echoes-of-elsewhere

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The scariest story I have ever written (new urban legend)

The Porcelain Moment

There are stories we collect not because they are proven, but because they recur. They surface in different cities, through different people, in slight variations but always with the same dread geometry beneath. The one I present today arrived in fragments that took years to piece together. Online confessions, clinic transcripts, private letters never sent.

What unites them is a single moment. A silence in the psyche. A porcelain moment.

The term, this 'porcelain moment', was first used by a woman in Devon. She had no history of psychosis or violence. One morning, around 4:30 a.m., she awoke on her kitchen floor, bruised and shaking, a paring knife in her hand. The house was dark. Her partner found her hours later, weeping and unable to explain why she kept whispering "they were afraid of me."

What she eventually described, and others since, goes like this:

You wake abruptly. There is no dream beforehand, no warning, no tunnel of light. You are simply awake.

Except you are not in your bed.

You are on a shelf, or on a dresser. Your limbs are stiff.

You try to speak but your mouth will not open.

You try to raise your arms...but they are fixed in place, as though pinned by invisible threads.

But then your arms move. But something is off.

You are porcelain. Hollow. Small. And armed.

Almost all reports include a weapon. A miniature cleaver. A bloodied nail file. An ornate sewing scissor fused to a hand. The weapon feels familiar in your fixed grasp. Not because you've held it before, but because you've wanted to. In fleeting moments of rage you've buried so deep you forgot they existed.

In every account, there is a family. A child, most often. Sometimes two. They are terrified of you. One witness described the look on the girl's face: "Absolute fear but not confusion...more like recognition. As if she knew what I was capable of."

All witnesses confess to the feeling of wanting to do harm. To attack. To stab or slash. The urge doesn't feel foreign. It feels intimate. Like meeting the person you might have been if you'd never learned to be ashamed of wanting to hurt.

You want to scream to the family...to the child... that it isn't you.

But even as you form the thought, you know it's a lie. It is you. Just a version of you that you've spent your whole life keeping locked away.

You remember you laugh. Or rather something using your voice laughs. The laughter that comes from your porcelain throat is yours - your cadence, your vocal patterns - but performed by something that understands cruelty better than you ever allowed yourself to. It's not uncontrolled. It's theatrical. Cruel. Measured. And then it ends. You're back in your body. Usually in bed. Usually sweating. Sometimes with minor injuries: small cuts, cracked lips, a tightness in the jaw. But alive.

The worst part isn't the fear.

It's that you miss it.

Just a little.

Most people who report this experience only one such occurrence. A single night. An unshakable memory. But not all. One account from Canada, flagged by a folklore researcher, mentions four porcelain moments over the course of two months. Each time, the family was different. Each time, he got closer. And each time the witness returned with clearer memory. By the fourth, he claims, he had a name whispered to him by the doll's mouth. But not his voice. It spoke through him.

But when asked what the name was, he shook his head. He said only: "I think it was mine. But it didn't feel like mine."

Supplemental Note

There are no known murders or assaults tied directly to these events. Most witnesses try to investigate. No porcelain dolls found at crime scenes. No abandoned houses with knife marks or blood. And yet the fear of what they could have done feels real. That they wanted to. A kind of guilt without crime. A nightmare too coherent to dismiss, and too empty to prosecute.

One exception...as of course there always is. A girl in Missouri reported waking with the distinct memory of a crying child, and a dog barking itself hoarse. She wrote down the address she'd seen curiously embroidered on a rug. Her parents dismissed the whole thing as pressure at college and a breakup with her boyfriend. A nightmare. But weeks later, she visited the area.

There was a house. The family was real.

They had never seen her before. And her questions scared them. And quite rightfully so.

But when the girl mentioned a porcelain doll the daughter turned pale. When she finally spoke, she asked her to leave. It was years ago. Just leave.

She left. Later that week, the girl disposed of every doll she owned.

Curator's Reflection

It would be easy to file this under metaphor. To reduce the pattern to a dream-symbol, some subconscious theatre of guilt or rage. That's a comfortable explanation. But too much aligns. The paralysis, the armament, the laughter, and above all, the clear, conscious memory. These are not dreams. These are visits.

What unnerves me is the question of ownership. These people did not become dolls in the metaphorical sense. They were present. They saw. They remembered. But they could not intervene.

This suggests a duality not of dreamer and dream, but of occupant and host.

It is possible, I suppose, that the dolls are cursed. But there's no evidence for that. No consistent object, no bloodied heirloom. Nothing passed from hand to hand. Just empty vessels. Variants of the same shape: hollow, articulated, and waiting.

So perhaps the dolls are not haunted at all.

Perhaps they are available.

Perhaps what moves into them, just for an hour, is not a demon or external force, but something submerged. The part of the self we pretend doesn't exist. The part that fantasises about power, about harm. The part we suppress. Until it finds a better shape.

And there's a further question, one few have asked:

If you are in the doll, what is in your body while you're gone?

No one has offered an answer. But I note with interest that no witness has ever suffered fatal harm during their porcelain moment. And no reports mention what they said or did during the absence, only what they felt, when they returned.

So, if you do experience one, a porcelain moment, and you wake with a taste in your mouth that you can't place, or a bruise in a pattern you can't explain... perhaps the question isn't what happened to you. Perhaps it's what you discovered about yourself. And whether that discovery will be satisfied with just one visit.

After all, if you found your way into one doll, what's to stop you from finding your way into another? Every shelf, every collection, every child's room now represents a possibility. And the part of you that tasted that power? It's still there. Still waiting.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Temporal Tremors (short story)

New Sir Peregrine Story

A Slightly Out-of-Sync Account from the Curator

Readers, you may recall Sir Peregrine's penchant for finding himself in… temporally precarious situations. It seems this time, time itself has decided to take a turn on him. The following account, which arrived via a series of increasingly fragmented and chronologically jumbled letters (a feat in itself), details his latest, rather discombobulating, adventure.

Sir Peregrine's Lament: The Temporal Tremors

My Dearest Curator (or perhaps, my future Curator? Or even my past Curator, receiving this before I've even written it? Time, as you may gather, is not my forte at present),

I write to you from… well, I'm not entirely certain *when* I'm writing to you from. Or indeed, when *I* am. You see, I seem to have acquired a rather persistent case of the Temporal Tremors.

It began innocently enough. I was enjoying a perfectly respectable brandy (a 1783, if memory serves… or will serve… or has served?) when I found myself, for a fleeting moment, a few seconds in the past. My hand, reaching for the snifter, was suddenly empty. A curious sensation, but easily dismissed, I thought.

Alas, the tremors persisted. And worsened. My attempts at a charming greeting now involve me uttering the punchline before the setup. A game of cards became a dizzying exercise in knowing (and then un-knowing) the future. Even pouring a simple drink has become a temporal minefield, resulting in brandy appearing and disappearing with alarming frequency.

The social ramifications, I assure you, are dire. I attempted a flirtatious remark to Lady Beatrice (a woman whose beauty is only surpassed by her temporal stability), only to find myself having already received a resounding slap. My attempts at a dramatic exit are equally hampered, as I keep hiccuping back into the room, much to the amusement (and growing irritation) of those present.

Naturally, I sought a cure. My inquiries led me to a rather dubious "temporal physician" who prescribed a concoction involving powdered moonbeams and the reversed recitation of nursery rhymes. The results, I can assure you, were less than effective (and involved a rather unfortunate incident with a flock of temporally displaced pigeons).

I've even tried to weaponize these tremors, attempting to predict the stock market or win at the races. However, my own actions, it seems, have a rather inconvenient habit of changing the future I briefly glimpse, leading to financial ruin and a general sense of existential bewilderment.

I am, it seems, at the mercy of these… temporal hiccups. I encounter others similarly afflicted – a bewildered gentleman whose conversations skip forward and backward, a woman who keeps re-experiencing the same spilled teacup moment, a dog that barks a few seconds before it hears a sound. We are a motley crew, lost in the eddies of time.

I suspect the cause may be a localized temporal anomaly near Crickleford (that troublesome ley-line again!), or perhaps a side-effect of some ill-conceived time-traveling experiment. Whatever the reason, I find myself increasingly out of sync with the present, a most unsettling experience for a man of my… temporal sensibilities.

I can only hope that this letter, however fragmented and chronologically challenged, reaches you in a relatively linear fashion. And that, should you encounter me in the near future (or the recent past), you will be patient with my… temporal tremors.

Yours, in a state of perpetual temporal flux,

Sir Peregrine Winchester (or perhaps, Sir Peregrine Winchester-to-be? It's all rather confusing).

Curator's Closing Note:

We at Echoes of Elsewhere extend our sympathies to Sir Peregrine in his temporally turbulent predicament. Should any reader possess a reliable cure for Chronal Hiccups (or, indeed, any temporal ailment), do let us know. We keep a special section in the archives for such remedies, right next to the map of non-existent Tuesdays. And should you, yourself, experience a sudden, inexplicable jump forward or backward in time, please try to avoid operating heavy machinery, engaging in complex social interactions, or betting on horse races. The results, as Sir Peregrine can attest, are rarely favorable.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Bright Undead (original urban myth)

The Bright Undead: The Re-Living and the 27 Rule

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 27C

(For internal circulation only. Redacted in most published editions.)

I write in a state of unease, not only for the implications of what follows, but for the knowledge that this file, should it ever be verified, may never be made public. What I’ve uncovered is not simply hidden knowledge, but deliberately occluded theology - the concealment of a category of undead which does not belong to the dark, but to the light.

They are not rotting. They do not drink blood or claw themselves out from graves. These are not the cursed. These are the blessed.

There is an older term, one found in suppressed glossaries and annulled ecclesiastical notes: Sanctified Revenant. Among modern occult archivists, they're called the Bright Undead, or more precisely: the Re-Living.

They arise not by the bite, nor by the ritual, but by grace. The catalyst is not death itself, but the kiss of radiance - an anointing from something thought to be good: a Muse, an angel, a Light-bound entity cloaked in salvation.

Their deaths, if recorded at all, appear unremarkable, and nearly always in childhood. A fever that peaks and passes. A fall with no fracture. A breath held for too long underwater, a drowned child who inexplicably took a gulping breath when all hope was gone. And yet…they were dead. Briefly. Quietly. No thunder, no rift. Just continuation.

