flown to. She didn't recognise the church, and it appeared to be somewhere in the countryside well outside the city. It was a peaceful, relaxing environment; there wasn't a trace of the perpetual background traffic noise that was everywhere in the city, and instead the only sounds that could be heard were the rustling of the leaves in the gentle breeze and the occasional hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance.

"Come in," the figure said, approaching the church door and gesturing for her to follow. She hesitated a moment, then followed.

Inside, it was clear that the church wasn't in active use, but it hadn't yet crossed the line into "ruined" territory. It was still fully intact, just abandoned. Rows of pews were covered in a thick layer of dust, sad old candles sitting atop the detachable candlesticks every other row; faded hassocks adorned the backrests of each row. Images of sacred figures gazed down from the stained-glass windows, and the crucified form of Jesus gazed down from his cross that formed the centrepiece of the rood screen dividing the nave from the chancel. It would have been an attractive, quaint little village church had it been in more active use; now, though, it seemed slightly eerie.

"Let there be light!" bellowed the golden figure with exaggerated theatricalism. Instantly, every candle in the church — many of which clearly had not been lit for years — flared to life, filling the church with flickering orange light. It was a spectacular sight, and the golden figure clearly enjoyed every moment of it. Dora couldn't help but be impressed despite her intense dislike of her companion.

"Sorry," he said slyly, turning to her and shrugging. She couldn't see his face, but she could imagine what expression it would have been pulling if she could. It wouldn't be an expression of genuine remorse. "I just can't resist doing that every time. Even when there's no-one else here."

"Okay," she said absently, walking up the aisle. Her bare feet made little sound as she felt the cold tiles beneath them; she knew that if she had come here wearing her favourite shoes, however, that the clopping of the heels would have reverberated for several seconds inside the old building. She paused before the rood screen and gazed up at the crucifix for a moment, contemplating the son of God's sad-looking face as he willingly submitted himself to his "punishment" and supposedly died for the world's sins.

Dora had never really believed in religion, but then if anyone had told her that one night she would be swept away to the middle of nowhere by a radiant golden figure who could fly, she wouldn't have believed them either. She found herself wondering what else was out there that she had taken for granted as not being true — or what strange and wonderful things there might be in the world that she had never even thought of once.

The church was silent for a moment. Then Dora turned from the screen and faced her companion.

"Why am I here?" she asked mildly. Her earlier exhilaration was giving way to irritability, but she did her best not to let that show; she could see from her companion's encounter with Magnus that he was not someone to be trifled with, despite his apparently flippant attitude.

"You're going to help me," he said. He was confident in his statement, even though he hadn't discussed it with her. This annoyed her further; she was her own person, and she didn't exactly relish the thought of taking orders from this… was "person" even the right word?

"What makes you think I want to?" she said. Her facade of calm was quickly fading. "And what am I supposed to be helping you with?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," he said. "And we've already been through this."

It was true: they had. Dora hadn't given the full story to Magnus when they had compared stories shortly after their respective strange experiences had begun. While their experiences had been, for the most part, fairly similar, despite the opposition of the light and dark perspectives, there was one key way in which they had differed: what their apparent objectives were. Magnus had mentioned that his own strange companion figure had said something about the balance between the light and dark being thrown out; what Dora had not shared, meanwhile, was the fact that the golden figure standing before her right now had taken a somewhat different view of the situation: he had informed her that she was going to play a key role in wiping out and destroying the darkness completely and utterly.

"Think about it," her companion continued. "Consider your shadowy friend we saw earlier — Marcus, was it?"

"Magnus," she corrected him, though she had a feeling the error was deliberate rather than based on poor memory.

"Your friend is consumed by Darkness," he continued, ignoring her comment. "Wouldn't you like to help him? Wouldn't you like to stop his pain? Haven't you thought to yourself time after time that you want to save him?"

She said nothing. She couldn't deny any of the things that her companion was saying, but she knew that his interpretation of them differed very much from her own, particularly if the sad case of Stacey Barman was anything to go by. She had little doubt in her mind that her companion genuinely did see his murder of Stacey Barman — for Magnus' story had convinced her beyond question that the golden figure was responsible for the girl's death — as "saving" her; as releasing her from pain.

That, in itself, was frightening, but what frightened her more was the dawning realisation that assumptions and associations she rarely had cause to consciously think about were being proven wrong every moment: she had always made the unconscious mental connection between the concept of "Light" and the concept of "Good", but it was rapidly becoming clear to her that this most certainly was not the case, at least not if her companion was anything to go by. Similarly, despite Magnus' embrace of — or at least being taken in by — the Darkness, did not make him an agent of "Evil".

She knew him too well to think of him as evil. She knew him too well to believe that he could ever commit an evil act, even with his new powers: if he was truly evil, he would have wanted to exact revenge on the one who broke his heart, but instead, despite how deep into the darkness of despair that woman had sent him, he remained contemplative and accepted his own role in the way things had gone; he had taken responsibility for the things he had done as much as he had blamed her for the way in which she had handled things. She admired that, and wasn't sure she could do the same thing, and yet she was the one who found herself infused with light and radiance?

"Well?" said her companion.

"I do," she said defiantly. "But I'm going to do it my way."

He laughed at her. Then he stopped abruptly.

"Oh, you're serious," he said gravely. "How adorable. I'm not sure you quite understand the situation. So let me put it in terms you might be able to comprehend."

He walked slowly up the aisle towards her, his golden radiance seeming to grow as he did so. Although the sight was quite beautiful, she also found it spine-chilling. She didn't know what was going to happen next, but it wasn't long before she found out.

"Kneel," he said, pointing to her. She complied immediately.

"Grovel," he said, his finger still pointing at her in an accusatory manner. She complied again, touching her head to the floor in a gesture of complete supplication.

"I don't think you understand," he said again. "You cannot just use the Light as you see fit. Everything we do is for the greater good. And you need to learn that. You need to learn to put aside selfish concerns and think of the greater good. You need to learn. Stand."

She stood.

His arm still outstretched, her companion opened his hand, palm outwards towards her, and she felt herself lifting off the ground, her bare feet no longer touching the cold, chipped tiles of the old church's floor. She was flying, floating, completely out of control of her own body. She floated until she felt something digging into her back, and realised that she had been pushed up against the rood screen; the sharp thing in her back was, presumably, the crucifix she had contemplated earlier. Now she was the one in the submissive position, but she didn't feel like her sacrifice, unwilling as it was, was going to achieve anything.

Nor, it seemed, did her companion. He clenched his fist and pulled back his elbow. As if yanked by invisible chains, she was pulled to the ground, her whole body slamming to the ground with great force.

Such was the shock of the sudden movement that it took several seconds for the pain to register. Then, suddenly, it was everywhere in her body; she couldn't move; she felt like all her bones had been broken. The agony was so much that she felt like she would pass out — then, as quickly as it had come, the pain was gone again, and she found herself being helped to her feet.

Surprised that she could stand and tears still falling from the corner of her eyes from the agony of just a moment ago, she looked at her assailant, who just nodded.

No, she thought. Light was not Good at all.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

He wasn't sure where else to go.

He hadn't immediately decided to head for Dora's house; he'd just picked a direction and started running. But it wasn't long before he realised that he'd naturally picked that direction, and it seemed as good a place as any to go.

Quickly he found himself surprised at his own stamina; although he'd occasionally made an effort to try and get some exercise, he still considered himself massively unfit, but tonight was different: he didn't feel the slightest bit out of breath, even after running up the big hill which the police station was at the bottom of, nor did his muscles ache.

Shortly after this thought, he realised that he was moving a lot more quickly than he should have been able to, much to the surprise of the drunken vagrant lying propped up against a crumbling brick wall outside the train station. As Magnus swept past, the vagrant was knocked onto his side, his paper bag-clad bottle of cheap cider skittering away as it fell from his hand; the golden nectar that helped him forget life's troubles dribbling on to the street and down a nearby drain. He did not move to reclaim it; indeed, although he did not know it right now, his last mouthful this evening would turn out to be the last drop of alcohol he ever touched.

