Meagan had known ever since she’d moved into the new house one week earlier that she wasn’t alone. Yes, it was a very old house, and yes, she was an empath. She not only picked up on the emotions of living humans, but she also picked up on the emotions emitted by souls on the other side. It was nothing new and something she’d experienced since the age of five. The abilities had grown perpetually stronger as she had aged. At thirty-five, it was not unusual to sense something out of the ordinary no matter where she was, but especially so in an older building.

Tonight, she tossed in the bed, the hot, humid air of the summer seeming to suffocate her. The darkness loomed, overwhelming as it moved all about her like an enveloping storm cloud. Would she ever be free of the heaviness she sensed from nearly everywhere she turned? Was there nowhere to flee where she could escape it – even for just one night?

The raw, brutal emotion that encompassed her tonight was inexplicably heavy. She was alone, and she was not exactly sure why she felt as she did. She wondered if she had been exposed to someone during the day, and their entire realm of emotions had encroached upon her, settling inside like feathers after a pillow fight. Except what she felt was much heavier than feathers – it was more akin to bricks.

She turned on the bedside lamp, intending to rise and head to the kitchen for warm milk – or perhaps better yet, a glass of whiskey - but as the light flickered across the expanse of the small bedroom, she gasped, startled by the lone figure that stood in the far corner.

Try as she might, she would never grow accustomed to the unexpected. Her heart raced as the woman’s eyes seemed to pierce all the way to the depths of her being. Instinctively, she knew that whomever she was, the woman was not of this world, but a lost, lingering soul seeking some type of help. Slowly, from where she sat on the edge of her bed, she watched the woman. As she did so, her breathing slowed and her heart resumed its normal rhythm. She reminded herself not to be frightened, even if seeing a spirit from the other side was not an everyday occurrence. Besides, this poor woman looked much more afraid of her.

She spoke to the frightened woman through mental means, as she always did when such spirits presented themselves. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you need my help? What can I do?”

The young woman appeared battered and haggard, tears filling her large eyes even in her spirit form. Meagan could sense her fear – it was a palpable force that permeated the expanse of the room. So this is what she’d felt and not the remnants of some human’s leftover emotions.

“What do you need?” Meagan pressed. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. Please.”

The woman drew nearer to the bed, seeming to float over the hardwood flooring. “Someone needs to know,” she whispered.

Meagan was startled. This woman did not continue the use of mental communication that she’d begun. Never had she directly communicated with a spirit from the other side - it had always been through the mental means or a type of telepathy. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, but she was. Ever since she’d seen the first spirit thirty years ago, she had been in a constant state of awareness in regard to her abilities. It was a perpetual learning curve.

“What?” Meagan asked. “What do you need to tell me?”

The woman glided to the hallway just outside the bedroom’s doorway. “Here,” she prompted Meagan, her eyes pleading for her to follow.

Meagan quickly moved to stand near her. “Where?” she asked the woman, clearly confused, seeing only a bare floor.

The woman looked downwards and pointed. “Beneath,” she said, the pain in her voice all too obvious.

The floorboards in the old house were marred with years of weathered age and use, and Meagan knew it would take little effort to lift the plank. She turned and quickly sought a small screwdriver from her bedside table. At last finding it, she turned back, but the woman had disappeared and was no longer a visible apparition in the still of the night.

Sighing in frustration, Meagan went to the hallway and dropped to her knees. Using the screwdriver, she was able to lift two of the wooden planks. After retrieving a flashlight, she uncovered a small black notebook and though it was a bit tattered, as she pulled it out, she saw that it was still intact. Carefully, Meagan took ahold of the notebook and secured the wooden floor planks back into place.

Before returning to bed, Meagan went to the kitchen and poured herself a generous portion of the whiskey she had only considered moments before. It was the perfect night for such, she thought as she repositioned the pillows so that she could sit more comfortably and read whatever was in the black notebook. It must have a story to tell. The woman had been insistent, so Meagan was sure she would not be getting much sleep tonight until she knew exactly what it was that the woman wanted her to know.

Sipping her drink, she read the first entry, which was dated November 14 of 1894. Meagan knew that the house was old but was still surprised to learn it was over one hundred years old. She carefully turned the page and began to read what was written on the old, yellowed pages.