Their resurrection is familial lore. "You were lucky," someone says. "We thought we'd lost you." They nod, unaware of what they’ve become.

The change is nearly imperceptible. The body survives, but something has shifted - like a reel of film missing a frame, a pulse that beats a quarter-second out of time. They seem healthy. Gifted, even. They pass every medical test.

By twenty-one, the signs sharpen. Their work (almost always artistic) carries unnatural resonance. Songs that refuse to leave your soul. Poems that speak directly to questions you never said aloud. Paintings with new nuances each time you return.

They do not feed like vampires. They earn. Their sustenance is adulation: not fame, not infamy, but genuine emotional investment. To thrive, they must be admired authentically. Virtuously. In this way, they are bound by their own talent and perceived goodness. It is both their strength and their trap.

But adoration is a dangerous thing. It accumulates. They begin to exert a kind of gravitational influence on culture, on feeling, on mood. Their echoes shape movements. Their deaths ignite myths. And once that resonance passes a certain threshold, they begin to bend the world itself.

Which is why they rarely survive past twenty-seven.

The Light Slayers are not a metaphor. They are real, though never named aloud. Some call them Gardeners. Others, more bluntly, Cleaners. In surviving field notes, they are referred to by one name alone: the Light Slayers.

It is a term used with irony. These agents do not serve the light. They serve the dark. But not chaos with the world in flames. Not the demons of childish horror.

They are the pragmatists of evil. Rationalists of entropy. They believe, perhaps rightly, that the Light has rewritten history under the guise of truth. That angels edit more than they inspire. That Muses do not offer gifts, but impose templates. And that the Re-Living are not saints, are not ‘risen’ but unauthorised corrections to human nature. But do not mistake the Light Slayers for ‘good’ but somehow twisted. They are not. They have no qualms of taking human life if necessary, or ordered to by their masters.

One scorched note recovered from a raid site reads:

“We prefer our undead with boundaries. Fang and flame. The Light’s undead seduce nations. They steal agency in the name of uplift. We kill them not because they are monsters, but because their effect is monstrous.”

Their creed is brief:

No Bright Undead past twenty-seven. No witnesses to the correction.

The tactics are mundane, but clever and highly organised. Not simple violence. A missed dosage. A sabotaged railing. An unlocked gun cabinet. The death is always plausible - and always a tragic accident. The obituary prepared in advance.

But the impact of the Bright Undead is not always easy to contain.

This is what makes the 27 Club more than a coincidence.

Jimi Hendrix. Amy Winehouse. Kurt Cobain. Janis Joplin. Jean-Michel Basquiat. Not all were Re-Living. But some were. Enough for concern. Enough to warrant intervention.

(An editorial note: Robert Johnson is often included in this list. He is not relevant to this file. He made a very different kind of deal. The devil, for what it’s worth, still honours that kind.)

You may ask: Why don’t we speak of these beings more openly? Because the Light owns the language. They’ve had centuries of cultural monopoly. Where the dark gives us monsters, the Light gives us resurrection.

Jesus. Baldur. Osiris. Dionysus. All died. All returned. Not monsters, we are told. But divine. Holy.

And what of Lazarus? Did he choose to rise? Was he asked? Or was he simply proof of concept? A servant made to demonstrate that death is optional when your soul is not your own?

These are dangerous thoughts. The light tells you: it is weak, and darkness has the power, yet against all odds, it always triumphs. The undead are evil. Monsters. Twisted. But in their inner circles they smugly assert ‘not ours, of course. Ours give interviews. Win Grammys. Ours perform miracles’.

And so the world forgets. And we remain haunted by those who shine too brightly. Clever distraction. Their immortality is not physical, but their work..their resonance is.

If you find yourself moved beyond reason by someone’s work - if their art reshapes you - check their age.

If they are twenty-seven, the decision has already been made.

If they are twenty-eight, someone has failed.

And if they are twenty-nine?Then the world will not survive unchanged.

The Curator’s Addendum (redacted in most editions):

“The horror here is not that the undead walk. That has long been known. It is that the brightest among us may never have been ours at all. They shine, yes. But the source of the light is addictive. And we have been worshipping undead things.”

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Thank you @mama-ivy and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!

It was rather thrilling to see this. I know I don't have a lot of followers but I do interact with a few that do. I tend to write a fair bit, and simply enjoy the process...but...do you know something? It was really quite enjoyable to get this message! Ah...vanity! :) xxx

A new urban legend - what do you think?

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 11B

Subject: Toothsong Phenomenon (Confirmed Case File – Testimony Appended)

Status: Unresolved. Frequency: Low. Spread: Musical.

“Not all music is written. Some arrives. And it wants to be remembered.”

I came across this letter folded inside a dental hygiene pamphlet left in the waiting room of a private clinic in Devon. The paper was unmarked on first glance, and the attached pen used to write it had no ink. Yet the words are there, their lines subtly etched, pressed deep into the paper as if by an intense deep need from within the author to tell their story – the only way, I suspect, they could defy the condition their affliction imposed.

Its author is unnamed. I leave it in their voice.

Toothsong (Statement Begins)

At first, I mistook it for tinnitus – just a faint, mid-pitch hum, not unpleasant, that came and went, particularly at night. But it wasn't mere static, for static lacks rhythm, and this hum possessed a distinct, unsettling beat.

About a week later, I woke up to feel something small and hard beneath my pillow. Instinctively, I sat up and spat—bloody saliva—realizing one of my back molars was gone. Yet, there was no socket, no pain. When I checked the mirror, the tooth was still inexplicably present: smooth, white, and slightly too white.

I assumed it was a dream, a confusion with an old filling memory, anxiety, or some such thing, until it happened again. Another tooth gone during the same dreamless sleep, the hum now noticeably stronger. I found the second tooth on the floor by the bed, but when I turned to retrieve my phone to photograph it, it had vanished.

My dentist, after a thorough examination, assured me I was fine, even complimenting my enamel.

Soon, I found myself humming unconsciously, an unfamiliar melody I didn’t recognize. I’d catch myself in the car, or walking to the shop, always the same tune, always note-perfect. I tried to record it once on my phone, but the playback remained stubbornly blank – silence. My lips moved, I knew, but no sound emerged from the recording.

By the fifth tooth, I’d stopped attempting to voice my experience. My friends at first thought I was winding them up. Then one gave me a number of a clinical psychologist. I laughed it off, and said typical anxiety dreams.

That’s when I stumbled upon the forum: an obscure, fragmented subthread buried deep within a sleep disorder site, where the term "Toothsong" appeared. No clear origin, just scattered posts. One, however, stood out:

“If you lose more than seven, it finishes. And once the song finishes, something starts singing back.”

Seven. The number resonated, sticking in my mind, not merely as a quantity, but because it felt unsettlingly... plausible.

I tried everything – wearing mouthguards, sleeping upright – but nothing helped.

On night I lost my sixth tooth, I wrote this verse in my notebook without knowing why:

If Toothsong plays, do not reply,

Or hum it back, or question why.

When harmony aligns with bone,

Your thoughts won’t ever be your own.

I possess no memory of writing or learning it, yet an unsettling certainty compels me to believe it is true.

Last night, the seventh tooth emerged – a canine. I held it in my hand, feeling it pulse like a trapped insect, before I hurled it out the window.

The melody is complete now, playing whenever I’m still. When I brush my teeth, I can feel them humming back, vibrating softly against the bristles.

I am leaving this here as a warning, perhaps even a map.

Someone on the thread said that if you stop humming, the song forgets you. You can trick it into thinking you were never part of the chorus. Some even claim dental trauma works—a pulled tooth, something deliberately broken, severs the link. Others say that’s how it gets in properly.

I no longer know what’s true, only this:

My teeth are no longer mine.

And they are listening.

—[Redacted]

Addendum (Curator’s Hand):

I’ve since located two further mentions of Toothsong, both buried in unrelated documents. One was handwritten in the margin of a 1983 pamphlet on orthodontic prayer. The other was spoken softly, by a man during a tooth extraction, just before he died. He said:

“I bit into the tune. It bit back.”

If any readers find similar cases—particularly in music therapy wards, or among dental students who whistle in their sleep—please forward them. What is the purpose, what do they want?

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

A new urban legend - what do you think?

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 11B

Subject: Toothsong Phenomenon (Confirmed Case File – Testimony Appended)

Status: Unresolved. Frequency: Low. Spread: Musical.

“Not all music is written. Some arrives. And it wants to be remembered.”

I came across this letter folded inside a dental hygiene pamphlet left in the waiting room of a private clinic in Devon. The paper was unmarked on first glance, and the attached pen used to write it had no ink. Yet the words are there, their lines subtly etched, pressed deep into the paper as if by an intense deep need from within the author to tell their story – the only way, I suspect, they could defy the condition their affliction imposed.

Its author is unnamed. I leave it in their voice.

Toothsong (Statement Begins)

At first, I mistook it for tinnitus – just a faint, mid-pitch hum, not unpleasant, that came and went, particularly at night. But it wasn't mere static, for static lacks rhythm, and this hum possessed a distinct, unsettling beat.

About a week later, I woke up to feel something small and hard beneath my pillow. Instinctively, I sat up and spat—bloody saliva—realizing one of my back molars was gone. Yet, there was no socket, no pain. When I checked the mirror, the tooth was still inexplicably present: smooth, white, and slightly too white.

I assumed it was a dream, a confusion with an old filling memory, anxiety, or some such thing, until it happened again. Another tooth gone during the same dreamless sleep, the hum now noticeably stronger. I found the second tooth on the floor by the bed, but when I turned to retrieve my phone to photograph it, it had vanished.

My dentist, after a thorough examination, assured me I was fine, even complimenting my enamel.

Soon, I found myself humming unconsciously, an unfamiliar melody I didn’t recognize. I’d catch myself in the car, or walking to the shop, always the same tune, always note-perfect. I tried to record it once on my phone, but the playback remained stubbornly blank – silence. My lips moved, I knew, but no sound emerged from the recording.

By the fifth tooth, I’d stopped attempting to voice my experience. My friends at first thought I was winding them up. Then one gave me a number of a clinical psychologist. I laughed it off, and said typical anxiety dreams.