Magnus did not concern himself with his surroundings, nor with what anyone who might see him streaking through the city streets at an improbable velocity might think. He simply headed for his destination, following the route he would have taken were he driving his car; his mind strangely clear and focused. This didn't feel the same as when the primal instinct had taken over shortly after he'd discovered Stacey Barman's body; he felt in control, this time; he felt powerful.

But he also felt afraid. It was a dull feeling pushed to the back of his mind by his determination to reach his destination as quickly as possible, but it was there nonetheless. What he was doing should have been completely, physically impossible, but the wind whipping his hair and biting at the skin on his face certainly felt real.

The city streets seemed deserted as they flashed past in a blur. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he guessed it must have been late — or early. He wasn't sure how much time had passed between him being locked in the cell and his strange, unexplainable escape, but he guessed it must have been a few hours at least. Night had already fallen when the officers finished questioning him — they would probably have a few more for him now, if they ever saw him again, that is — and the hour had gotten sufficiently late for the lights to go out, after all.

It didn't matter. He needed to get to Dora. He wasn't sure what he'd do when he reached her, but right now she felt like the only person who could help him deal with the situation, so ever onwards he ran, until he found himself coming into her familiar street. He slowed and eventually stopped in front of her house, unsure of how to announce his presence. He didn't have his phone with him, after all, and he didn't want to raise a commotion if the hour was as late as he thought it probably was.

It turned out he didn't need to worry. Not long after he arrived outside her house, Dora's front door opened, she stepped out and slowly began to walk towards him. Almost imperceptibly at first, she began to glow; as she approached, with each step the radiance seemed to grow within her until her features were all but obscured, and Magnus was reminded, with a certain degree of horror, of the golden figure he had chased away from Stacey Barman's murder scene.

A dark thought entered his mind, but he pushed it out; he knew that Dora hadn't done this, because Stacey Barman's assailant had been, as closely as he could tell, male. Although the brightness of the light emanating from Dora was almost blinding at this point, her form was still recognisably female; although she was still wearing her night clothes, the light bursting forth from her made her figure clearly visible through the material. Magnus' heart ached as he gazed upon the literally radiant figure of the woman he could never have.

"Hi," she said, her voice eerily calm; almost devoid of emotion.

"Hi," he said, equally coldly.

The two just stared at one another for a moment. Silence reigned around them; time seemed to stand still. The world seemed to bend and shift, but it neither became the dark, twisted world that Magnus had come to recognise, and nor did it become the bright but chilling world Dora had come to know. It simply seemed to wobble in a state of not-quite-reality, but neither of the two took their eyes from the other.

Magnus was the first to move. He extended his right arm in front of him; he was unsurprised to notice that it had taken on the battered, gnarled, darkened appearance he had previously seen when his strange powers had previously manifested. The fear was still there in the back of his mind, but he was coming to recognise this strange phenomenon now; it was part of him, whether he liked it or not, so he was going to have to come to accept it.

After a moment, Dora reached out with her right arm, too, her hand outstretched. She moved it slowly towards Magnus' hand until the pair of them were almost touching, the tension between them almost palpable.

Then, a flash of golden light, and Magnus was knocked backwards with great force. He landed on his backside and was winded; the first time he had felt aware of his body's physical limitations since the long run from the city centre. He looked up; standing in front of Dora was the same golden figure he'd seen before. It put its hands on its hips defiantly and looked down at him: the triumphant hunter gazing down at his cornered quarry right before he finished it off for good.

Neither the golden figure nor Magnus said anything, but Dora gave a shout of surprise as the former lunged at the latter, moving so quickly that he simply seemed to be in one place one moment, and another the next. Magnus, still on the ground, rolled out of the way to escape just in time, but he was still at a clear disadvantage, even with his staggered assailant.

The golden figure was angered by his unsuccessful attack and let out a howl of rage.

"Die!" he cried, obviously preparing to lunge again. But this time, Magnus was ready. The tendrils erupted from his hands again; one swept the golden figure's legs out from beneath him, and another knocked him aside, sending him skittering across the street as if he weighed no more than a cardboard box.

Magnus leapt to his feet with agility that surprised himself and turned to face his floored opponent, the situation now reversed from what it had been a moment ago. But the disparity didn't last for long; his attacker rolled backwards and nimbly leapt to his feet, clearly undeterred by how his quarry was proving to be something of a feisty one.

The golden figure swept towards Magnus at lightning velocity once again; once again, Magnus deftly sidestepped, but missed with the dark tendrils this time. The attack came again; his assailant was nothing if not predictable. And again, and again; every time, Magnus dodged the assault, the pair of them indulging in a peculiar dance as Dora looked on.

But Magnus didn't realise that the golden figure very much had a set of steps in mind for the pair of them until it was much too late; with his last lunge he didn't aim for Magnus at all, and instead snatched up Dora's surprised figure, still glowing with an intense radiance, and streaked off into the distance with a chilling laugh.

Magnus was left standing alone. The world, which had been shimmering between light and dark moments ago, began to fade out, and as he sank to his knees all trace of the light and vibrance that had been here a moment ago was gone, and he was once again surrounded by the despairing words and scrawled symbols that seemed to cover every surface.

Was he destined to be alone? Was this how it was always going to be? Was this what the conflict between light and dark really meant?

He didn't know. But he knew that he had to find out — and that even if Dora was, it seemed, on the opposite "side" to him, he had to help her.

"Good," came the now-familiar voice of the shadowy figure as it appeared from nothingness beside him. "I see you're starting to get it."

[Back to the start.]

---

 

When the following morning came, Magnus was startled awake by a hammering on his flat's front door. It was an urgent, persistent hammering; whoever was doing it clearly wanted to come in right now.

He groaned and unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. He had all but passed out where he had fallen the previous night; he was still wearing the same clothes, and the crumpled bedsheets left an obvious outline of where he had slept. His mind was not fully alert as yet, but he knew two things: he was in a lot of pain, and he very much wanted that noise to stop.

Yawning, groaning and rubbing his face, he staggered to the front door pulled it open a crack without looking through the peephole first. He poked his head around the gap in the door, but kept the rest of his body in the warmth and safety of his home.

"What?" he said, his vision still blurred.

"Mr Magnus Thompson?" said the police officer standing in the hallway; a stocky, stern-faced man with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard. He was accompanied by a female police officer built almost as solidly as he was. Radio chatter burbled in the background, but was indecipherable.

"Yes," said Magnus, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, not fully registering what was going on.

"We were hoping to talk to you about the death of Stacey Barman," he said. "You are the one who reported it, correct?"

Magnus suddenly felt very awake, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him like an electric shock. How did they know?

"The number the one who reported the crime called from was registered to this address," said the female officer, speaking up for the first time. "It was you who called, yes?" she said, echoing her colleague's words.

"Yes," said Magnus in a low voice. "I reported it."

"May we come in?" said the male officer gruffly. Magnus got the impression that despite the polite language, it was not a polite request. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"You're not in trouble, don't worry," said the female officer. Magnus would have smiled at the obvious and clichéd good cop-bad cop routine were it not proving to be one of the more stressful experiences he had lived through to date. "We just want to get a better idea of what might have happened, what you might have seen."

"Okay," said Magnus. He stepped out from behind the door and pulled it open fully. He realised too late that the shirt and jeans he had been wearing since last night — the shirt and jeans he hadn't changed when he had got up in a hurry not five minutes ago — were both streaked with smears of dried blood.

 

*       *       *       *       *

Dora looked uneasily at the disheveled figure of Magnus visible through the glass, the guard standing mute and still as a statue behind him. She lifted the receiver. Magnus did the same.

"Hi," he said. "Thanks for coming."