The woman’s name had been Anna Beth Gibson. It appeared she had made entries in the little black notebook for well over twenty-five years. As she read Anna Beth’s journal, Meagan was filled with a new depth of sadness and more emotions to which she could not lay a name. The woman had been horribly abused by her spouse, who had been named Rudy. Slowly, Meagan flipped through all the pages and read them at length.

There was little joy in the woman’s day to day existence. She had appeared to live a lonely and unfulfilled life, miscarrying baby after baby due to the physical abuse she suffered at the hands of Rudy. However, as Meagan neared the end of the journal, it took on a new life and a completely different train of thought.

Ten pages from the end of the small black notebook, Meagan learned that Rudy had robbed the local bank and hidden the money from the authorities. According to what Anna Beth wrote, Rudy had buried the stolen money in a metal box just outside on the corner of the red barn next to the oak tree. Despite Rudy’s attempts to hide the money and proclaim his innocence, he had been arrested and had died of typhoid fever in jail while awaiting trial. Anna Beth, ostracized by her neighbors and friends and fearing further retribution, had left the money buried in the ground. Fear had gripped and crippled her, but she had left a detailed drawing on the final page of the journal as to exactly where the money was hidden in the backyard. She had also written that she could no longer live and was choosing to take her life that fateful August day in 1919, asking God to have mercy on her soul. However, it appeared that instead of leaving the book out for someone to find, Anna Beth, in her fear and shame, must have hidden it beneath the floorboards believing that eventually someone would find it and uncover both the truth and the money.

Meagan slowly closed the book. It was no wonder that she had felt such immense sadness. Anna Beth had lived a life filled with nothing but sorrow and fear. And she had been waiting on the other side for well over a century for someone to find the notebook, and more importantly, for someone to find the money. Anna Beth was desperate. She needed to absolve her conscience and be able to move on in peace after all these years.

“First thing tomorrow morning, Anna Beth. I promise,” Meagan whispered. She turned off the lamp, and relaxed by the whiskey, at long last slept.

As the sun began to climb in the sky early the next morning, Meagan awoke and quickly pulled on her clothes before making her way to the backyard. There was no one for at least a mile on either side of her house, so she did not have to worry about who might see her. Finding a shovel in the old barn, she made her way to the spot shown in Anna Beth’s detailed drawing and began to slowly and methodically dig.

It was nearly an hour later. The sun had climbed high in the sky and Meagan was beginning to feel the early heat of the day when her shovel hit metal. Quickly dropping to her knees, she used her hands to scoop, digging all around and further uncovering the top of the metal box buried deep in the ground. After considerable effort, she was able to pull the box from the ground. It was covered in rust and dirt, obviously a far cry from its once new and shiny exterior.

Meagan held her breath as she lifted the lid. Sure enough, encased therein were several bundles of old currency. Sorting through it, she was able to see that there was $20,000. She could hardly believe her eyes. She sighed. Twenty thousand dollars had been an enormous amount of money all those long years ago when Rudy had stolen it, but in today’s society, it would hardly purchase an automobile.

What a horrible waste of two lives, she thought to herself, continuing to look at the box of money. She knew it had to be returned, so she would call the authorities as soon as she cleaned up a bit and report what she had found. While she could not possibly tell them a spirit had led her to the stash of cash, she could certainly tell them that she’d found the little black notebook hidden beneath the floorboards, and what its contents had divulged to her about the stolen money.

It was a full week later. The money had been turned over to the local authorities and all was well. She had learned that the robbery had remained unsolved despite Rudy’s arrest all those years ago, and the case had still been a mystery with no clue as to the whereabouts of the money. The local bank was highly appreciative of its return and gave her a small reward of $1,000 although she had insisted it wasn’t necessary.

It had been a full day and a very long week and it was very late. Meagan was exhausted as she lay in bed, anxious for sleep to come. However, of a sudden she was instinctively aware that she was no longer alone and quickly reached to turn on the bedside lamp. As she did so, she sat up in bed and smiled. “Hello, Anna Beth,” she greeted her visitor.

Anna Beth stood in the same corner where she had first appeared only a week earlier. However, the former distraught and battered figure had been replaced by one that was now peaceful and nearly perfect in its new appearance. A white light appeared to emanate from her as she seemingly floated where she stood.

“Thank you,” Anna Beth whispered, her voice now melodic and no longer strained as if in pain.