That’s when I stumbled upon the forum: an obscure, fragmented subthread buried deep within a sleep disorder site, where the term "Toothsong" appeared. No clear origin, just scattered posts. One, however, stood out:

“If you lose more than seven, it finishes. And once the song finishes, something starts singing back.”

Seven. The number resonated, sticking in my mind, not merely as a quantity, but because it felt unsettlingly... plausible.

I tried everything – wearing mouthguards, sleeping upright – but nothing helped.

On night I lost my sixth tooth, I wrote this verse in my notebook without knowing why:

If Toothsong plays, do not reply,

Or hum it back, or question why.

When harmony aligns with bone,

Your thoughts won’t ever be your own.

I possess no memory of writing or learning it, yet an unsettling certainty compels me to believe it is true.

Last night, the seventh tooth emerged – a canine. I held it in my hand, feeling it pulse like a trapped insect, before I hurled it out the window.

The melody is complete now, playing whenever I’m still. When I brush my teeth, I can feel them humming back, vibrating softly against the bristles.

I am leaving this here as a warning, perhaps even a map.

Someone on the thread said that if you stop humming, the song forgets you. You can trick it into thinking you were never part of the chorus. Some even claim dental trauma works—a pulled tooth, something deliberately broken, severs the link. Others say that’s how it gets in properly.

I no longer know what’s true, only this:

My teeth are no longer mine.

And they are listening.

—[Redacted]

Addendum (Curator’s Hand):

I’ve since located two further mentions of Toothsong, both buried in unrelated documents. One was handwritten in the margin of a 1983 pamphlet on orthodontic prayer. The other was spoken softly, by a man during a tooth extraction, just before he died. He said:

“I bit into the tune. It bit back.”

If any readers find similar cases—particularly in music therapy wards, or among dental students who whistle in their sleep—please forward them. What is the purpose, what do they want?

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

A new scene (trying to get voice/tone correct...sorta PG Wodehouse or Downton Abbey if written by Douglas Adams)

"He was in your study, Sir," Singh stated, his voice flat, yet with a hint of satisfaction. "Helping himself to your good brandy. I believe this is yours, Curator." He gestured with his chin towards the flask.

Sir Peregrine huffed, adjusting his monocle which had somehow remained perfectly affixed through his struggles. "How did you bloody know?"

"I have always known when you enter the Mansion, Sir," Singh replied, impassively.

Sir Peregrine's eyes widened. "What? Always?"

"Yes."

"That's not bloody fair!"

"Right, Singh," I interjected, stepping forward. "You can put him down now."

Singh released Sir Peregrine, who immediately stumbled, rubbing his neck and glugging indignantly from his flask. "Perry?" I asked, my voice laced with exasperation.

"Well," Sir Peregrine began, waving a dismissive hand, "I needed a refill. And I was quite intrigued to see what the old girls were up to, and how you were fairing. Plus…" He trailed off, sensing my impatient gaze.

"You really aren't broke, Perry?" I cut in, eyeing the flask. "Can't you buy your own brandy?"

"That's not the point!" he protested, affronted. "It's the principle! But now Singh knows I am here… there's really not much point any more." He sighed dramatically, taking another swig.

"Well, no matter," I said, a sudden thought sparking. "And I'm rather glad you're here, as it happens. I am, in fact, heading off to your part of the worlds."

Sir Peregrine blinked. "What?"

"I've found Gristlewick & Forbearance," I explained, "and will be paying them a visit. In fact, your timing couldn't be more perfect... come along."

"No bloody chance!" Sir Peregrine exclaimed, recoiling. "That den of vipers? Never again!"

"Seriously, Perry," I pressed, stepping closer. "I could use your help. I had some ideas of... well... never mind. But with you there, they may have to give some answers. It's about your father's deal, isn't it?" His eyes, despite his protests, held a flicker of intense curiosity. After a moment's internal debate, he shrugged, a grudging acceptance. "Oh, very well. But if there's any paperwork, you're handling it."

We started to walk along the corridor once more, Sir Peregrine still taking periodic sips from his flask, when, from behind a particularly large, leafy potted plant, a voice, sharp and accusatory, sliced through the quiet.

"Curator! There you are!"

From behind the verdant foliage, Mrs. Higgins-Smythe emerged, adjusting her pince-nez with a snap. Her expression was a formidable blend of indignation and disapproval, clearly honed over decades of managing difficult aristocrats.

"It is nearly nine o'clock, Curator," she announced, striding towards me. "Miss Prunella will be arriving imminently. Your presence is expected, indeed, required, in the receiving hall."

I straightened my cravat. "My apologies, Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, but Singh and I are attending to some rather pressing estate business. Matters of finance, you understand."

She sniffed, a sound like crisp linen being torn. "Nonsense! There is nothing more pressing than decorum. And as for finance," she turned her laser gaze upon Singh, who remained utterly unperturbed, "I must say, Mr. Singh, we have been utterly disheartened by the recent privations. Hand to mouth, truly! All terribly lacking in civilised behaviour. I expect, for Miss Prunella and her entourage tomorrow evening, a proper dinner. Black Tie, mind you. No excuses."

She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing. "And as for you, Curator, it simply will not do to miss Miss Prunella's grand arrival. The family expects…" Her hand, surprisingly fast, reached out towards my ear, clearly intending to take hold of it like an errant schoolboy.

At that precise moment, out of nowhere, it appeared.

The spectral skeleton, shimmering with its familiar blue luminescence, manifested directly in front of Mrs. Higgins-Smythe. It bounced on its bony feet, its mandible clattering, and if it had a voice, it would have been making an "ooga ooga" sound, a joyous, ululating clamour. And if it had a tongue, I swear it would have been wagging, a giddy, skeletal dog.

Singh, for the barest fraction of a second, shifted his weight forward, prepared to intercede. But he was too late.

Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, her eyes wide as saucers, let out a choked gasp, a sound unlike any I had ever heard from such a redoubtable person. She swayed, her face turning a ghastly shade of grey. Then, with a soft thud, she fainted dead away onto the polished marble floor.

Silence descended, save for the faint clatter of the skeleton's joyful, insistent jig. Sound…that was…new. I made a mental note.  I looked at Singh. Singh looked at me. Sir Peregrine, who had been observing the entire spectacle with a detached, almost professional interest, finally broke the quiet. He knelt swiftly beside Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, uncorked his hip flask, and poured a generous splash of brandy onto her lips.

She spluttered, coughed, and her eyes flew open. Her gaze fixed immediately on the still-dancing, glowing skeleton. Her scream, when it came, was truly magnificent – a high-pitched, sustained shriek that echoed down the corridor, shattering the morning's peace. She scrambled to her feet, an undignified heap of flailing limbs and silk, and bolted, her shrieks fading into the distance as she vanished around a corner.

Sir Peregrine straightened, recorking his flask. "Well," he observed, with an air of mild satisfaction, "that won't be good." “Tell me you all saw that?” I asked quietly.

Singh, already moving with purpose towards the retreating figure of Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, gave a curt nod. "Yes sir…we saw the skeleton. I will handle this, Sir. The brandy was an inspired touch. I shall inform the Dowager Duchess that Mrs. Higgins-Smythe merely caught sight of you through the window, Sir Peregrine, and the shock proved too much for her delicate constitution. We need not mention the actual cause, or the… restorative measures. I daresay the lingering scent will be explanation enough for her subsequent discombobulation."

As Singh turned to follow the fleeing Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, the spectral skeleton, seeing its work done, ceased its frenetic dance. It turned its glowing skull towards me, paused, and then, with a flourish, brought a bony finger to its brow in a smart, military-style salute. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it shimmered and vanished.

Sir Peregrine grinned, adjusting his monocle. "Right then, Curator. After that delightful interlude, perhaps we should proceed to your... magical bank, eh?"

"Indeed, Perry," I replied, a tired but resolute sigh escaping me. "Indeed." The skeleton problem just got bumped up the list of things to do but would have to wait. 

With Singh already off on damage control and the chaotic domestic front temporarily subdued, Sir Peregrine and I continued our journey down the corridor towards the Mansion’s dimensional departure point. The morning was proving to be rather more eventful than I had anticipated.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Tentative preface for my book idea

Preface

One assumes, upon inheriting a somewhat bewildering estate and its accompanying archives, that one's days will unfold with predictable academic quietude. One, it seems, assumes incorrectly. I, for one, was quite unprepared for the sheer volume of the peculiar, or indeed, for the subtle, persistent hum of what I've come to call the 'Echoes' that permeate this curious existence.

This mansion – which, for the sake of discretion, we shall refer to simply as 'Echoes of Elsewhere' – is less a dwelling and more a magnet. A rather charmingly dilapidated magnet, I might add, but a magnet nonetheless. It seems to draw to it, with an almost whimsical insistence, the faint resonance of other possibilities, the lingering scent of dreams never quite dreamed, the quiet thrum of realities that perhaps nudged our own a quarter-second out of true, or perhaps even exist in parallel just beyond perception. These are the Echoes: the metaphysical static, the impressions left behind when the usual gives way to the impossible.

My role, as I've gradually (and often reluctantly) come to understand it, is not to dispel these oddities, nor even to fully comprehend them – a task I suspect would drive any sane individual to despair, and a good many rather excellent whiskies. No, my task is simply to observe, to document, and to attempt, however futilely, to impose a semblance of order upon the delightful chaos. This volume, then, is merely a selection from my ever-growing ledger; an invitation, dear reader, to witness the world as it truly is: gloriously, bafflingly, and often hilariously, out of plumb.

It was precisely this task that occupied my afternoon when Sir Peregrine, as is his habit, arrived without prior warning. There was no knock, merely the faint, familiar scent of singed tweed and a distant, frustrated sputter from what I presumed to be his latest contraption – quite possibly attempting to negotiate the flowerbeds. He strode into my study with the purposeful air of a man entirely comfortable with disregarding conventional entrances, his monocle gleaming, a rather bedraggled pigeon clutched in one gloved hand. He also, I noted, carried a thick, cream-coloured envelope, which he often did when presenting what he considered a 'proper account' of his latest adventures, as opposed to his usual rambling pronouncements.