Dora had been the person he called when they had brought him in under suspicion of the murder of Stacey Barman. He wasn't thinking straight and didn't know any lawyers, so she was the only person he could think to call. The offers who had brought him in — the man was named Wilkins and the woman was named Jensen — had allowed him to obtain the number from his phone, but the device itself had then been confiscated along with the few other personal belongings he had in his pockets.

Dora didn't know what to make of the situation. She didn't believe for a second that Magnus was capable of murdering anyone, but she was also fully aware of the strange happenings that had been occurring recently — and was certain that if her own strange experience she had had on the way home the previous night was anything to go by, Magnus was probably also in a peculiar situation where he needed to quickly learn how to control an enormous power he didn't understand.

It had happened unexpectedly as she was walking back to her car; a curious urge to run. She obliged the sudden instinct, surprising herself, but quickly found that the instinct was stronger than her conscious, self-aware mind: before long, she felt like she was out of control. She ran, rapidly speeding up until she had reached a velocity that should have been physically impossible for even the most well-trained athletes. She became dimly aware that she was heading straight for a solid-looking wall, and then the world was turned on its side as she simply charged up the side of the building as if it was a flat piece of flooring. Then she was atop the roofs of the city; she bounced and leapt from building to building, feeling an odd — and slightly frightening — sense of euphoria as she did so. It was an addictive, intoxicating feeling; initially, she didn't want it to stop, but as what little remained of her rational mind started to panic over the lack of control over her own body she was exhibiting, she wanted nothing more than to be back on solid ground.

And then she was; walking down the street where she had been before she had started running. Had she imagined it? A daydream? A hallucination? She wasn't sure, but the strange, frightening experience caused her to stop, pinch herself and whisper under her breath "I'm here, everything's fine, everything's fine," without caring if anyone around her heard.

"Hi," she said.

"I didn't do it," he said.

"I know," she said.

The two gazed awkwardly at one another through the glass. All was silent for a moment, and Dora became very conscious of the ticking of the clock on the wall behind her. She glanced around and looked at it. They didn't have long together.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. "How can I help?"

"I don't really know," he said, his face clouded over with abject despair. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it." He indicated his bloody clothes.

He had explained to her on the phone that he had discovered a dead body the previous night, and that due to an unfortunate series of circumstances was now under suspicion of putting it there. He hadn't explained the rooftop fight against his golden assailant or his conversation with the shadowy figure, though he had little doubt, after their conversation, that she would believe him.

"Whatever it is that those… people said was going to happen," he said, resting his chin on the palms of his hands, "it seems to be starting."

She nodded mutely. She didn't really know what to say about it. She didn't understand what was happening to her, and what was happening to Magnus. But she knew that this wasn't something she'd be able to just ignore and hope it would go away. She hadn't chosen this path, but she was on it anyway, and so was Magnus. They just had to follow it and see where it went; she hoped, sincerely, that it didn't simply lead to a life in prison for her friend.

Conscious of the guard standing behind him who, despite remaining stoic and statue-like throughout their conversation, was obviously listening in, Magnus refrained from giving a full account of his confrontation. If he got out of here, he resolved, he'd explain the situation fully. For now, however, he was just comforted by her presence; he felt more at ease than he had done all day.

A buzzer sounded, and the line between the receivers went dead. Magnus saw the door open behind Dora, and a police officer step in. Looking at Magnus for one last time with sadness in her eyes, she replaced the receiver and turned for the door. He watched her leave, waiting a moment before hanging up his own receiver and standing, following the guard back into the darkness.

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus was questioned by several police officers over the course of the rest of the day. By the time they had finished with him, night had fallen. He hoped that his answers had made it abundantly clear that he had no idea what had actually happened to Stacey Barman, and that the dried blood on his clothing was simply a result of him being near her and trying in vain to help her, but he didn't get an answer as to whether or not he had done a good enough job that day. Even if he were to be released, it seemed, it wouldn't be until tomorrow when the appropriate paperwork could be filled out. It looked like he'd be spending the night here, at least.

Eventually, the lights went out. He was the only occupant of the cells right now; although not a small town, crime had never been a big issue here. Between some ambitious and expensive youth projects and a close-knit community of residents who genuinely loved where they lived, faults and all, it was unusual to hear of even a robbery or mugging, let alone a murder case. Magnus was sure that what had happened to Stacey Barman would be all over the newspapers and Internet by the morning, if it wasn't already.

He stared into the darkness, contemplating his situation miserably. If he'd thought things were bad before, they were even worse now. He seemed to be sinking ever further into his own personal pit of darkness; how could he escape?

Did he want to escape?

The thought surprised him for a moment, and then several things started to make a certain degree of sense.

Despite everything, he was enjoying the excitement in a perverse fashion. And he realised, with a combination of fascination, horror and satisfaction, that he had been enjoying the bleakness for a while before this had started happening, too. It made him feel important and special; it gave him something to talk about that made him feel like he mattered; a feeling which he had been sorely lacking for many years prior. He had been wilfully embracing his own darkness for a perverse sense of pleasure; it was a drug to him, and one that he couldn't quit.

He blinked as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and was surprised to discover that he appeared to be standing on the other side of the bars to where he had been a moment earlier. He was outside his cell, which was still shut. He tried the door; it rattled slightly, but did not budge.

Was this another manifestation of his new power?

He found himself smiling to himself, even as his skin started to crawl at the prospect of explaining how this had happened should any police officer happen to see him. The adrenaline of both excitement and fear started to course through his veins as he walked towards the door; he reached out for it, but then paused before grasping the handle. It was probably locked anyway.

Instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated on immersing himself in the darkness that was all around him. He willed himself to become part of the night; to blend in; to disappear. He'd always been good at escaping people's notice, after all, though not always intentionally.

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the city streets outside the police station.

However it had happened, however he had escaped, it wasn't over yet. He needed to get away from here. Right now.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

His eyed darted one way then the other; his awareness heightened, his mind feeling more alert and agile than it had done for months.

He couldn't see his quarry; it seemed that they were long gone… or were they?

He stood up straight and clasped his hands together in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He reached out with his mind and felt like his consciousness was separating from his body, scanning the area, searching, probing. Then his eyes snapped open, and it was back where it should be.

A flash of golden light. Or, more accurately, a streak. It raced towards him at such a velocity that he nearly didn't have time to leap out of the way, but his heightened reflexes meant that by the time the golden swoosh had reached where his body was standing just a moment ago, he had already leapt high in the air and was gracefully floating down to face his assailant.

During all this, Magnus remained dimly aware of his own self, but at the same time felt as if he was trapped in his own body: his form a prison from which he could only look out and wonder how he could possibly ever perform such physics-defying feats. He could not find a rational explanation for it because there simply wasn't one; whatever was happening was simply ignoring what he had, up until recently, considered the inviolable laws of the universe.

He landed on the rooftop softly; first one foot, then the other, and gazed across at his attacker, who was standing on the next building over, hands on hips in a confident expression of superiority, for it was a humanoid figure — or perhaps even a human figure. It was difficult to tell for sure, since the radiant golden glow that seemed to emanate from within the figure's very skin made making any details out somewhat difficult, but he recognised the outline as a male form; trim, fit and tall, very different from the way he saw himself in his mind's eye.

For a moment, he simply stared at the figure, and it stared back at him; a second later, there was another golden streak, and the figure was standing right in front of him. The golden radiance dazzled him, but he also noticed that the figure appeared to be casting no light on the rooftop beneath his feet; he was simply glowing in an otherworldly manner that, even in his detached state, Magnus found somewhat unsettling.

"Hi," said the figure in a low voice. "I guess you're not happy." Magnus could, from this distance, barely make out a mocking smirk on the figure's face.

"To put it mildly," growled Magnus, the words coming out of his mouth before he was even aware what he was saying. The sensation was frightening; something was in control of him, and he seemingly had no influence over what was being said or done — or what was going to happen next.