“You’re welcome,” Meagan said. And with the brief exchange of words, Anna Beth was gone, as suddenly as she had first appeared, at long last finding a peace that had eluded her for so long. Contented and pleased, Meagan turned off the lamp and slept.

Before blood and brutes she knelt, Council curs

Carry sacred skulls as cryptic crowds

Shout frozen, supernovae eyes conquers

Reality subdued, Legion enshrouds

Before beaming bulbs, Godless altar stirs

Praising masses through glass, mad thunderclouds

Shaped by timeless Domes, dying daughter flee,

Waving waters, docile leaves call briefly.

Gory symphony awakes, Mythic Men

Damning cesspools of life, strife a dismal

Conflict, green void bites vicious, inviting glen

A second chance, days and nights abysmal,

Through rocky terrain she falls, Devil’s den

Summons eternally, cataclysmal

Floods steal light, angel branches saving two,

Dark tears unite, searing chest heals anew.

Nuclear star tides, glossy grass blades, steam

Covers shivering bones, drenched flesh, sweet sprouts

Cures dread, hot flashes, torn jeans, rushing streams,

Regime jets cruise ill beauty, fated scout

In search of a new home, tales, stories, dreams

Of Oceanside, no waves, a new walkabout,

She walks past scornful heights, valley of death

In her wake, Fall air traces reclaimed breath.

It’s been with me since childhood, my companion for so long that I do not remember a time without it.

In the orphanage, overcrowded and understaffed, it kept me company through the torment inflicted by the other children. When I was barricaded in a closet or stuffed in one of the industrial-sized bins, its voice calmed me as it described the ways it would get even with my torturers.

‘Peel the skin from their eyes.’

‘Pour acid on their tongues.’

‘Boil the marrow in their bones.’

By the time I was fourteen I could sense its bodily presence, though it never stayed still long enough for me to see it. From the corner of my eyes I would catch its winged form, but it had gone by the time my head had turned. The clearest view I had was the night Father Casper Derwent meet his undoing.

For several years, Father Derwent, a priest at the orphanage, had made all our miserable lives even more unbearable. He would frighten us with stories of Sodom and Gomorrah, yet look at the younger boys with a peculiar light in his eyes.

One night, I awoke from a nightmare to find myself standing in Father Derwent’s room. As the man writhed and jerked on his bed, I saw the full size of my companion. Larger than the biggest man I had ever met, it moved with a silent grace and a speed which defied physics. Turning its head to me, I was struck by the gleaming white eyes; eyes filled with exquisite pleasure as the life was drained from Father Derwent.

That was the night I left the orphanage. With no belongings of any worth, I dressed and fled for the big city. Within a week, I was befriended by Jacob. Jacob never told me his surname – I suspect he had forgotten it long ago. He was an old man who had been living on the streets for more years than he could count and he showed my where the safest parks were, taught me the best days to visit which soup kitchen.

‘What price does he want?’ my companion wondered in my head.

When I voiced this concern to Jacob, he answered, ‘Nay, son, there is nothing worldly you can offer me. But there are others who would try to take from you. You must beware of those. They come in many guises, from pedlars to politicians. You cannot see them for the beasts they are until it is too late; the human mask they wear is only removed at the last. And when that time comes, it will be too late.’

There was no doubt in my mind that Jacob’s sanity was frayed. Perhaps it was a result of his years of living rough, or perhaps his mental problems were the cause of his homelessness. I did not know and it did not seem to matter. Jacob was still capable of looking out for the two of us, whatever his grasp of reality may be.

But all things must end and Jacob’s came in his sleep.

When I awoke and found his breathless body, I sat in silence until an ambulance arrived. To this day, I do not know who had called them, but they covered Jacob and took him away. They also took me. I was too numb to protest and found myself in a hospital bed in a matter of hours.

A parade of nurse and doctors came to inspect and monitor me but it wasn’t until the chaplain arrived that I stirred.

She introduced herself as Kath and asked if I had any family I wanted her to contact.

I shook my head and glared at her.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said softly, reading my expression clearly. ‘You’re not in trouble and I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. But I know if my child was in hospital, I would like to know as soon as possible.’

My experiences at the orphanage had instilled in me a great distrust of any member of the cloth. I tried to think of ways to make this woman hurt but my imagination deserted me. Even my companion, whose dark mind had cooked up so many gruesome punishments in the past, remained quiet.