"Curator," he announced, depositing the pigeon onto my antique globe (I must remind him, again, about the guano), "a most vexing conundrum has presented itself. I rather thought Evadne might be lurking about, given the peculiar nature of this particular quantum entanglement. She does rather specialise in the untidy ends of things, don't you find?" He paused, then his gaze sharpened on the stack of bound papers on my desk. "Aha...so it is true." He nodded sagely. "My source, a particularly garrulous jackdaw, informed me you were compiling a volume from the Echoes of Elsewhere. Good show, old boy! Though one does wonder if anyone will actually read it, unless it contains a rather better class of story and adventure than some of the… duller entries I’ve occasionally overheard you muttering about." He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist.

I merely raised an eyebrow, noting that my finest crystal brandy decanter, which had been full a mere half-hour ago, was now looking suspiciously depleted. Sir Peregrine’s insistence on making himself at home, even during moments of profound existential discussion, was a habit I had yet to entirely reconcile myself with. "Indeed, Sir Peregrine," I murmured, opting for vague agreement over direct confrontation regarding the decanter, or Evadne's general elusiveness. "As for readership, one hopes for discerning palates rather than a mere thirst for dramatic spectacle."

Sir Peregrine seemed to miss my barb entirely, or perhaps chose to ignore it. He thrust the cream envelope onto my desk. "Right. Well, this one's a cracker. You simply must start with this, Curator. Absolutely essential for the narrative integrity, you understand." He began to back towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, all this intellectual rigour has quite given me an appetite. I do believe your cook has quite mastered the art of the crumpet."

He exited with a final flourish, leaving the pigeon blinking contentedly on the globe, and myself momentarily adrift in the sudden quiet. I sighed, reaching for the envelope – which I naturally intended to file away for later consideration, as my meticulously planned order was paramount, despite Sir Peregrine’s insistence. Before I could even straighten my spectacles, however, a melodious, albeit rather piercing, voice echoed from the hallway.

"Dahling!"

And there she was. Lady Evadne. How she and Sir Peregrine managed to bypass locks, the simple courtesy of the bell-pulls, and indeed, all conventional notions of arrival, remained a constant, low-level irritation. She stepped into the study, a vision of effortless grace. Her gown, I noted, was of a rich, deep emerald, its silken folds seeming to ripple with an inner vitality. Her eyes, though, were what truly held one's gaze: a captivating, fathomless green that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. She moved with an innate confidence that bespoke generations of quiet command, utterly unlike Sir Peregrine’s more boisterous approach.

She glided directly to me, ignoring the pigeon and the lingering scent of singed tweed, and before I could utter a word of protest, pressed a fleeting, warm kiss to my forehead. She possessed a remarkable ability to treat me as if I were a particularly endearing, if slightly fusty, old academic; a curious habit, given I was almost certainly her junior by at least a decade, and had known her for a mere fraction of the time she had known Sir Peregrine. I, for one, found such familiar displays rather… unsettling, but she was quite oblivious to my subtle discomfort.

"Peregrine's here, I presume?" she asked, her voice a low purr that belied her forceful entrance. Her gaze swept over my desk, alighting, with unnerving precision, on the stacked papers of my nascent compilation. "So, the little ledger is becoming a book, is it? How utterly delightful! Though I do hope you're including all the truly interesting bits. One does so abhor a selective history." She winked, a flash of subtle mischief.

"He is currently assaulting the kitchen, Lady Evadne," I replied, perhaps a touch more stiffly than intended, mentally noting that everyone is a critic. "I believe he mentioned crumpets."

"Splendid!" She turned, a flash of emerald silk as she prepared to depart. "Do send for me if anything truly amusing occurs." And with that, she swept out. It was only as the silence returned, settling over the study like a velvet shroud, that I noticed my very best crystal brandy decanter, which had been looking merely depleted moments ago, was now entirely, irrevocably, and quite shamelessly missing.

I sighed. The immediate aftermath of a visit from Sir Peregrine – especially one so swiftly followed by Lady Evadne – always left a particular sort of metaphysical residue in the air, a sense of hurried chaos just barely contained. I ran a hand through my already dishevelled hair. Sir Peregrine’s insistence upon the narrative urgency of his latest 'cracker' was, as ever, charmingly misplaced. The meticulous structure of a truly compelling volume, I knew, demanded a more thoughtful progression than mere chronological happenstance or dramatic self-aggrandisement. His envelope could certainly wait. There were, after all, other entries, quieter perhaps, but no less significant in their peculiar resonance within the Echoes.

And so it was with a fresh dip of my pen into the inkwell, and a resolute squaring of my shoulders, that I began to compile this collection. What follows are not my immediate musings from the study, dear reader, but the entries themselves: accounts meticulously transcribed from fragile documents, peculiar reports, and the occasional advertisement for enterprises of truly dubious sanity. They are presented here not as a definitive guide to the strange, for such a thing would surely be impossible, but as a series of glimpses, the very tangible impressions left when one reality brushes too closely against another.

Let us begin, then, not with Sir Peregrine’s boisterous latest, but with a quieter, equally fascinating peculiarity concerning a gentleman whose daily life perfectly exemplifies the unpredictable nature of the realms of elsewhere, and his quite remarkable companion.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Imaginary advert from another realm

So, I like to write about all manner of things. Not just stories, but unusual products, and service. Strange, and curious, pets. I'm pretty new to Tumblr, as I say, and am not sure of the best way to get my 'stuff' out there. But I hope you enjoy!

FROM THE ECHOES CATALOGUE OF OCCASIONALLY USEFUL ITEMS

Now Available: Self-Reciting Bookmarks™

"Because some books refuse to be read in silence."

Struggling to keep your place during forbidden incantations? Nodding off mid-treatise on dream cartography? Or perhaps your current volume has developed the irritating habit of rearranging its own words whenever you blink?

Introducing Self-Reciting Bookmarks™ — the only placeholder that reads back.

Crafted from recycled hymnals and bound in whisperwood, each bookmark is programmed with a gentle, insistent voice trained in over 3,000 dialects (including Gutter Latin, Occult Esperanto, and Modern Bureaucratic). Simply place the bookmark where you left off, and upon opening, it will begin reciting the previous paragraph in a tone of weary urgency.

FEATURES INCLUDE:

Mild Sarcasm Detection: For footnotes that take liberties with the truth.

Auto-Censor Mode: Redacts forbidden names with a delicate cough.

Whisper Recall: Recites only when held between thumb and forefinger - perfect for hiding from library spirits.

Customer Feedback:

“I didn’t read the grimoire. The bookmark did. I just took notes. The summoning is technically not my fault.”

– Alphonse G., currently under observation

“It won’t stop reading. It’s on Chapter 12. I threw the book into the reservoir and it’s still narrating through the pipes.”

– Unsigned letter, very wet

INSTRUCTIONS:

Do not feed the bookmark. Do not thank it. It doesn’t like sentimentality. If it starts muttering corrections while you try to sleep, place it in salt and recite an ISBN backwards.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

My unusual take on a horror trope!

I wrote this story a while back, and put it up in two parts. I am still pretty new to Tumblr, and don't really know how to engage, but I feel this story deserves to be aired. Have a read and let me know... ***

They always assume they would notice, that if something like this happened to them, it would be immediate and undeniable. People believe in dramatic revelations, in a single moment where the world tilts and the truth is exposed. They think of flickering shadows, distorted reflections, the impossibility of seeing their own face in places they do not remember being. But it never happens that way.

The process is slow, deliberate, and inevitable. A shift so gradual that, by the time they recognize it, it is already too late. It begins with something small—an exchanged greeting they cannot recall, a casual reference to an event they have no memory of attending. They assume it is stress, distraction, miscommunication, all reasonable things that allow them to dismiss the wrongness before it settles in. They do not understand that every moment of doubt is another step in the process.

I have been here for weeks. I know the way he moves, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his name. I have studied him long enough that I could be him better than he is. And soon, I will be.

The first time he notices, it is so minor that he almost forgets it entirely. The barista in the café hands him his coffee and smiles as she says, “Back again?” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and tells her this is his first coffee of the day. She frowns for a fraction of a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush.

The second time, it is more difficult to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, asking how his meeting went. There is a note of expectation in their voice, something that tells him this is not a casual inquiry but a follow-up to an earlier discussion—one that, as far as he is concerned, never happened.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says, forcing an easy tone into his voice.

His colleague raises an eyebrow, pulling out their phone. “You said you were heading to one just before lunch. Look—" They turn the screen toward him, showing a text message from his number. The words are familiar, structured exactly the way he would phrase them. He reads them over and over, but the memory of sending them does not come.

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t.

Denial is powerful. Even now, as the weight of inconsistencies begins to settle, he fights it. He checks his emails, his call logs, his purchase history, looking for proof that something is missing, something altered. The problem is, there is nothing missing. There are no blank spaces, no files erased or conversations removed. Instead, there are things he has no recollection of doing—transactions at places he has not visited, messages that sound exactly like him, plans he would have made.

He tells himself it is stress, that he must have been distracted, that memory is unreliable. He does not realize that he is not looking for an answer. He is looking for permission to believe nothing is wrong.

That is why he watches the security footage. That is why he asks the night guard to rewind the tape, just to check. That is why, even before he sees it, he knows what will be there.

The screen flickers, and there he is, walking into the office building at 11:42 PM. He watches himself take the elevator to the fourth floor, swipe his access card, and step inside. There is no hesitation in his movements, no moment of doubt or pause. His posture is relaxed, his gait smooth and familiar.

The guard chuckles beside him. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwalking.”

He stares at the footage, waiting for some sign that it isn’t real, that there has been a mistake. But there is no mistake. He was home at 11:42 PM. He knows this with absolute certainty. And yet, here he is, caught in a moment that should not exist.

Sleepwalking.

It is easier to agree than to argue.

The moment of realization, the true breaking point, is not in what he sees but in what he does not.

His phone registers calls he cannot remember, but they are to the same people he speaks to every day. His emails contain correspondence that follows his usual habits, his tone, his way of phrasing things. Even his bank records show nothing unusual—just a life continuing as it always has, perfectly ordinary, except for the quiet, insidious knowledge that it is no longer his.

The key doesn’t turn.

He frowns, tries again, pressing harder, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over in his palm, but nothing is wrong.

Behind him, footsteps. A voice follows.

“Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking up, a small ring of spares already in hand. He barely glances at the door.

“My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Request came in from you a couple of days ago.” He slides a key free, presses it into his palm without hesitation. “Here. Just don’t lose this one.”

He stares at it.

“Why were they changed?”

The landlord shifts his weight slightly, giving him an odd look before shaking his head. “You tell me. You put in the request.” His tone is flat, uninterested, already moving past the conversation.

His fingers tighten around the key.

"Am I being charged for this?"

A shrug. “Yeah. Standard fee.” The landlord is already moving away.

The key will fit. It will turn.

I already have mine.

Something inside him lurches at the exchange. The way the landlord handed over the key without hesitation. The way there was no moment of doubt, no pause, no verification—just a decision that had already been made. And then he sees me.

Standing at the end of the street.

He does not need to ask who I am. The answer is already forming, a terrible certainty clawing its way into his mind.

I am wearing his coat, the one he left draped over his office chair this morning. I have his keys, resting lightly in my hand. I do not move toward him. I do not have to. The space between us is already shifting.

He calls out, but the sound catches in his throat. He expects a confrontation, some kind of argument, a demand to explain. But there is no need for any of that, because I have already won.

He runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he needs to move—as if motion itself will tether him back to reality, as if he can outrun the thing that is already replacing him. He will go to someone he trusts. A friend, a coworker, someone who can confirm that he is real. He will hear his own name spoken aloud, feel the weight of recognition, and convince himself that it is enough.

But I have already spoken to them. I have already passed that test.

And when he arrives, breathless, frantic, his words tumbling over themselves in his desperate need to be understood, they will hesitate.

Not out of fear. Not out of uncertainty.But with the weary patience of someone already prepared for this.

Because I was here first.

They will look at him the way one looks at an old argument resurfacing—exhausted, expectant, as if waiting for him to tire himself out. Their responses will falter, not because they doubt his presence, but because they have already had this conversation. Because they remember a more rational version of him, days ago, shaking his head and saying, I know it sounds crazy, but I just need you to listen.

Because they reassured him then. And he is back again, still unraveling.

He will ask questions and find that I have already answered them. He will try to prove something and find that I have already done so in his place.

Someone will sigh. Someone else will say, Hey, man. We talked about this.

There will be no dramatic revelation, no singular moment where the world turns against him.Just a slow, dawning understanding that it already has. That it is too late.

That I am already him.

______________________________________________________________ Sometimes they try to track me down. The ones who understand something is happening. The ones who refuse to let go. I let them. We fight, they escape—just.

They think it was luck. They think it meant something. That they still have time.

It helps at the end.

But I have planned the end.

______________________________________________________________

He finds me in the apartment. His apartment.

I have been expecting him. I sit at his desk, my hands resting on the familiar grain of the wood, his name flickering on the screen of his laptop. The room is arranged as he left it, as he always leaves it, because I know him.

I have had time to learn.

I watch him from across the room, waiting for him to say something, waiting for the last resistance that always comes.

He stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, staring at me with the expression of a man looking at something impossible.

"Who are you?" he asks.

His voice is hoarse, like he already knows the answer.

I tilt my head slightly, observing the small, involuntary movements that I have already perfected. He doesn’t understand the significance yet, but he will.

"I am you."

The silence between us is thick with unspoken things.

His gaze flicks to the table, to the objects that should be his. The phone, the keys, the wallet resting beside the laptop. Every detail accounted for. Every possession in its proper place. But they are not his anymore.

They never were.

He takes a step forward, as if proximity will solidify his presence, will anchor him back into the life that is already leaving him.

"I don’t understand," he whispers.

But he does.

He knew the moment he saw me. He knew before that, even, though he buried it under denial, logic, resistance. The world has already chosen. He is just catching up.

His fingers twitch at his side. A choice, unmade. A final instinct to fight for something he has already lost.

I shake my head slowly. "It’s over."

He exhales sharply, something breaking inside him, something that will never be repaired.

The door behind him is still open. He turns toward it, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I wonder what he sees.

I do not stand. I do not need to.

He hesitates, fingers pressing into the doorframe. His breath is uneven, his shoulders tight. The moment stretches too long, like a held note just past its natural end.

And then, something shifts—not the air, not the light, but the space itself. It is slight, almost imperceptible, just enough to be felt rather than seen. I notice it, and so does he.

His grip slackens, shoulders easing as the last resistance uncoils from him—not in surrender, but in recognition. Whatever he sees beyond the threshold, it does not surprise him. And then, he steps forward. Not into the hallway. Not into the world he thought he knew.Into the space that was always waiting for him.

The door remains open. The world beyond is unchanged. But where he stood, there is nothing left to correct.

I sit in his chair, in his home, the hum of his existence now mine to inhabit. My fingers rest lightly on the desk, the weight of them precise, effortless. I inhale once, adjusting to the quiet, letting the space settle around me.

I have taken what I came for.

But there is still more to do.

I check my phone, scanning the list of unread messages. Meetings scheduled, people expecting me. I will need to go to them soon, continue the process, cement my place. There are still connections to be made, details to refine.

And then, I will be him completely.

As I stand, stretching slightly, I glance toward the door once more.It is still open.And for the briefest moment—just for an instant—I feel the weight of the place where he has gone.

The air is colder.

Something watches.

I do not linger.

I close the door.

And then I step forward into the life that is now mine.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Arghhh...total rewrite...

So, had a great idea for a story involving established characters. First person, and pretty funny, but also a bit intense, and had a pretty clever plot mechanism. Except the plot mechanism is impossible. Can't be resolved. I tried. I did. But, the only thing to do is keep the base idea, and completely rewrite (different first person voice, then going to third person voice). And completely different 'clever' bits. I keep wanting to start...but keep putting it off. Arghghghghg....

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Bright Undead: The Re-Living and the 27 Rule

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 27C

(For internal circulation only. Redacted in most published editions.)

I write in a state of unease, not only for the implications of what follows, but for the knowledge that this file, should it ever be verified, may never be made public. What I’ve uncovered is not simply hidden knowledge, but deliberately occluded theology - the concealment of a category of undead which does not belong to the dark, but to the light.

They are not rotting. They do not drink blood or claw themselves out from graves. These are not the cursed. These are the blessed.

There is an older term, one found in suppressed glossaries and annulled ecclesiastical notes: Sanctified Revenant. Among modern occult archivists, they're called the Bright Undead, or more precisely: the Re-Living.

They arise not by the bite, nor by the ritual, but by grace. The catalyst is not death itself, but the kiss of radiance - an anointing from something thought to be good: a Muse, an angel, a Light-bound entity cloaked in salvation.

Their deaths, if recorded at all, appear unremarkable, and nearly always in childhood. A fever that peaks and passes. A fall with no fracture. A breath held for too long underwater, a drowned child who  inexplicably took a gulping breath when all hope was gone. And yet…they were dead. Briefly. Quietly. No thunder, no rift. Just continuation.

Their resurrection is familial lore. "You were lucky," someone says. "We thought we'd lost you." They nod, unaware of what they’ve become.

The change is nearly imperceptible. The body survives, but something has shifted - like a reel of film missing a frame, a pulse that beats a quarter-second out of time. They seem healthy. Gifted, even. They pass every medical test. 

By twenty-one, the signs sharpen. Their work (almost always artistic) carries unnatural resonance. Songs that refuse to leave your soul. Poems that speak directly to questions you never said aloud. Paintings with new nuances each time you return.

They do not feed like vampires. They earn. Their sustenance is adulation: not fame, not infamy, but genuine emotional investment. To thrive, they must be admired authentically. Virtuously.  In this way, they are bound by their own talent and perceived goodness. It is both their strength and their trap.

But adoration is a dangerous thing. It accumulates. They begin to exert a kind of gravitational influence on culture, on feeling, on mood. Their echoes shape movements. Their deaths ignite myths. And once that resonance passes a certain threshold, they begin to bend the world itself.

Which is why they rarely survive past twenty-seven.

The Light Slayers are not a metaphor. They are real, though never named aloud. Some call them Gardeners. Others, more bluntly, Cleaners. In surviving field notes, they are referred to by one name alone: the Light Slayers.

It is a term used with irony. These agents do not serve the light. They serve the dark. But not chaos with the world in flames. Not the demons of childish horror.

They are the pragmatists of evil. Rationalists of entropy. They believe, perhaps rightly, that the Light has rewritten history under the guise of truth. That angels edit more than they inspire. That Muses do not offer gifts, but impose templates. And that the Re-Living are not saints, are not ‘risen’ but unauthorised corrections to human nature. But do not mistake the Light Slayers for ‘good’ but somehow twisted. They are not. They have no qualms of taking human life if necessary, or ordered to by their masters. 

One scorched note recovered from a raid site reads:

“We prefer our undead with boundaries. Fang and flame. The Light’s undead seduce nations. They steal agency in the name of uplift. We kill them not because they are monsters, but because their effect is monstrous.”

Their creed is brief:

No Bright Undead past twenty-seven. No witnesses to the correction.

The tactics are mundane, but clever and highly organised. Not simple violence. A missed dosage. A sabotaged railing. An unlocked gun cabinet. The death is always plausible - and always a tragic accident. The obituary prepared in advance.

But the impact of the Bright Undead is not always easy to contain.

This is what makes the 27 Club more than a coincidence.

Jimi Hendrix. Amy Winehouse. Kurt Cobain. Janis Joplin. Jean-Michel Basquiat. Not all were Re-Living. But some were. Enough for concern. Enough to warrant intervention.

(An editorial note: Robert Johnson is often included in this list. He is not relevant to this file. He made a very different kind of deal. The devil, for what it’s worth, still honours that kind.)

You may ask: Why don’t we speak of these beings more openly? Because the Light owns the language. They’ve had centuries of cultural monopoly. Where the dark gives us monsters, the Light gives us resurrection.

Jesus. Baldur. Osiris. Dionysus. All died. All returned. Not monsters, we are told. But divine. Holy.

And what of Lazarus? Did he choose to rise? Was he asked? Or was he simply proof of concept? A servant made to demonstrate that death is optional when your soul is not your own?