Magnus lunged forward, the same dark tendrils that had brought him to the rooftop in the first place once again erupting from his hands, this time desperately seeking the golden figure. But it was too late; the figure had already moved to another rooftop with such rapidity that he may as well have been teleporting.

"Well, tough shit," called the golden figure in a mocking tone. "I got one of yours, and before they even knew what was going on. Oh, it was so sweet seeing the life drain out from behind those desperate, sad eyes; how she finally realised that her embracing of the Dark had brought her to the end of her own existence. Delicious. Anyway, got to dash! Later!"

The figure swept off over the rooftops, and before long was out of sight. Magnus considered giving chase, but even in his current state of consciousness, he knew that was a fruitless effort. Instead, he leapt from the rooftop and floated down into the alleyway, an incorporeal cloak of black flowing from beneath his outstretched arms as he defied the laws of gravity without a second thought. Then, as he touched the ground, the primal feeling was gone; he looked at his hands, and the strange, gnarled, mottled appearance they had taken on was gone, too.

He bit his tongue and winced, and realised that he was once again in full control of his own actions; though the biting of the tongue was accidental, it was a perfectly normal thing for him to do, and certainly a far cry from his unusual descent from atop the building.

He looked up and contemplated quite how high the structure was; not only was there no way he should have been able to get up there, thanks to the broken fire escape, but there was no way he should have been able to survive getting back down in the way he did, either. And yet here he was, without a scratch on him, considering the baffling events that had just transpired.

It took him a moment to remember the prone figure of the girl. She was still lying where he had left her; she was obviously dead, though he couldn't tell how long she had been that way.

"How tragic," came a voice from behind him. He jumped and span around. As he did so, the world seemed to shimmer and twist, and suddenly everything seemed different to how it had done a moment ago; the air was thicker and darker, and the walls seemed to be covered with things that had not been there before: both words and indecipherable symbols, splattered in the same carefree painter's hand he had by now seen several times, though they covered the walls with such thick, overlapping intensity that it was impossible to work out what — if anything — any of them were trying to say.

As fast as his heart was beating, he found himself unsurprised to discover the shadowy, silhouetted female figure standing in the alleyway, her pose making it clear that she was contemplating the situation somewhat philosophically, even as it was impossible to make out any of her facial features. She had obviously appeared out of nowhere, but it was already very apparent to Magnus that whatever he had found himself involved with did not involve rational explanations, so he didn't dwell on it.

"You… knew her?" he asked hesitantly, unsure quite how to address the figure.

"No," she said. "But I — we — could have done. A life cut tragically short before she could realise her potential."

A pause.

"Stacey Barman," said the figure, with the practiced, measured tone of a detective on a crime show. "Twenty-four years old. A wannabe actress, struggling to make ends meet in a scuzzy, cheap, traveller's hotel." Here, the figure gestured to the building on one side of the alleyway, which Stacey had apparently come out of before she met her demise. "She was born in the wrong place at the wrong time and made a lot of the wrong choices. Things were not going well for her."

This sounded alarmingly familiar to Magnus. He felt sorry for Stacey, but he felt that at least part of the empathy he felt towards the dead girl was self-pity because, even from that simple description, he related to her. He may not have been a struggling actor or working in a hotel, but he knew well the feeling of having made a series of poor choices that led to a seemingly inescapable bad situation.

"Our Stacey here may not have been having a lot of luck with life," continued the shadowy figure, by now pacing around the dead girl's corpse as if searching for evidence, "but, as I'm sure you know, that only helped draw her towards our side." She sighed. "She could have been a powerful one. All that dark energy, gone to waste."

Suddenly, the figure was in Magnus' face. He wasn't sure if she had simply moved quickly or had actually vanished from one spot and reappeared in another.

"This is what I was talking about," the figure hissed. "Stacey shouldn't have died here. She should have awoken. She should have been like you. But instead, here she is, and once again the Light mocks our efforts and desires for the world to remain in balance; the delightful chaos and unpredictability of existence, at this rate, will be little more than a memory for those of us who are even alive, or…" — here she paused a moment — "…at least aware enough to remember it."

Magnus wasn't quite sure how to respond. As he'd said to Dora earlier, the shadowy figure had previously explained the nature of the conflict between the Light and the Dark, but he hadn't understood what that meant. Now, the grim reality was starting to sink in to his mind; there was a war on, and he wasn't sure he was on the winning side.

The alleyway was silent for a moment as both Magnus and the shadowy figure continued to contemplate the corpse of Stacey Barman, the warmth of life rapidly leaving her still form as she continued to lie where she had fallen, exposed to the elements, seemingly unwanted and unloved.

Magnus felt an intense surge of pity for her, and seemed to feel something building up inside himself.

"No," said the figure, not turning to face him. "It's too late for her. But there'll be other chances. For now, you should see to it that she is taken care of."

The strange patterns and words on the walls seemed to twist and shift again, then the shadowy figure was gone, and Magnus was left standing alone in the alleyway.

He dropped to his knees in front of Stacey Barman's body and felt himself starting to cry. He wondered if this could have been him — why it wasn't him — and what all this meant. His mind was a jumble of complex emotions and confused interpretations of everything that had happened recently.

He let the tears flow; he knew better than to try and stop his emotions from overflowing when they were bubbling up like this. And, as he'd experienced so many times before, the storm eventually calmed; the pouring of tears slowed; gulping, sobbing gasps gave way to more regular breathing. It was always calm after the storm; he was always at his most rational after he had allowed himself to overflow and explode. He knew what he needed to do.

He pulled out his phone — which had somehow managed to stay in his pocket amid the earlier chaos — and called for the emergency services. He reported Stacey's body, and its location, and that she had already passed away. Then, once he was satisfied he had done his duty, he headed back up the alleyway he had earlier made the ill-fated decision to investigate; before long, he was back on the road, his pace quickening until he broke into a jog, then a full-on run.

He reached the front door of his building as he heard the howling of sirens in the distance.

"I'm sorry, Stacey," he said out loud to himself as he looked up at the moonlit, cloudy sky. "I wish I could have helped you. But I hope wherever you are now that you find happiness and peace."

He opened the door to his building, unlocked his flat's front door, went inside without turning any of the lights on and collapsed face-first onto the bed. He didn't wake up — or even move — until the following morning.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

"So."

"So."

Now the pair of them were here, neither of them were quite sure what to say. They both already knew the pertinent details, having shared them via chat message prior to meeting up. But, given the eerie similarities between their experiences — and the aspects in which they were complete opposites, too — they had both agreed that meeting up to discuss things in person would probably be more productive.

So far it hadn't been, largely because despite the strange happenings, it felt like just a regular, normal day. People were going about their business in the coffee shop; conversation was occasionally drowned out by the enormous coffee machine and its overenthusiastic milk frother; no-one gave Magnus and Dora a second glance. To any passers-by, they would have looked just like two people sitting together, sharing some time with one another, though the more voyeuristic might have mistaken them for a couple, given the amount of time they were spending looking directly at one another.

Eventually, Magnus spoke after swallowing a mouthful of cappuccino.

"There's more," he said. "More than what I told you before, that is."

"Oh?" said Dora, interested. There was more to her experience than what she had shared, too, but she was curious to hear what Magnus said first, so she didn't bring it up.

"Yes," he said. "It feels… kind of silly to be talking about it, though. I mean…" — here he lowered his voice a little — "…magic. Or whatever it is. Energy. Life force. I don't know. She explained it all, but it went over my head a bit."

"She?" asked Dora, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"Yes," Magnus said again. "She. After that initial… dream, or whatever it was, I started noticing strange things happening. And eventually, everything seemed to sort of… black out. Though not like it being dark; more like… I don't know. The world felt kind of… wrong. I knew where I was, but things didn't look right. And there she was."

He paused. He wasn't quite sure how to describe the shadowy figure, since she was such an ill-defined presence. But he could tell that she was a woman, or at least a female presence, since he wasn't quite sure if being incorporeal allowed one to continue being called a "woman" or "man".

