Hereafter 1 Free Preview

PROLOGUE

That day was the hottest day of July. The temperature reached an abysmal 105 degrees Fahrenheit, making it the second-hottest day recorded in New York since 1936. Even with the air conditioners constantly running, the heat still drove almost every citizen in the city to operate at a slower pace than usual. The exception was the ER workers of a small hospital in a hamlet seventy-four miles from the city. They were rushing a blood-soaked stretcher across the hallway.

“Make room, please! A serious case’s coming through!” a middle-aged nurse cried at the dawdling staff.

“No ID. Caucasian male. Appears to be in his early twenties. Has three gunshot wounds in the upper chest. One has punctured the left lung. Prepare for surgery now!” said the doctor, running beside her. “Liz, apply pressure to his chest! Try to keep him awake!”

“Stay with us, honey. You can do it. Don’t panic,” Nurse Liz told the young patient in a soothing voice. Fear shone in her eyes. “Don’t give up. You’re so young and have a long life ahead of you. We’ll contact your family. You’ll be alright—”

The patient coughed out blood; his already pale face was now the grayish color of a corpse. His chest rose and fell raggedly. But soon, the pain became too unbearable as he gave up, eyes staring blankly at the hospital ceiling as life drifted away from him.

“Mama.”

It was a hot and sunny afternoon; at 3:33 PM EDT, a young, nameless patient passed away in a small ER room.

There were no family or friends with him in his last moment.

He died with his eyes open. Blood seeped into the green irises, marring them. Like stained glass, his eyes were beautiful, cold, and dead.

The end was but a beginning.

CHAPTER 1

ALIVE AGAIN…SORT OF

A loud scream reverberates throughout a small, dirty alley. The sound comes from a figure lying half-face down in a puddle of mud. His body twitches and convulses as if it were being hit by lightning. The sudden noise and frantic movements make the rats gnawing on the figure’s flesh scurry away.

“Ah…Ah…Ah,” the figure gasps for air and turns away from the murky water. His face is badly bruised and covered with black mud. But all the dirt and grime only make those green eyes stand out further.

In fact, his eyes are probably the only source of lively color amid this smelly, filthy, and ashen place.

The figure lies motionless with arms and legs spread wide; his breathing is loud and heavy.

“I’m…alive,” the figure pants. Sheer joy and gratitude are evident on his face.

But the happiness quickly fades.

Why the hell am I here? Did that hospital just throw me out into a puddle? What the fuc—

No need for further introduction: this is the patient who just died a couple of paragraphs ago. Somehow, he is no longer ‘dead’ and now finds himself in a shabby, dingy ditch in God-knows-where. Confusion, despair, and anger fill his chest as he gawks at his surroundings. That is when he notices the odd architecture of this place, which doesn’t resemble any New York alley he knows.

“Where…?” His green eyes scan the place.

It takes several minutes for the patient to come to the dreadful conclusion that he’s definitely not in New York. In fact, he doubts if he is still in America. It doesn’t look like he’s back in Russia or Kazakhstan, either.

He’s not even sure if he’s on Earth anymore.

“T-This is a nightmare.” The patient screws his eyes shut, trembling lips mumbling over and over. “This is not real.”

As he repeats those sentences like a mantra, the revolting smell of the alley begins to disagree with him. Reality slaps him when one of the hungry rats returns to finish its meal and suddenly dashes out of its hiding place. The rat jumps toward the patient with mean eyes and jagged teeth.

Before his brain can even process it, the patient’s hand has already sprung forward as he smacks the crap out of that angry rat, sending it flying back to the hole it came from.

His brute action scares the rest of the rats. They make high, squeaking noises and no longer dare to attack him. The patient is so frightened by his own abnormally quick, precise reflex that he jumps to his feet and scampers out of the rundown alley.

“Help! Please help me!” the patient screams as he runs. The alley is long and filled with obstacles that cause him to trip and fall several times, but they can’t slow him down.

After a while, he finally sees the exit and speeds up. The patient is so fast that he doesn’t notice a pedestrian. Thus, they collide with each other, and both end up sprawling and groaning on the ground.

“I’m so sorry—” The patient is interrupted by a hard slap to his face.

“What do you think you’re doing, you little mutt?!” screeches a voice as the assaulter gets up. This man then uses all his force to kick the patient harshly and mercilessly in the chest.

Everything happens so fast that the patient doesn’t even have time to open his eyes. All he can do is curl up and cover his head with his arms to minimize the damage.