These are dangerous thoughts. The light tells you: it is weak, and darkness has the power, yet against all odds, it always triumphs. The undead are evil. Monsters. Twisted. But in their inner circles they smugly assert ‘not ours, of course. Ours give interviews. Win Grammys. Ours perform miracles’. 

And so the world forgets. And we remain haunted by those who shine too brightly. Clever distraction. Their immortality is not physical, but their work..their resonance is.

If you find yourself moved beyond reason by someone’s work - if their art reshapes you - check their age.

If they are twenty-seven, the decision has already been made.

If they are twenty-eight, someone has failed.

And if they are twenty-nine?Then the world will not survive unchanged.

The Curator’s Addendum (redacted in most editions):

“The horror here is not that the undead walk. That has long been known. It is that the brightest among us may never have been ours at all. They shine, yes. But the source of the light is addictive. And we have been worshipping undead things.”

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Slipstream Revenant

They don't vanish. Not exactly.

People think disappearance is sudden, a door closing, a final goodbye, an empty chair at breakfast. But that's not how it works. It's a slow hemorrhaging. A gradual erosion of the self until what remains isn't human enough to cast a proper shadow.

It begins with the pull. A persistent tug at the edges of consciousness, like someone calling your name from the next room, except the room is always empty. You find yourself pausing mid-sentence, head tilted, listening for something that isn't there. Your loved ones ask if you're alright. You say yes, but the word tastes wrong in your mouth.

Then comes the seeing. Not hallucinations, not exactly, no...not exactly at all...something more invasive. You notice the spaces between things. The gap beneath doorframes that seems to breathe. You rub your eyes and look again - is it moving? The corner of every room that remains a bit dim no matter how bright the lights. You realize these spaces have always been watching you, and now you're finally watching back. And this is not a breakdown, or madness, but something real. For the lucky, it may stop there. You dismiss it as overworked, overwrought, or simply refuse to analyse. But for some...

The final stage is the choosing. Or perhaps the being chosen. You wake one morning and understand with crystalline clarity that you have a purpose now. Not your purpose but *the* purpose. It settles into your bones like arthritis, aching and permanent. You know what you must do, even as you forget why you ever cared about anything else.

Your family finds your coffee still steaming. Your bed still warm. But you? You've stepped sideways into the spaces between, where the air tastes of copper and forgotten names. There is only purpose.

And now you become the story. The pale figure glimpsed in subway tunnels. The thing with too many joints that follows children home from school. The shadow that detaches from walls and walks among the living, carrying out tasks too terrible for human comprehension.

Only once, just once, did someone return.

Sarah Chen vanished from her bookshop on a Tuesday in March (the year does not matter). The register was open, a customer's change counted out on the counter, but Sarah was gone. No note. CCTV was conveniently on the fritz in the shop. No cameras caught her in the street. Just gone. Her sister filed reports, of course. Organized searches. Put up fliers 'Have you seen?' that grew yellow and tattered with time.

Three years later, Sarah came back.

Mrs. Kowalski found her standing in the alley behind the shop at 3:17 AM, perfectly still among the garbage cans. Why Mrs Kowalski, 65, was out at that hour, she could not say. Over time she would simply say 'I had to be there', and shake her head. She looked like Sarah - the Sarah that had gone missing. The same height, same build, same scar on her chin from childhood...but wrong in ways that made Mrs. Kowalski's vision blur if she stared too long.

But Sarah's skin had the translucent quality of deep-sea creatures. Her clothes were clean but unfamiliar, as if made by someone who didn't quite remember what humans wore. When she breathed, it sounded like pages of a book being riffled. A whispery rustling that rose and fell.

"Sarah?" Mrs. Kowalski whispered. "Is that you?"

Sarah turned. Her eyes were Sarah's eyes, but behind them moved something vast, and different. Geometrical.

"I remember you," Sarah said, her voice carrying harmonics that human vocal cords shouldn't produce. "You bought mysteries. Always mysteries."

"Where have you been?"

Sarah's head tilted at an angle that should not be possible. "I was... recruited. Given purpose." She paused, mouth working around words that seemed to resist being spoken. "There are maintenance requirements. Someone must tend the boundaries between what is and what shouldn't be. Someone must ensure that reality maintains its... integrity."

Mrs. Kowalski felt something cold crawl up her spine. "What kind of maintenance?"

"The kind that requires us to become the things that frighten you. Fear is a boundary mechanism. We patrol the edges of human understanding, ensuring you don't stray too far into spaces that would unmake you." Sarah's voice grew distant, as if speaking through deep water. "Every shadow-glimpse, every half-seen movement, every story that makes you check your locks twice. We are those stories. We are the antibodies of reality."

"But Sarah—"

"I remember having a name like that once." Sarah's form began to waver, like heat distortion. "But names are for things that exist in one place at one time. I exist in the margins now. In the corners of photographs. In the spaces between sleep and waking."

Mrs. Kowalski reached out, but her hand passed through empty air. Sarah was already fading.

"Why did you come back? Why tell me this?"

Sarah's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, carrying the weight of terrible knowledge: "Because sometimes the boundaries require... adjustments. And adjustments require witnesses. You will tell others. They will remember. Memory is another kind of boundary."

The alley was empty. It had always been empty. But now Mrs. Kowalski understood that empty didn't mean unoccupied.

Now, when you catch something in your peripheral vision, that figure that shouldn't be there, that shadow moving against the light, you might wonder if it was once someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's friend. Someone who heard the call and answered, trading their humanity for a cosmic maintenance role too alien for mortal comprehension.

They keep us safe by becoming the very things we fear. They maintain reality by patrolling its borders, wearing faces of nightmares to ensure we never venture too far into the spaces where faces lose all meaning, and true horror reigns.

And sometimes, on quiet nights when the boundary between worlds grows thin, you might hear them working in the darkness. The rustle of book pages, the soft sounds of cosmic machinery being tended by hands that remember being human, but have forgotten what human hands were for.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Soul Ledger Fractions

Life’s Little Niggles. Solved.

(No Faustian Bargains. We've Evolved.)

✴︎ Introducing: Soul Ledger Fractions™ ✴︎

Tired of cosmic overreach? Exhausted by eternal torment clauses?

The old ways were theatrical, messy, and frankly — a touch embarrassing.

You’re wiser now. And so are we.

At Echoes Catalogue, we recognize that today’s soul craves efficiency, not apocalypse. You’ve heard the stories — grand pacts, tragic ends, all brimstone and regret. Frankly, it’s outdated.

For a mere 0.3% sliver of your metaphysical essence, enjoy frictionless reality enhancements with no inconvenient afterlife entanglements.

No superpowers. No empires. Just daily elegance, fine-tuned to your life.

Examples from satisfied contributors:

✴︎Your train? Always caught. We smooth the seconds. You enjoy the glide.

✴︎Your favourite pen? Never runs dry. Infinite ink. Minimal commitment.

✴︎That one ex? Ages precisely 3% faster. Subtle. Satisfying. Untraceable.

✴︎That feeling you forgot something? Gone. Gently. Permanently.

✴︎Perfect parking? Constantly available. No incantations. Just uncanny convenience.

These aren't miracles.

They're Soul Ledger Fractions™ — precision-engineered micro-benefactions.

Small deposits. Enormous daily dividends.

Your conscience? Technically intact.

Your lifestyle? Elevated.

Echoes Catalogue™ — Optimize Your Existence.

[Below: A faint, elegantly inked sigil. Difficult to notice. Impossible to ignore.]

✧ The Fine Print ✧

Accumulated fragments exceeding 9% may invoke Claimant Protocol. Offer void in sanctified zones. All sales final. Terms and paradoxes apply. For a full spiritual breakdown, consult your inner daemon. Echoes Catalogue is a wholly owned subsidiary of Eternal Holdings Group. Not available in all timelines. Past results do not guarantee future spectral equilibrium. May cause mild existential drift. Use responsibly.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Nose Clothes

Echoes of Elsewhere Presents: Nose Clothes — Because Scent Is a Private Matter

Have you ever caught a smell you weren’t ready for?

Do wayward aromas interfere with your mood, memory, or metaphysical balance?

Has the scent of someone else’s bad decision followed you home?

We understand.

Introducing Nose Clothes™ — elegant, adjustable garments designed for the discerning nostril. Each piece is crafted to shield your olfactory experience from ambient nonsense, emotional leakage, and unsolicited nostalgia.

Discreet, comfortable, and entirely washable (in cold moonlight only).

Available styles include:

The Etiquette Veil — filters awkwardness, scented faintly of parchment and politely repressed questions

The Memory Muffler — blocks scent-triggered flashbacks, especially ex-lovers and wet railway platforms

The Adventure Ventilator — permits carefully curated risk with notes of moss, ink, and anticipation

Caution: Do not wear during thunderstorms, funerals, or acts of betrayal.

Side effects may include improved boundaries, sharper instinct, and unexpected forgiveness.

Available via Echoes of Elsewhere, Box 6.72, or occasionally seen drying from the antlers of a creature that refuses to explain itself.

Control your atmosphere.

Dress your nose with intent.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Echoes of Elsewhere: Pet Emporium Notice

Filed under: Administrative Discrepancies, Reptilian Misfortune, Creatures of Poor Judgment

Note from the Curator

Here at the Echoes Mansion, we pride ourselves on bringing you the most curious, delightful, and questionably legal offerings from the Pet Emporium. We know many of you look forward to our seasonal catalogues, surprise arrivals, and the occasional howling parcel that arrives whether you ordered it or not.

But sometimes—even in our careful little world—mistakes happen. Labels are smudged. Forms are swapped. And once in a while, someone ends up with something they absolutely should not try to feed on Thursdays.

We are, of course, correcting the matter. Below is the formal notice from the Emporium.

— The Curator

📎 Official Pet Emporium Mislabelling Correction

Affected Catalogue Code: #311-B (“Reflective Garden Companion Lizard”) Corrected Classification: Lacerta Declina — Regret-Class Entity, Minor (Unbound) Common Name: The Decision Lizard

To All Recent Recipients of Item #311-B:

We regret to inform you that due to a sorting oversight in our Behavioural Containment Wing, several customers may have received a Decision Lizard in place of the advertised Reflective Garden Companion Lizard.