Dora had heard enough already. She felt comfortable about speaking up now.

"Did she happen to say something about our world, and how it was made?" she asked. She was surprised how confident she sounded asking such a peculiar question. "Did she happen to mention anything about the light…"

"…and the dark?" Magnus concluded for her. "Yes, as a matter of fact." He frowned. "Wait, how do you know that? Did you…"

"Yes," said Dora with a gentle smile. "The same thing happened to me. After a few days of strange happenings — in my case, really weird stuff like the little 'un falling over and scraping both her knees, then there being absolutely no sight of any injury moments later — something similar happened to me. There was… someone. I couldn't quite see them, not clearly, anyway, but there they were. Some sort of presence. A guy… or the ghost of a guy, or something. Hard to explain, really."

"Hmm," said Magnus. The two of them were quiet for a moment, and took the opportunity to have another sip of drink, neither taking their eyes from the other.

"Anyway," said Magnus after a moment. "There was some sort of fantasyland bullshit about the balance between light and dark, and how things looked like being thrown out of balance if things carried on the way they were, and…"

"I'll just stop you there," said Dora with a gentle laugh. "I don't think it's 'bullshit', not if we've both seen weird stuff like this going on. Unless we're both very, very ill indeed and having some sort of shared hallucination. Then that really would be bullshit; the sort of clichéd crap that's straight out of a cheap novel you'd pick up at the airport."

Magnus smiled. It felt good. He felt like he hadn't done it genuinely for a while, but despite the strange — and slightly frightening — situation in which he found himself, it felt good, particularly to have something private that he and Dora could share together. He wondered if she felt the same way.

As a matter of fact, she did; life had been boring lately and, while she hadn't quite had something as grandiose as whatever this was in mind, she was grateful for a little injection of excitement.

"What I don't get," said Magnus after another sip of coffee, "is how things are being thrown out of whack. I mean, have you noticed anything weird about the world lately?"

"You mean despite… everything that we've just talked about?" she said with a laugh. "No, I guess not. But perhaps we weren't in a position to notice. Perhaps whatever is happening to us is something to do with it."

"Mm," said Magnus, his eyes finally looking away from Dora. She realised that she had been tense all the while he had been staring at her, and suddenly relaxed somewhat. "Maybe."

"I wonder," said Dora. "All this light and dark business. I mean, obviously I'm light and you're dark, whatever that means. Are we going to end up fighting?"

"That's how these things tend to go," said Magnus, "at least in clichéd crap that's straight out of a cheap novel you'd pick up at the airport." He chuckled at his own allusion.

"I'm serious!" said Dora, pouting slightly. "I don't want to end up having to do anything weird or nasty to you. Not like that," she corrected herself quickly before Magnus could slip in a quick innuendo. "I mean… kind of seems like we're opposites, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But that doesn't mean we have to go against one another. Opposites attract and all that."

 

*       *       *       *       *

It was getting dark — and several coffees later — by the time the pair of them went their separate ways. Concluding that they couldn't do much else with their respective strange phenomena until something else odd happened to one or both of them, conversation had turned to all things trivial: what had been on television the previous evening, how much both of them hated Magnus' ex — though Magnus always felt guilty any time he bad-mouthed her, even despite the depression and rage she frequently provoked in him — and the silly things little Alice had done. The socialisation had done them both some good, and they both left the coffee shop with smiles on their faces.

Dora had offered Magnus a lift back to his flat, but he had refused; he'd decided that he wanted some time alone with his thoughts. He often found that if he walked and thought, he could contemplate things more effectively than if he was just shut in his flat all alone, surrounded by memories in physical form.

Of course, there were a lot fewer of these left lying around now that she had been back and collected her things. The flat had felt disturbingly empty after she had been and gone, so Magnus had taken the time to rearrange the furniture as much as possible so it felt like he was in a different place. It had proven mostly effective, but the bedroom which, thanks to its built-in wardrobe, was harder to rearrange, still held potent memories. He found himself sleeping on the sofa rather than the cold bedroom a lot more these days, frequently drifting off to the low drone of inoffensive, mind-numbing late night digital TV.

His footsteps echoed as he paced along the street. He felt like he was walking with purpose, though he was in no hurry to get home; there was very little for him there. After a moment he slowed, then stopped. He wasn't sure why, initially, then he felt an overwhelming surge of curiosity.

There was an alleyway that he walked past every time he went from his flat to the centre of town and back again, and he had always wondered what was down there. He doubted it was anything interesting, so he had never just wandered in to take a look, but for some reason, now he found himself once again walking with a strong sense of purpose, this time towards the alleyway.

It was a narrow passage between two buildings, and in the fading light there wasn't a lot to see, since neither building had many windows on this side. There was the odd frosted glass window that Magnus assumed was a bathroom or similar, and occasionally these cast a small pool of light into the otherwise darkened alleyway, but for the most part the passage was unlit.

It was a dead end, though it opened into what appeared to be a small courtyard rather than simply terminating in a wall. The courtyard had a few dumpsters in it and smelled awful. Both buildings seemingly had back doors here, presumably to allow the occupants to take out their rubbish and throw them in the dumpsters. But there was something else; something lying on the floor.

"Holy fuck," said Magnus as he approached the lump on the ground. It was a person, and they didn't appear to be in a good way. He knelt before the figure and established that it was a woman, probably in her mid-twenties — about his age — clad simply in a T-shirt and jeans. She was lying face-down on the ground, and the area around her head was slick with still-wet blood. It was obviously too late for her, and Magnus started to feel panicked, both about being caught with her, and about whether or not whoever — if anyone — had done this to her was still around.

Then he felt it. He couldn't describe the sensation, but it was there. He looked in the direction he felt it was coming from; up and to his left. There was what appeared to be a fire escape on the side of the building, but it abruptly terminated two floors up from the ground and there was seemingly no ladder allowing anyone to get up — or, for that matter, down.

A primal feeling in his brain told him that he really needed to get up there right now, but the rational part of his mind — which, he felt, was rapidly losing influence in this situation — said that there was absolutely no way that he could possibly–

Before he knew it, he felt the strange sensation of energy surging through his hands. They took on the curiously odd appearance they had done any time the strange events had happened recently, but this time there was something more; it felt like energy was focusing in them, and the more it did so, the more mottled and marked they became, until eventually they looked like an old man's hands; gnarled and covered with varicose veins. A high-pitched whining sound assaulted his ears, and his head began to ache, as if it was about to explode. Was this the power that the shadowy figure had talked about? And if so, how on Earth was he supposed to control it?

Unsure of anything else to do, he clenched his fists and pointed them both at the fire escape high above him. Tendrils as black as night erupted from the back of his hands and laced themselves around the bars of the fire escape's guard rail, and before he could register his intense surprise at what he had apparently just done, he felt himself being yanked violently into the air, his heart in his mouth as if he was riding a theme park attraction. Almost before he knew it, he was standing on the platform of the fire escape, some two storeys off the ground.

And that primal feeling was still there; he needed to continue on upwards, to chase down whoever had done this, and to punish them.

His rational mind finally gave up trying and just slipped away quietly, and the primal urge took over as he raced up the steps to the rooftop.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

Dora couldn't sleep; a situation exacerbated by the usual thunderous snoring of her husband Donald on the other side of the bed. Every night, she found herself surprised that the racket didn't disturb their eight-year-old daughter Alice, but it never did: Alice was a heavy sleeper, a trait which she had apparently inherited from her father.

She sighed to herself and tapped on her phone, its screen springing to life at her touch. She frowned at the sight of the clock on the screen: two in the morning; she had to be up in four hours to make sure Alice was ready for school, that breakfast was ready for everyone and that she was in a position to go out to work straight after dropping Alice off.