“That’s enough, let’s go,” says a flat, male voice after the patient receives the twelfth kick. “You can gut it the next time you see it.”

“He ruined my damn clothes!” the attacker growls as he delivers one last kick at the crouching patient. “Don’t let me see your face again, you filthy beggar, or it will be your funeral!”

* * *

The patient groans as he slowly sits up. Beggar, he said? Asshole, the patient thinks, more furious about those men’s insults than the threat of gutting. The gossiping from other curious bystanders brings the patient’s attention back to reality as he finds himself lying in a pile of garbage.

“Fantastic!” he huffs, cursing in his head as he gets up and looks at himself for the first time. He’s horrified to see the only thing he has on his body is a dirty, tattered, oversized tunic—with no underwear, let alone a pair of shoes.

Maybe those assholes weren’t wrong when they called him a beggar. The sad excuse for an outfit he’s wearing is even more torn than the five-year-old kitchen rag his nana refused to throw away.

The patient’s mouth twitches as he absorbs the situation. He glances around and sees everyone dressed in Victorian-esque clothing.

Their outfits are dull, shabby, and a monochromatic gray shade, the same color as the buildings surrounding them. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Their clothes are only a bit…nicer than his.

The patient lets out a deep sigh and moves to the sidewalk, away from the attention. Keeping his head low, he begins to blend into the crowd. As he walks, he studies the area. But the more he sees, the grimmer his expression becomes.

The buildings here look like a deranged mashup of fictional medieval and steampunk architectural styles in grisly post-apocalyptic movies. The houses’ structures are wonky and look like they can collapse any minute. The scenery might be appealing if not for the gagging, disgusting smell that permeates every corner of the town.

As much as the patient doesn’t want to admit it, based on all the observations he has gathered so far, there are only three possible explanations for this monstrosity:

Number one: He died and has been revived as a beggar in this dystopian world.

Number two: He died and is in Hell.

Number three: He was injected with triple shots of pure crack.

Regardless, it seems that the easy, sensible solution would be to head to a cliff and do a free-fall…which he is probably not going to commit to at the moment. Even though his life is a bit effed up now, that approach is just a tad too extreme.

Plus, he doesn’t want to be reincarnated as a toad.

A series of faint, strange noises interrupt the patient’s thoughts and make him stop in his tracks. He looks around and feels the sounds come from underneath him. As his curiosity rises, the patient cautiously steps away from his spot and crouches to examine it. As soon as both his knees touch the ground, the surface crumbles. The patient can only yell a loud ‘Fuc—’ as he falls into the underground.

Surprisingly, he lands on a soft bed and suffers no significant physical damage other than feeling lightheaded and a few grazes from the falling debris.

Looks like I am not really God’s redheaded stepson after all. The patient takes in a shuddering breath, beyond grateful that he has survived. However, the sense of relief shatters when the patient sits up and takes a good look at the place he just toppled on.

There are dozens of people in sheer, skimpy underwear or in their birthday suits, gawking at him: men, women, old, young, good-looking, homely, fat, thin. They all stand in a room with red lighting. There are all sorts of chains, ropes, whips, canes, gags of all kinds, and gazillions of kinky objects scattered all over the floors and walls.

The patient thinks he just crashed into a brothel.

The patient opens his mouth, but the door slams open before he can speak. A middle-aged, overweight woman in a bright, cheap-looking red gown enters the room with two burly men behind her.

Her eyes dart up to the large hole in the ceiling and then back to the patient. She shouts in a high-pitched voice that resembles the sound of a rusty metal door: “What the hell have you done to my establishment?!”

The woman’s menacing demeanor and petrifying voice spook the patient. His mouth operates faster than his brain as he stammers, “I-I’ll pay for all the damage!”

The woman gawks at him, then guffaws. “Pay me? You?” she sneers. “You wretch, even if you serve fifty clients every day for the next five years, that wouldn’t be enough to fix my ceiling! Who the hell do you think you are? The Emperor? You better have an owner to pay for all of this goddamn damage, or I swear, I’ll have them skin you alive, you filthy, wretched runt!”

The patient is stunned by the tirade from the brothel madam for a few seconds before he snaps back. “Lady, don’t take it out on me, cuz I ain’t gonna pay you jack. I’m just a passerby. That damn road collapsed on its own. If you have a problem, go sue the government. But I bet you can’t. That’s why you chose to run this shady bordello underground like some sneaky rat!”

It’s not like he crashed a non-profit, secret school for underprivileged children. Sorry, not sorry, really.