While both species are approximately the same size and equally fond of sun-warmed stones, there are some crucial differences that should be noted:

Identifying Characteristics of the Decision Lizard:

Body composed entirely of crystallised, semi-autonomous poor choices. These may flicker visibly across its flanks.

Skin occasionally smells faintly of overdue apologies.

Will attempt to nest in your wallet, your inbox, or your unresolved conversations.

Eyes reflect not light, but moments you’ve actively tried to forget.

Emits a low trilling sound when exposed to ultimatums or passive aggression.

If ignored, it may begin making decisions on your behalf.

Customer Action Required:

Do not attempt to return the lizard via post. It will simply reroute itself to someone you once ghosted.

Avoid making eye contact while making major life choices (e.g., moving, texting exes, dessert menus).

If it begins whispering, do not follow its advice, even if it sounds strangely compelling.

If your Decision Lizard begins attempting to date, contact us immediately.

To Keep, or Not to Keep:

Some customers report forming a deep, almost co-dependent fondness for their Decision Lizard. This is normal. It is also inadvisable.

We encourage recipients to consider whether they would like to keep the lizard (with proper licensing), or exchange it for a replacement non-sapient companion. Alternative options include:

The Palindrome Tortoise

The Regret-Eating Ferret

A Pair of Absolutely Normal Goldfish (citation pending)

Please fill out Form 9F-B (“Oops, I Bonded With It”) or Form 3C-S (“Return Before It Learns My Birthday”) at your earliest convenience.

Thank you for your continued trust, patience, and unintended consequences.

— The Echoes Pet Emporium, Department of Misclassified Entities

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Good Bones

Reginald Cartwright had long suspected that Everstout Osteomantic Enhancements was a terrible place to work. It wasn’t just the customers—although dealing with high-strung aristocrats complaining that their new bones were "a touch too battle-hardened" was exhausting enough. Nor was it the mounting legal complications that came with selling secondhand skeletons, though those were growing harder to ignore. No, what truly confirmed it for him was the afternoon a very expensive client stormed into the office and began loudly attempting to duel his own reflection.

"Cartwright!" Lord Everly bellowed, his voice reverberating off the marble pillars in Everstout’s front hall. "Explain yourself at once!"

Reggie set down his quill with a sigh and made a great show of pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up. "Lord Everly," he said, smoothing his expression into one of professional neutrality, "what seems to be the problem?"

Everly advanced, his velvet cape billowing behind him, though the dramatic effect was somewhat ruined by the way his arms jerked violently at his sides, as if struggling against invisible restraints. His right hand twitched, fingers forming a ghost of a fencing grip, while his left repeatedly attempted to undo the clasp of his cloak.

"You know what the problem is!" Everly snapped. "These bones—your bones—are trying to enlist me in a war I have no intention of fighting!"

Reggie gave him a slow, deliberate once-over. "Are you quite certain?" he asked mildly. "You seem to be winning."

Everly’s right hand shot out in a perfect lunge, and he nearly impaled a passing clerk with an ornamental letter opener. The clerk yelped and scrambled behind a potted plant.

"Look at this!" Everly hissed, thrusting both hands forward as if Reggie were responsible for his own appendages. "I order my fingers to rest at my side, and yet they parry unseen opponents! I try to drink my tea, and my grip tightens as if I’m bracing for a duel! And last night—" He paused, eyes darting around the office before lowering his voice. "Last night, my own traitorous arms dragged me to my feet at dawn and tried to lead me outside!"

Reggie frowned. "Where, exactly, were they taking you?"

Everly’s jaw clenched. He hesitated, as if debating whether to answer, before sighing in defeat.

"The docks," he admitted. "And before you ask, no, I have never been to sea."

Reggie closed his eyes. Ah. That explained it.

He opened the drawer beneath his desk and retrieved a ledger, flipping through its well-organized pages until he reached Everly’s file. He ran his finger down the entry detailing Everly’s full skeletal replacement—premium package, full-body reinforcement, extra stability charms—and landed on the crucial detail.

The bones’ origin.

"Ah," he said aloud. "Well. That does seem unfortunate."

Everly tensed. "Unfortunate?"

Reggie cleared his throat. "It appears that your particular skeletal enhancements were sourced from… let’s see…" His eyes flicked over the parchment. "Yes. A highly sought-after warrior, renowned for his swordsmanship and—ah. Hm. Well, that’s inconvenient."

Everly slammed his palms on the desk. "What. Is. Wrong. With. My. Bones?"

Reggie sighed. "You may have, completely by chance, been given the remains of a former naval commander."

Silence.

Everly’s left eye twitched. "A naval commander."

"Yes, yes, very accomplished fellow. Bit of a legend. Won countless battles, single-handedly took down an entire fleet at—"

Everly’s hands began trying to undo his belt.

Reggie snapped his fingers twice, sharply. "Ah-ah! Stop that. Ignore the impulse. You don’t want to go charging off to war."

"I DON’T!" Everly barked.

"Then assert control." Reggie gestured at his arms. "They will listen to you, given time. It’s a simple matter of overriding learned skeletal instincts."

Everly threw up his hands. "Then override them for me!"

Reggie sighed and leaned forward. "Lord Everly, if you’d read your contract, you’d know that unexpected martial tendencies are a feature, not a bug."

Everly looked ready to strangle him, which was precisely when his left arm shot out and attempted to unclip his cape again. Reggie watched as Everly wrestled himself back under control, forcing his hands to his sides with visible effort.

"You," Everly said through gritted teeth, "are fixing this."

Reggie tapped his fingers against his desk. "That depends. Do you want the expensive fix, or the terrifyingly expensive fix?"

Everly’s eyes blazed with rage as he slammed his palms against the desk, his voice rising to an indignant roar. “I WANT MY BODY TO BE MINE AGAIN!”

Before Reggie could offer a carefully worded—and entirely unhelpful—reply, a soft, deliberate cough sounded from the doorway. It was not the nervous throat-clearing of an anxious clerk, nor the pointed interruption of an impatient superior, but something altogether stranger—a dry, rasping noise, like the scrape of bone on bone, made by something that had waited far too long to speak.

Reggie glanced up and immediately felt the weight of the day grow heavier.

The skeleton standing in the doorway regarded them both with a patience that should not have been possible for a creature entirely lacking flesh. Though it lacked flesh and lips to sneer, and its hollow sockets held no glint of expression, the skeleton still radiated the unmistakable air of a tactician watching their strategy unfold exactly as intended. There was an eerie certainty to its stillness, the kind of confidence that needed no embellishment, no exaggerated posture—just the quiet knowledge that time had already handed it the victory. Reggie felt a prickle of unease at the base of his skull, the sensation of something ancient and knowing fixing its attention upon him. He swallowed hard.

Everly, entirely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, was too preoccupied with his own righteous indignation to notice. “I demand a full refund!” he barked, punctuating the demand with another forceful slap to the desk.

The skeleton shifted ever so slightly, tilting its head by a fraction—just enough to suggest amusement, but not so much as to break its unnerving composure.

A moment later, Everly’s hands, with a complete and utter disregard for his own authority, began clapping together in slow, deliberate applause.

His face darkened to an alarming shade of red as he struggled against the movement, his muscles tensing in open rebellion against his own limbs. His jaw clenched, his shoulders trembled with effort, but his hands remained defiantly independent of him, continuing their steady, mocking rhythm.

"STOP THAT!" he snarled, twisting against himself in a battle he was clearly losing.

Reggie exhaled through his nose and reached, with the resigned air of a man whose life had spiraled into unavoidable absurdity, for the emergency mallet.

"Lord Everly," he said as evenly as possible, "I would like you to remain very, very calm."

Everly’s fingers twitched, then snapped into a crisp salute. His expression, already livid, took on a near-murderous quality.

Reggie turned sharply to the thing standing in the doorway.

It was a skeleton—but not a complete one. What remained of it was held together by something unnatural, something old and unfinished. Sections of its ribcage flickered between solid and absent, its stance slightly off-balance where one leg struggled to exist at all. A hazy force—the suggestion of a form rather than a body—held the missing pieces in place, but they flickered, unstable, like the dying glow of embers after a fire had passed.

The skull turned toward Reggie, but something was wrong there too. The jaw was missing entirely, and yet it spoke—not through any movement of its own, but through something else, something nearby.

Reggie felt a sickening realization settle into his bones.

"Ah," he muttered. "Well, that explains a great deal."

Everly let out a strangled sound as his traitorous hand lifted again, moving in response to the skeleton's remaining hand, though not in perfect unison. It was not puppetry—it was instinct. The response of something returning to its old commander.

The skeleton tapped its own skull twice.

Everly’s arms jerked to his sides. His body stilled, his posture locking into something eerily formal.

And then, without his mouth moving, his voice spoke anyway.

"Ah, Cartwright," it said, the words dry and knowing, carrying the weight of something ancient and familiar. "We have unfinished business, don’t we?"

Reggie inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his teeth, and set the emergency mallet down beside his ledger, fingers drumming lightly against the desk as he studied Lord Everly’s deeply possessed body. His customer had gone utterly rigid, hands clasped neatly behind his back as if waiting for orders, while the skeleton in the doorway remained motionless, its gaze fixed firmly on Reggie.

After a long moment, Reggie leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and sighed.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask that you simply return to your grave and leave me in peace?"

The skeleton tilted its head just so, the slight movement carrying the unmistakable air of amused disbelief. Lord Everly’s body, still held in whatever unnatural thrall the bones had imposed upon it, smoothed his already immaculate cuffs and replied in a voice not quite his own.

"You know better than that, Cartwright."

Reggie allowed himself a moment to rest his forehead against the desk.

"Yes, yes, I do," he muttered.

The skeleton took a slow, measured step further into the office, its movements smoother than they had any right to be, though not entirely without fault. The shifting fragments of bone that held it together flickered in and out of solidity, small distortions in the air where its form struggled to maintain shape. It moved like something half-remembering how to exist, its weight slightly off, as if adjusting for the absence of its missing pieces.

The few remaining clerks—those who had yet to flee the growing madness—watched from behind bookshelves and marble pillars, wide-eyed but undeniably fascinated. The skeleton ignored them entirely, its attention fixed solely on Reggie.

"You are in possession of something that belongs to me," it said smoothly.