For the most part, Dora enjoyed being what she thought of as a "traditional" mother figure, albeit one who held down a job as well as effectively running the household. Donald would be the first to describe himself as "useless" around the house, and she didn't mind too much; he was the one with the high-paying job, after all, so it was largely his money coming in that allowed the Miller family to continue to live in the manner which they had become accustomed to. Her income was a bonus on top of that; Donald had been initially resistant to the idea of her going back to work after Alice was old enough to go to school, but Dora had found herself so bored each day that she craved the opportunity to get out of the house and speak to other human beings that her office job offered, even if the work itself was considerably beneath her intellectual capacity. She eventually managed to convince Donald that it was the best for everybody involved.

At least the downtime in her job — and there was a lot of it — afforded her the opportunity to catch up with friends via text message and email; after an initial run-in with the company's IT department over the use of company equipment to send personal messages, she'd confined these activities to her phone, and no-one seemed to mind that too much.

She'd known Magnus for a short while; they'd met by chance through a social networking website, and quickly become friends. Magnus didn't seem to her like the type who made friends easily, but there was something about him that interested her; she knew quickly that he was someone who carried great sadness with him, but he often managed to push that aside and demonstrate a touch of cheeky humour of just the type she responded well to.

She could tell that he was attracted to her, and during some of the "down" periods of her occasionally rocky relationship with Donald, she'd contemplated seeing just what might happen if she allowed things to progress in the way he wanted. But she held back, even though she knew this might hurt him in the short term; he was going through a relationship breakup of his own, after all, and for her to be the "other woman" even as he suspected he had been cheated on would be somewhat hypocritical, to say the least. She didn't want to put him in a difficult situation, and she didn't want to break up her family life, either; it wasn't perfect, not by a considerable margin, but it was holding together for now.

She was worried about Magnus, though. He had not taken the break-up well, and their meeting the other day had only confirmed to her what she had suspected: he was starting to lose his grip on rationality. She didn't begrudge him his anger and sadness, of course — they'd had some long talks about how things had got to the state they were in, and she'd come to understand him perhaps even better than his partner had — but she was still worried, particularly after the strange things he'd described and asked her about.

The snoring was momentarily interrupted as Donald's imposing figure rolled over in the bed, but quickly resumed. Dora sighed, resigning herself to the fact that she probably wasn't going to be getting to sleep any time soon, stood up, walked out of her room and headed downstairs to the kitchen to fix herself a drink.

Decaffeinated coffee in hand — she had a weakness for it, particularly since Donald had bought her a capsule coffee machine a short while ago — she wandered into the living room and opened the curtains. Their house was right at the end of a cul-de-sac, and had a good view up the rest of the road. It made her feel like the lady of the manor, and she often enjoyed just standing here, looking out from behind the house's net curtains, surveying the rest of the street and seeing what everyone else was up to.

Tonight, though, things were different; as she pulled back the curtains she paused and drew a sharp intake of breath, because she was really not expecting what she saw.

It was light. But it couldn't be. She tapped on her phone and checked the clock again; sure enough, the hour digit still read "2". There was no way that the street outside should be lit in such a way, but the evidence was right there in front of her.

She guzzled the last of her coffee, not caring that it was still a little bit too hot and burned her tongue, and put the cup down on the windowsill. She was confused and a little disturbed by whatever the strange phenomenon was outside her front window, but she was surprised to find herself more curious than frightened. So curious that, before she knew it, and as if something else was in control of her body, she was pulling on her coat over the top of her nightgown and squeezing her bare feet into a pair of shoes that she'd left by the door.

She opened the front door and looked out into the street. It was light, but there was something very different about this light to regular daylight. The sky wasn't blue, for a start; it was pure, brilliant white and seemed to glow. This wasn't the white of an overcast sky, either; it was as if the sky itself was glowing, bathing the whole street in a soft light that felt calm, but cold.

It was cold, too; there didn't seem to be a breeze, but Dora could still feel a chill on her face as she stepped over the threshold of her house and into the front garden. She wasn't sure where she was going to go, but something was pushing her onwards, out into this peculiar soft light. There was something out there; something beyond what she could see, and she needed to know what it was.

The thoughts in her head surprised her; she wasn't usually the type to seek out mysteries or strange happenings like this, but there was something irresistible about this one. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was a change from the drudgery of everyday life, or perhaps there was something more; she didn't know.

She was halfway up the street by now, and she noticed that the end of the road seemed to fade into a pale haze, like a thick, impenetrable fog that was glowing from within. Still she continued to walk towards it; answers were inside that strange cloud, she felt, and she wanted to know what they were.

She approached the haze; it almost appeared like a wall, but she knew that there was nothing to it, and that she could walk right through it, should she so desire. And she did desire; she took a step forward and was instantly surrounded on all sides by the soft but cold white light that had been illuminating her street.

The fog — whatever it was — was so thick that she could no longer even see her arms in front of her, and it didn't take long for her to feel disoriented. She could no longer feel the solidity of the ground beneath her feet; it was as if she had left her body and was simply floating in a void filled with light.

Perhaps she was; she couldn't explain it, but she felt completely at ease here. It felt natural and good, though still cold. It didn't feel like the warm, benevolent glow she had come to associate with the concept of "heaven" during her formative years; it was just light. A strange, calming light that seemed to be encouraging her to relax, to let it flow through her, to just…

Her eyes snapped open, and she blinked a few times. She couldn't see anything at all. Had she gone blind? No; it was just the darkness of her bedroom. She recognised the sound of Donald snoring beside her, the softness of the mattress beneath her body, the warmth of the duvet she was snuggled under. All was as it should be. Her eyes started to adjust to the darkness, and she made out familiar shapes, and she felt at ease.

A dream, then, she thought, but a very strange one. Then she paused, her mind slowly recalling some of the things Magnus had said to her regarding his peculiar dream. Her experience — for the memory was still fresh and vivid in her mind — felt eerily familiar as she recalled the details Magnus had described, only in her case, it felt as if she had had almost the complete opposite experience. Darkness was replaced by light; fear by calm. What did it mean?

She rolled over onto her side, trying to get comfortable again. She felt tired and wanted to sleep; she could think about this more when the morning come, and perhaps even talk it over with Magnus. For now, she just wanted to…

She froze as her eyes alighted on the wall occupied by her dressing table.

Written on the wall, in letters that seemed to glow without illuminating the room itself, and in a beautiful, elegant cursive hand, was a single word: "HELLO."

Suddenly, she felt afraid. The strange dream and the eerie, cold light didn't feel quite so calming any more; now, they felt like a symptom of something that was very, very wrong indeed — with her mind, or with the world, she couldn't tell. But it was frightening, and she wasn't sure what to make of it right now in her all-but-exhausted state.

So she curled up into a foetal position, screwed her eyes up and tried as best she could to put the strange happenings out of her mind. It was not something she'd ever been particularly good at: her mind was particularly active at night, and whenever she tried to send a signal to herself not to think about something, her mind usually interpreted this as a request to think about it as much as possible. Sure enough, after a moment, she couldn't hold herself back any longer; still curled up, she opened her eyes and looked at the spot on the wall where the beautifully written word had been.

Of course, there was nothing there; the wall was bare, and all she could make out was the rough silhouette of her dressing table.

Of course there's nothing there, she thought. It's just the last remnants of a dream. That's all it is.

[Back to the start.]

---

 

Over the course of the next couple of days, strange things continued to happen around Magnus. There was nothing so outrageous that the happening itself frightened him — indeed, in many cases, much like when the door had seemingly unlocked itself without him using the key a few days earlier, he failed to notice that anything unusual had gone on until after the fact — but the strange, scrawled and apparently hallucinatory messages that had continued appearing troubled him.

They hadn't added up to anything coherent as yet. So far there had been a "WELCOME", a "GOOD", a "KEEP GOING" and a simple "YES". The messages seemed to approve of what was happening, though Magnus still didn't understand what it all meant. He had become concerned for his mental health; he already knew that his emotions were in a somewhat fragile state following the collapse of his personal life, but had this crossed some sort of line into his brain actually not working properly, interpreting things that weren't really there?