In time, Kath left me alone. Over the next few days, my malnutrition was attended to and I was informed I would be discharged. Kath returned an hour later.

‘As you still haven’t informed us of a family,’ she said, ‘the hospital has no option but to release you to the streets. I don’t want you to end up in the same situation, or a worse one. Please, I implore you, let me help you.’

‘Yes,’ my companion answered.

‘What can you do?’ I asked Kath.

Kath stared at me in shocked silence for a moment. Those were the first words I had uttered to her.

‘Normally, I would look to get you in a half-way house or some kind of shelter, but we don’t have the time to organise that right now. You’re going to be discharged today and I worry about where you’ll end up tonight.’

She was quiet again as she seemed to wrestle with internal turmoil.

‘This is against my better judgement,’ she said, ‘but you can stay in my spare room for a couple of nights. That will give me time to arrange a more permanent accommodation for you.’

‘Yes,’ my companion said again.

Later that day, Kath drove me to her home. As we walked through the door, I’m not sure which one of use was the most nervous. She showed me my room and left me to myself as she went to make us tea.

My temporary stay with Kath lasted six weeks. We grew fond of one another and I think she enjoyed having company, and she easily found excuses to delay her search for my ‘permanent accommodation.’

One Saturday, she was visited by the archbishop of her diocese. Though I was not privy to the conversation, I heard the sharp tones and heated debate through the walls. It seemed the archbishop did not take kindly to Kath opening her home, a property that belonged to the Church, to a street urchin. He demanded that she end our cohabiting arrangement or he would transfer her to a smaller parish.

Frightened and incensed, I felt myself shaking with rage. My vision narrowed as my room seemed to draw away from me. Blackness pushed in from all sides until I was effectively blind and almost senseless; only my hearing remained clear.

I heard Kath and the archbishop shouting, screaming. I heard banging, thumping, tearing.

When I came to, I was standing in the room in which Kath and the archbishop had been arguing. The beautiful walls were splashed with red, as were the sofa and a large portion of the carpet. Mumbling in the corner, with her eyes tightly closed and her knees pulled to her chest as she rocked back and forth, Kath was also splattered with crimson.

As I turned to look for the archbishop, I realised the source of the colouring across the room.

The man lay on the floor, his stomach pulled open and his internal organs ripped apart or strewn about. I looked down at my shaking hands and saw they were spotted with blood.

I have not seen Kath since that day. I hope she is well and can forgive me.

Over the next months, as I returned to life on the streets, I wondered about my encounters with the clergy. Of the three holy people I had had close contact with, two were now dead. Had they been killed by my hand? Was this the reason I had been placed on this earth, to rid the world of religious figures?

In an attempt to shed some sense on the mad rambling of my mind, I entered a church and went into the confessional box. It wasn’t long before I was joined by the priest in the adjoining compartment.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ I stammered, unsure of how to start.

‘Not to worry.’ The vicar’s voice was young, friendly. ‘Are you Catholic?’

‘No. Sorry, do I have to be?’

‘If you were, I could lead you through confession and absolution. But I’m not going to kick you out for not being of my faith. If you just want to talk, I will listen.’

Many questions rose in my mind. Was I a killer? Will I go to Hell? Is there any hope for me?

Instead of choosing one to put voice to, I panicked and ran.

Weeks later, I found myself in another church.

‘Forgive me, Father,’ I began.

‘How long since your last confession?’ the old priest asked.

‘This is my first. I…’

After a pause, the priest said, ‘It’s okay. Carry on in your own time.’

‘I…’ I tried. ‘I can’t do this,’ and again I fled.

My third attempt was different. As soon as I was accompanied in the confessional booth, I felt a change within me, a surge of confidence. Unlike the last two priests I had visited, unlike Kath, this man was not holy. He carried doubt within him, had selfishness in his heart.

I watched through the lattice that separated us as my companion materialised before the vicar. A ghost made solid, the brightness of its eyes illuminated the disbelief on the man’s face. Taking his head in its huge hands, my companion allowed its brilliant white fingers to penetrate the unholy man’s mouth and nostrils, to push into his eye sockets. As the man kicked and struggled, ultimately in vain, I finally saw my companion in full and I knew its nature.