The voice came not from its own mouth—because it had no jaw with which to speak—but from Everly’s motionless lips, the words curling from his throat with a precision that was entirely not his own. The nobleman’s body remained frozen in place, his posture stiff and unnatural, but there was no doubt that he was present, trapped in the same skin as whatever force had momentarily claimed his voice.

"And I," the skeleton continued, "would very much like it returned."

Reggie took his time replying, rubbing a hand down his face as he considered the number of ways this day had already gone irreversibly downhill. He glanced at Everly, whose glassy, unfocused stare suggested he was aware of every word being spoken but entirely incapable of stopping it. His expression was not vacant—it was furious.

"Right," Reggie said at last. "Just so we’re clear—are we discussing Lord Everly’s bones, or something I have personally misplaced?"

The skeleton lifted one of its bony hands in a loose, almost absent gesture.

Everly’s fingers twitched in response, as if some deeply ingrained reflex had been activated, though the movement was sluggish—delayed, like a puppet’s strings being pulled after years of disuse.

His arms remained at his sides, but Reggie had the distinct impression that if the skeleton had insisted, they would have moved.

"A temporary inconvenience," it assured him, the words still flowing from Everly’s lips with disturbing ease. "An unfortunate side effect of the reclamation process."

Reggie’s brows lifted. "Ah. So, it’s a hostile takeover of one’s own remains, is it? Lovely."

Everly’s lips curled into something that might have been a smirk, had he any control over it.

"Not hostile," the skeleton corrected. "Merely overdue."

Reggie tapped a finger against his desk, trying to decide whether this was officially his problem or something he could conveniently shunt onto someone else.

"Well," he said after a moment, "I don’t have your bones, if that’s what you’re implying. They were sold under entirely legal—if morally questionable—circumstances. If you’d like to file a complaint, I can direct you to our customer service department, though I will warn you that they are worse than I am at solving problems."

The skeleton chuckled, a dry, rattling sound that did not come from its own throat but from Everly’s chest, as if something deep within the nobleman’s ribs had remembered how to laugh before he did.

"You misunderstand me, Cartwright," it said.

Reggie’s spine straightened slightly.

"You do have a piece of me."

Reggie frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

The skeleton extended a single bony finger and pointed toward Reggie’s feet. More specifically, toward his right foot.

Reggie glanced down.

The foot in question had always been a bit uncooperative, prone to occasional twitches and the persistent, nagging urge to pivot suddenly, as if bracing for combat. He had never given it much thought, attributing it to a poorly cast reinforcement charm during a minor bone repair some years ago.

But now, watching the way the skeleton observed him with patient certainty, a terrible realization settled into his gut like a lead weight.

"Oh," he said faintly. "Oh, you cannot be serious."

The skeleton merely spread its hands in a silent confirmation.

Reggie dragged both hands down his face.

"Fine," he said. "Fine. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I do have one of your bones. Let’s also assume that I am feeling particularly charitable and would like to be rid of it. How, exactly, do you propose I remove something that is currently inside my body?"

The skeleton tilted its head toward Everly. "The same way all the others have done it."

Reggie followed its gaze, his stomach already tightening with a sense of preemptive regret, and immediately wished he hadn’t looked.

Lord Everly’s hands had begun the slow, deliberate process of unfastening his own joints.

Fingers traced along the natural separations in his elbows, flexing experimentally, as if searching for the correct place to begin. His movements were not frantic or panicked—they were careful, practiced, familiar. There was no tearing, no violence, just precision—a surgeon’s patience applied to the deeply unsettling task of dismantling himself.

Reggie’s stomach gave a deeply disapproving lurch. He exhaled sharply. "Ah. I see. Self-disassembly. Delightful."

Everly, wholly powerless in his own predicament, let out a strangled noise of protest, his shoulders trembling as he fought against the movement. His fingers continued pressing and pulling, slow and methodical, their determination utterly indifferent to his will.

The worst part was the ease of it. His body wasn’t being forced—it was obeying.

Reggie, now thoroughly done with this entire situation, slammed

both hands onto the desk with enough force to rattle the inkwell.

"STOP THAT!"

Everly’s body froze mid-motion, his hands hovering uncertainly over his forearms, like a thief caught mid-pickpocket.

Reggie inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his teeth, and reached the inescapable conclusion that this was now his responsibility. With the air of a man walking toward his own execution, he straightened his waistcoat, adjusted his cuffs with deliberate precision, and strode out of the room.

It was, at long last, time to have a conversation with Voss.

As he stepped into the hallway, the full scale of the crisis became alarmingly clear.

Clerks and junior enchanters had abandoned their desks, huddling in doorways or peering cautiously from behind filing cabinets. A pair of Everstout’s senior bone-smiths were locked in an increasingly frantic attempt to secure a vault door that refused to stay shut, their muttered incantations failing as skeletal hands reached through the narrowing gap, gripping the edges with unsettling determination. Somewhere deeper in the building, a door banged open, followed by the unmistakable clatter of bones skittering across marble.

Reggie quickened his pace.

A figure lurched into his path—a disheveled nobleman, his once-pristine coat rumpled, his hands shaking as he clutched a bottle of something that smelled very expensive and very necessary. His fingers twitched erratically, gripping and releasing the glass as though testing whether they still answered to him. His eyes flicked up to meet Reggie’s, wild with panic.

"Cartwright," he whispered. "They're learning."

Reggie stepped around him and kept walking.

By the time he reached Voss’s office, the hollow click of bone against bone had begun echoing through the halls. He could feel it in the air—a rising tide of unnatural precision, the cold, methodical certainty of things that had waited far too long to reclaim what was theirs.

A harried-looking enchanter darted past him, nearly tripping over her own robes, and skidded to a halt just outside Voss’s door. She turned toward Reggie, her face pale, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Tell him," she pleaded. "Tell Voss to fix this."

Reggie didn’t answer. He only pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The door to Voss’s office swung shut behind Reggie with a decisive click, cutting off the rising clatter of bones in the corridor. The sound should not have carried this far—certainly not through the thick, warded walls of Everstout’s upper offices—but it did.

Reggie did not like what that implied. Voss, standing behind his massive ebony desk, barely glanced up from the stack of documents before him. His fingers remained steepled, his expression composed, and if he was at all concerned about the events unfolding outside his door, he certainly wasn’t showing it.

"Cartwright," he said smoothly, as though this were an entirely ordinary meeting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Reggie exhaled sharply, striding forward. "Oh, you know. The usual. A riot, a customer in the middle of self-disassembly, a skeleton attempting to repossess itself. Honestly, it’s been a remarkably standard afternoon."

Voss gave him a patient smile, the sort one might offer a particularly slow student. "I assume this is leading somewhere?"

Reggie ignored him, pacing in front of the desk as he tried to piece together the thoughts colliding in his skull.

"Everything about this company has been wrong from the start," he muttered, half to himself. "Not just the work—though, gods know, ethically, we should have been burned to the ground years ago—but the way it all functions. We’ve never had problems with graft rejection. We’ve never had to worry about compatibility. Our customers always integrate perfectly with their new bones." He stopped, turning to face Voss directly. "That doesn’t happen. Not without something else at play."

Voss gave a small, elegant shrug. "We have excellent quality control."

Reggie ignored that, pointing a finger at him. "And then there’s the fact that no one ever questions where our stock comes from. A few bribed historians, a handful of conveniently misplaced excavation reports—but we are running through an unnatural number of skeletons." He gestured toward the window. "And now, somehow, they’ve figured out how to act together. You know what that means?"

Voss arched a brow. "Do tell."

Reggie set both hands on the desk, leaning in. "It means they were never fully dead to begin with. Something—someone—kept the link alive. Kept them from ever properly resting. And that person would have to be someone who understood their nature better than anyone else. Someone who could control them."

Voss smiled faintly. "You have an interesting theory."

Reggie’s fingers curled against the desk’s polished surface. "You’re not a man, are you?" he said, voice lower now, the words landing heavy between them. "You never have been."

Voss sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Ah," he said mildly. "You figured it out."

Reggie shoved himself away from the desk. He had suspected. He had joked about it. But now, standing here, watching the way Voss did not deny it, something in his chest curled tight with unease.

"How long?" Reggie demanded.

Voss tilted his head, considering. "This particular body? A few decades. The arrangement itself? Considerably longer."

Reggie’s mouth felt dry. "You’ve been running this company as a skeleton in disguise?"

"Now, now. That’s a rather crude way of putting it." Voss took a measured sip from the glass of amber liquid at his elbow. "I prefer to think of it as active management."

Reggie let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair. His mind reeled, trying to reconcile everything he had thought he knew with the sheer insanity of what was happening.

He had worked under a skeleton in a skin suit. For years.

And he had never noticed.

It would almost be funny, if he weren’t so alarmingly close to losing his grip on reality.

"There’s a skeleton coup happening right now," he said, mostly for his own benefit, as if stating it aloud would make it easier to process.

"Yes," Voss agreed.

"And you are a skeleton."

Voss spread his hands. "Clearly."

Reggie made a vague, horrified gesture. "Do you not see how that might be a problem?"

Voss exhaled, setting his glass down with deliberate care.

"Cartwright, I built this company. I perfected the process. I established the contracts. I understand the inner workings of our supply chain better than anyone—better than you, certainly." His gaze flicked toward the window, where the distant clatter of marching bones was growing louder. "And I can assure you, this particular situation is a minor complication."

Reggie stared at him. "A minor complication?"

Voss gave a slight, knowing smile. "Easily solved."

Reggie folded his arms. "Oh, please. Enlighten me."

Voss glanced at the clock, as though weighing how much time remained before the first wave of skeletons reached them. Then, with the air of a man suggesting something deeply inconvenient, he said, "We could always give them what they want."

Reggie let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "Which is?"

Voss spread his hands, as if the answer were obvious. "A proper contract. They want rights, recognition, a degree of professional respectability."

Reggie made a sound that was dangerously close to hysterical laughter. "They want a union?"

Voss shrugged. "Of sorts."

For a moment, Reggie was silent. He wanted to argue. He wanted to point out how absurd it was, how impossible this entire situation had become. But the truth was, this was not the strangest thing to happen today.

And somewhere beyond the office walls, the skeletons began their final march.

The End.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Yup, it's my birthday, and I'm gonna be a little piggy!