The messages most certainly weren't really there. Sometimes they lingered longer than others, but usually they vanished as if they had never been there at all after just a single blink of his eyes. They were vivid enough that they certainly looked real, but if that were the case why weren't his walls, by now, covered in graffiti?

He flopped into bed, exhausted. He hadn't done much that day, but he had at least left the house and spent some time in a coffee shop in an attempt to feel like a normal human being. It wasn't the most productive use of his time, of course, but it beat sitting by himself and letting the darkness of his depression close in on him.

Now, of course, it was night, and as he flipped the bedside light off he was surrounded by literal darkness; for once he had remembered to close the curtains, so the usual glare of the street lamps from outside was just a faint glow through the material. The only real light in the room now was the glowing red numbers of the clock-radio, ever-present by his bed, a relic of a forgotten age when he had a reason to wake up early in the morning.

"Hi."

His heart immediately started racing. There had been no-one in the room when he had got into bed and turned the light off, but that was unmistakably the sound of someone's voice. It seemed to be a woman's voice; strong, but feminine, and not one he recognised.

"How's the darkness treating you?"

Panicked, he fumbled for the bedside lamp and ended up knocking it — and a coffee cup from a couple of days ago — to the floor. Eventually he managed to pick it up and, wielding it like a lantern, he flicked the switch.

Instantly his room was bathed in light, and there was no sign of anyone. He looked around and gave a momentary start at the sight of his own enlarged shadow on the wall as he pointed the lamp around like a torch, but it was clear to him that he was the only occupant of the room. The voice — if indeed there ever was one — was silent.

He replaced the lamp on the bedside table and switched it off again. He lay down, his heart still thumping in his chest, took a deep breath and tried to relax, eyes closed.

"Don't try to find me," the voice came again, this time feeling like it was whispering in his ear. "You won't be able to. Not yet, at least."

He kept his eyes closed — tightly, now — as fear gripped his body and his pulse quickened once more. He swore he felt a chill wind move across his body, and then the voice was in his other ear.

"You're making a good start, though," it said. "Really good. But I can see you're not quite ready for this yet, so for now I'll bid you farewell."

The breeze blew once again, but Magnus dared not open his eyes, even though he knew all he would see — even if there really was someone in his room — was darkness. It was several minutes that felt like hours before he felt his body starting to relax again, the adrenaline slowly draining and his muscles gradually switching out of "fight or flight" mode.

Still keeping his eyes closed, he rolled onto his front and buried his head in his pillow. It didn't take him long to succumb to sleep.

 

*       *       *       *       *

The following day was uneventful. Nothing strange happened around him, and none of the peculiar messages appeared. It was the same the day after, and the day after that, too. He began to think that whatever strange illness had been clouding his mind had somehow passed, and that he was over the worst, so he gradually let the weird incidents of the last few days slide from the front of his mind.

He had been grateful for the distraction, if nothing else; having the odd happenings to concentrate on had taken his mind off the other things that had been going on in his life. He was brought back into the cold light of reality by a simple text message, though: she was coming by to pick up her things, and recommended that he wasn't there while he did so.

The rational part of his brain knew that she was right, that it would be healthiest and safest for both of them if he were elsewhere while she went about her grim business of sorting out the things that belonged to her, packing them away and taking them with her, never to be seen again. That very act was definitively final; up until that point, he'd always carried the hope that she might reconsider and come back, even though she'd already taken a lot of her possessions — daily life things like clothes and toiletries — with her quite some time ago now.

He responded with a simple, blunt "OK" to her proposed time, which was later that day, and knew that he needed to make himself scarce as quickly as possible. But he could not bring himself to leave just yet; he could feel the emotions bubbling up inside him. A corrosive cocktail of intense sadness and burning rage, the toxic feelings quickly overcame him, and he found himself stamping around the empty flat, looking for something to release the anger on.

He settled on a pair of glasses that she'd left behind and had, until now, been avoiding. He knew she didn't wear them often — she'd have taken them with her, otherwise — but they were still hers. And, right now, they made as good a target as any for his ire.

He took them from the shelf where they had sat, untouched, since she had walked out of the door. He threw them to the ground petulantly, then stamped on them one, two, three times. He picked them up and squeezed them tightly between his hands, bending the frames and making them useless as a facial adornment. To his intense dissatisfaction, though, nothing broke; the lenses didn't crack, the frames didn't snap. All he was left with was a mangled, twisted mass of wire and glass that was still recognisable as having been a pair of glasses once, but which wouldn't be fitting atop anyone's nose any time soon.

He fell to his knees and started to cry. The tears came quickly and flowed down his cheeks, plopping quietly onto the carpet as they fell from his face. He collapsed forward, his forehead hitting the floor with enough force to make him slightly dizzy, but the physical pain didn't matter compared to the mental anguish he was currently in.

He didn't even really know why he was crying or what he was upset about. It was just everything about the situation coming to a head. He scrunched up his face as he sobbed and gasped: he'd done this before, and would probably do it again; he just had to ride it out. That rational part of the brain speaking again, even amid the most chaotic outbursts of emotion like this one.

Eventually, the tears subsided and the sobbing stopped. He felt exhausted, and it was all he could do to pull his head up off the floor and get back to a kneeling position.

He wiped the last few tears from the corners of his eyes and his cheeks, sniffed and opened his eyes.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

He was in his flat, but it was not as he knew it. The strange words that had occasionally been appearing on his walls were now everywhere, and the room seemed shrouded in a black mist, lighter than smoke but heavier than fog. Everything about this was wrong, but he still recognised it. Why? What was going on.

A patch of the black mist ahead of him coalesced into a humanoid figure, though it was nothing more than a silhouette; he couldn't make any features out, save for the fact that the figure was probably female.

"Oh, hi," said a voice he recognised immediately as that which he'd heard in his bedroom a few days earlier. "Wasn't expecting you quite so soon."

He didn't hear the last sentence, because he'd toppled backwards, the shock too much for his consciousness to take right now. He had passed out.

*       *       *       *       *

"There you are."

He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but he knew that he didn't want to open his eyes. The voice — the strange figure — was still there, and that presumably meant that he was in that terribly wrong version of his living room.

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," said the voice, sounding a little put out by his lack of response. "I just need to talk. And you need to listen, otherwise you're going to be stuck here, and I don't think you want that. Sit up."

Eyes still closed, he uneasily raised himself up onto his elbows, then pushed his back up off the floor. His body felt stiff, heavy and uncooperative, but he complied with the voice's request nonetheless, even though his body was shaking with every movement. Then, he grit his teeth and let his eyes open.

The shadowy figure appeared to be crouched on the floor near him, and he could have sworn that if it had a face it would be looking concerned. Something about the way it carried itself and the attitude it was displaying towards him made him feel a little more at ease than he had been: maybe the voice really had meant what it had said, and that it didn't want to hurt him?

"There we go," came the female voice, somewhat softer in tone than it had been before. "That wasn't so difficult, now, was it?"

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice cracking as he did so. He felt like he hadn't drunk any water for weeks.

The voice chuckled. "Well, aren't you straight to the point. I like that. But before we talk about me, we should probably talk about…" — here the figure gestured flamboyantly about the distorted version of his living room — "…this place, and what you're doing here."

He blinked. The nightmarish vision before him didn't go away. He was really here. For some reason, though, he could feel his fear dissipating and being replaced with curiosity.

The crouching figure seemed to rock back onto where its knees would be if it was a normal human body. It looked like it was relaxing.

"Good," it said. "Welcome."

[Back to the start]

---

 

Magnus wasn't sure when it was he finally got back to sleep, but it must have happened at some point, because before he knew it he was opening his eyes and immediately squinting at the bright sunlight coming in through the bedroom window.