For as long as mankind had bowed to a higher being, there have been people who used that religion to further their own goals. Jesus had not died on a cross for his church to be infiltrated by charlatans and evildoers, though two millennia later it was hard to tell the truly devout from those hiding their lust behind the cloth.

My companion, my angel, had been sent to cleanse Earth of the pretenders.

You're not alone, you have friends, you're social, you go out everyday and meet new people everywhere and share your feelings when you need.

I am alone. I don't have any friends, I'm not social, I stay home and hide in my closet, I keep my feelings hidden away deep in the attic. I shy away whenever someone tries to help, desperetly wanting it.

I am alone, and I know I will always be

Abby took the box from her grandmother's wrinkled hands, and smiled. Her grandmother usually gave the worst presents for Christmas and birthdays and the like, but the crisp gold wrapping on this one seemed to make it special. She tucked a red curl behind her ear, and pulled the ribbon off of the paper covered box. She was the kind of girl who always opened things carefully, not crumpling papers and always using a letter opener. So she delicately unfolded the paper from her 18th birthday present. And inside was nothing. It was just a box filled with dark.

"Your very own 'Not Alone', Abby. Do you like it?" the old woman sitting across from her whispered, giving a smile.

Abby didn't quite understand. A 'Not Alone' was expensive. It took work to get one, but she didn't understand it. Why would you need something connected to you in sunlight? Attatched with a black silhouette cast on the ground, stretching out throughout the day? Why would grandmother buy this for her, if there was really no use?

"Thank you, grandmother." She beamed, though the enthusiasm was fake.

"You're welcome, love. Now touch it to activate it!" Abby nodded and did what she was told, and dipped her hand into the dark box. She immediately felt a quick jolt, but after that everything was normal. Except the dark figure cast on the table.

"Wow, this is awesome!" Abby said after activating it, trying to be greatful.

"In folklore, those were called 'shadows', you know."

"Really?" The old woman nodded in response.

"Now go see your mother, dinner is almost ready. And you should see the cake!" Abby scurried off to the kitchen to finish her birthday. The 'Not Alone' didn't cause trouble until the morning. The girl had fallen asleep with the light on after a long day. They found her corpse sprawled out on her bed with the joints at all angles, a figure of the 'shadow' hunched over her disfigured body. A broken doll.

She looks at her fuzzy navel playing peekaboo from under her shirt that used to fit only 6 short months ago. She sighs. She knows how these things work. She knows that sex can lead to this. Her on again, off again boyfriend hadn’t seen her since she first found out she was pregnant.

He conveniently remembered that he was exactly what everyone apparently already knew about him: that he was all talk. He could stumble into a room of strangers and come out with surface level friends, yet called them “friends” nevertheless.

After hearing of her “new predicament”, he was finally at a loss for words. She wasn’t even surprised about him leaving. She was surprised at how silent his leaving was. No fluttery hands to cover up his nerves; no flowery words to save face, just empty eyes and hollow cheeks.

She has since taken to driving to Walmart at 2:00am to satisfy her late night cravings. She wanders the cookie aisles thinking about all the things she is not prepared for. How being a hairdresser does not give enough money or time off to raise a newborn. How her mother wrote her off after hearing of yet “another mistake from [her] own kin”. So, to hide from the looming idea that she will be responsible for another human, she escapes her restless mind to roam the junk food aisles of Walmart.

And on one such a night, waddling through the produce section, she swings a hip a bit farther than she intended into a pyramid of beautifully stacked peaches. They topple over in an instant, right in front of her and her swollen belly. She almost leaves them. She would’ve left in silence too, so as not to draw too much attention. However, she cannot control the urge to see how big of a mess she made, so she looks back. There, in almost the same amount of time it took for the peaches to fall, is a mousy, young wisp of a woman who must’ve sprinted over to restack the fallen produce.

She stares at the peaches scuttling across the floor and then at the frantic woman trying to catch all of them, even the ones rolling all the way to the deli. During this moment, the little human in her belly seems to do a small hiccup.

She looks at the attendant, with her dishwater, blonde hair and sad eyes, trying to clean up the collateral damage from what her pregnant hips had created. She sighs, long and deep. Cradling her hiccuping stomach, she takes a step forward, does her best to squat, grabs a peach off the floor and says in a quiet, reassuring voice, “Here, you missed one.”