He groaned, rolled over, wiped his mouth — apparently he had drooled in his sleep, which he added to his increasingly long mental checklist of things that disgusted him about himself — and blinked a few times, trying to get used to the light.

As the room came back into focus, he glanced at the clock-radio. It was just before 9 in the morning. He'd woken up at a normal time for once.

He groaned again, sat up, stretched and unsteadily got out of bed. As he turned to look at the wall that had been emblazoned with the strange, dark letters last night — or had that been a dream, too? — he paused, looking it over as if willing the letters to appear again. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. The fear he had felt last night was all but gone: now, the strange happenings were nothing more than the fading memories of a confused subconscious, and he attributed them to the fact that he quite literally wasn't feeling in his right mind at the moment.

He retrieved his phone from on top of the chest of drawers, where it had been charging all night, and pressed the power button. The screen sprang to life, the large numbers of the clock informing him once again that yes, he really had managed to get up at a normal person's time today. Not only that, but it was Saturday; a day where he always felt significantly less guilty about not working or, he felt, contributing to society in any meaningful way.

He tapped the "Messages" icon, then on the recent conversation he'd had with his friend Dora. He hadn't spoken with her in a few days, and he felt like he needed to talk. He knew that she worked, though, and didn't like disturbing her in the week, even though he couldn't remember the last time she had turned him down for an invitation to do something together, even if it was just hanging out watching a movie.

"Hey," he typed clumsily, fumbling for a moment over the auto-correct function. "Are you up to anything today?"

The message sent, and his phone informed him that it had been delivered, but not read. It was entirely possible, he figured, that Dora was still asleep; it was quite early in the morning on a Saturday, after all, and he certainly didn't begrudge her a lie-in after a week of juggling working and taking care of her family.

He'd thought off and on that he might be in love with Dora. He'd even considered confessing it to her at some point, before the rational part of his brain took over and told the irrational part — which held an increasingly large dominion over his overall consciousness these days — that he was being silly, that he didn't really love her, that all he was trying to do was replace that which he had lost, and that, given she was happily married with children, she almost certainly didn't feel the same way. The rational brain won that particular argument, but the irrational side often felt to him like it was biding its time to flare up again at the most inconvenient moment.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his wandering thoughts.

"Nothing much," came the reply. "Want to come over?"

"Actually," he wrote back quickly. "Would you mind coming over here? I need to ask you…" he paused, and deleted the last sentence. "I need your help with something."

He waited. Dora always took several minutes to reply, whereas he was inclined to treat text messages like online instant messaging conversations, feeling guilty if he didn't respond immediately. It frustrated him at times, but he was also conscious that not everyone out there had quite as much time on their hands as he did. He sighed dejectedly as he once again found himself contemplating his life situation; today was an upbeat day by his own standards, but there was still that background noise of hopelessness, that feeling that things were never going to just neatly work out like he hoped they might.

"All right," came the reply eventually. "I'll be over in an hour or so. That ok?"

 

*       *       *       *       *

Dora Miller was a pretty woman, blessed with a youthful face and shapely figure that had not yet begun to succumb to the ravages of time despite the fact that she was just the wrong side of thirty years old. She always made an effort with her appearance; her straight, golden-blonde hair falling around her face and down her back without a single strand out of place, her light touch of makeup complementing her natural attractiveness without seeming artificial.

Magnus always felt inferior when he was next to her, like they were polar opposites in almost every way. He was the scruffy, unkempt, no-hope male loser that, he feared, no-one would ever find attractive ever again; she was, he felt, radiant. He didn't know why she hung out with him or why she allowed him to call her "friend", but he appreciated it nonetheless.

He handed her a cup of coffee and sat down next to her on the sofa. He didn't look her in the eye; he'd always found eye contact difficult, but even more so since the events of the last couple of months.

"So," she said taking a sip of the coffee. "Ow, that's as hot as the sun, let me put that down a minute." She put it down and smacked her lips before speaking again. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

He thought for a moment. He wasn't quite sure how to put it.

"I, uh," he began, trying to think how he could express the things he was thinking about. "I've been feeling a bit weird."

Her eyes softened. "Well, we both know that," she said. "Is this something different? What do you mean?"

Her questions weren't helping. He still wasn't sure how to put it across.

He stood up, and looked down at his hands. While he was waiting for her to arrive, he'd noticed that his hands looked a little different to how he was used to them looking — at least he believed so, anyway. He couldn't quite pin down what it was that was wrong, but they certainly didn't quite seem right.

"I need you to have a look at something," he said seriously.

"Oh, God," she said, chuckling, obviously trying to lighten the somewhat heavy mood that appeared to be falling over the room. "You're not going to make me look at your balls, are you? I mean, if you're really, genuinely worried, I will, but,"

He laughed despite himself; a weak laugh that even he found unconvincing. "No," he said softly. He held out his hand to her. "Does anything look… strange about my hand to you?"

She gave him a quizzical look, complete with exaggerated raised eyebrow as if to emphasise how strange his question was, but she looked down at his outstretched hand nonetheless.

"No," she said after a moment. "Looks like… well, a hand. Your hand."

He blinked and looked down. They looked, as she said, like his own hands, just as they always did. Had he been imagining what he saw earlier? A trick of the dim light inside the flat, perhaps?

He sat down again, and began to tell her the tale of his strange experiences the previous night. Once he started, he found that he could not stop. Dora's eyes widened as he explained in great detail — the specificity of which surprised even Magnus — the sensations he had felt, the things he had seen, what he had been thinking. For a dream, he thought, it felt decidedly real; eerily so.

The feeling of dread he'd experienced the previous night started to creep up his spine again, but he tried his best to banish it from his thoughts. He finished his story.

"Wow," said Dora. "That's… quite a dream. What did that word on the wall say? 'Welcome'? Welcome to what?"

"I don't know," Magnus said with a shrug. "Probably nothing."

There was a momentary silence between the two of them. Then Magnus spoke again.

"I'm sorry to bring you out here for some bullshit dream," he said. "I feel a bit stupid now."

"It's all right," said Dora, smiling that warm smile she smiled when he knew she was being genuine rather than jokey. "I'm guessing you were feeling a bit lonely and could do with someone to talk to anyway, huh."

"Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry to keep bugging you like this."

"It's fine," she said. "What are friends for?"

*       *       *       *       *

Magnus and Dora spent a couple of hours together, heading to a local coffee shop for a change of scenery, before Dora had to head home and back to her family. As Magnus walked back in the direction of his flat, the grey clouds that had been gathering overhead as the morning had progressed finally started to spill their load of rainwater: gently at first, but quickly progressing to a strong shower that didn't take long to soak right through his clothes.

"Shit." It didn't help his mood, and much of the good that Dora's visit had done him was undone by the weather; it wasn't long before he was feeling bleak again, and by the time he reached his front door he wasn't sure he actually wanted to go inside. Although this place was still home, it also housed all manner of memories, many of which he didn't feel like he could particularly deal with.

As he reached out for the door, he noticed his hands again and paused. Something seemed "off" once again; was it really a trick of the light, or had they actually changed colour? Perhaps it was the cold of the rain; his soaking clothes were making him feel somewhat chilly, after all, so it's possible that it was just his body responding to the low temperatures.

Banishing thoughts of the memories floating around inside the flat, he decided that he wanted nothing more than to get inside and into the warm, perhaps even back into bed. As he reached out for the door, there was a soft "click" as it unlocked, and he pushed it open, reaching around the frame to find the hallway light switch as he did so and clicking the lights on so he didn't have to walk in to thick darkness.

It wasn't until the door slammed shut behind him that the fact he had never taken his keys out of his pocket registered to him. And yet here he was.

He glanced around the hallway, confused. Everything looked normal. Nothing seemed out of place.

That is, until he turned around to face the other end of the hallway, and there it was. Another word, scrawled in large, dark letters on the wall, plain to see.

"GOOD." it said.