The madam is now flushing red from neck to head. Her eyes narrow into two lines. She points a shaking finger at the patient. “Beat…beat this filthy runt to death for me! Now!”

The two burly men behind her stride forward and lash their thick, wooden canes at the patient.

The moment the patient sees the weapons in those men’s hands, a fiery sensation flares up in his chest. The sudden, intense heat is so great that it feels like every fiber of his skin is being burned alive. Everything surrounding him begins to blur, and time seems to slow down.

Just like in that alleyway when he swatted that rat, before his brain can even think, his body has already slid off the bed.

The patient isn’t sure what he’s doing, but the next thing he knows, he’s standing behind the two guards. His fingers curl tightly inward like an eagle’s claw, gripping around both men’s napes.

In a split second, the patient has a strong intuition that he could injure these two men very severely.

Stop. Stop now.

Those words flash through his mind, like a plea for his body to cease the attack before blood spills.

“Bran?! What the hell are you doing down there?!” a shrill, terror-struck voice rings out from above, stunning everybody in the room and successfully diverting the patient’s attention.

A furious middle-aged woman leans against the edge of the pit. Surrounding her is a group of gossipy crowds.

“You lying, cheating, shameless, irresponsible, good-for-nothing old fart! Is this your business trip? Screwing those bony harlots while leaving your wife to tend your children?” the wife yells.

“I-I can explain if you would just calm—” the old man she’s addressing down below rushes to put on his clothes.

“Damn you to hell! Damn all of you! I’ll cut your prick off and burn this place to the ground!” The wife finishes her sentence by throwing a rock down at her cheating husband, but hits another male customer instead.

The underground brothel quickly becomes chaotic, with people fleeing, crying, and cursing. The patient only waits for this moment when everyone is distracted by the commotion, and he slips into the frantic crowd and runs away.

* * *

The patient loses count of how many stairs he has climbed, how many rooms he has barged into, and how many fences he has flown over…until he finally finds the exit to the outside. After he escapes, he continues running far from that brothel as fast as possible without looking back. Though he can still hear screaming and smashing sounds of people fighting. There is a riot behind him.

He only stops when he finds shelter in a small, empty alley. His legs immediately give out as he plops chest-first to the ground.

Heavy, shuddering breaths echo throughout the gloomy passage. Nobody can hear it, and even if they do, they wouldn’t care, for he’s just a filthy beggar, worthless scum.

After his breathing has stabilized, the patient balls up his fists and pushes himself up from the ground. He is covered with filth and new injuries from the earlier assault and tearing through the brothel, on top of the old wounds on his body. His tunic is so ripped it looks like he’s been mauled by a large animal.

After sitting still for a little longer, the patient tilts his head to the sky and cries, “What have I done to deserve this? This is so unfair!” the patient whimpers, his body shaking with anger. “I was a good person! God, why did you do this to me?!”

This new world is dreadful. The town is poor, dirty, and stinky. The people here are nasty, cruel, and deranged. There seems to be no law here. It feels like there are creatures lurking in every corner and could jump out at any moment to feast on the living. The weather is thick and foggy. Everything here looks like it was dumped by a big bucket of sad gray paint.

“I’m better off dead,” the patient growls, pointing at the sky. “Why bring me back just to torment me like this? God, can you be any crueler?!”

It sure feels good to let things out.

Half a minute later, dark clouds gather, and heavy rain pours down on the small alley. Just as if it were God’s answer to his question.

The alleyway floods quickly, and floating trash leisurely swims past him. The patient looks at the sky. “Forgive me. I was just…joking.”

At least it isn’t a hail.

* * *

If there’s anything to know about the patient, he considers himself an optimistic person, minus the occasional whine. When the downpour starts, he takes advantage of the weather and has a natural shower. As he looks at his body for the first time, he is relieved to find no bullet holes or deformities. As far as he can tell, his new body looks very similar to the old one, except that it’s scrawny and covered in bruises. But he doesn’t feel any pain, so it’s probably a good sign.

The patient also finds a small branding mark on his left inner forearm. He can’t tell what it is as it resembles a worm or a stretched number three.

After the patient feels satisfied that he is clean, he starts searching for a space with a roof to shelter from the stormy weather. After further exploring the alley, he finds a tight corner between two rundown huts with a small, conjoined roof sticking out from the top. The patient is as happy as if he had just found a gold mine. He immediately squeezes himself into the spot.

The corner can shelter him from the rain just fine when he sits with his legs pulled up to his chest, except the roof isn’t wide enough to cover his feet, so he has no choice but to leave them out in the rain. For further barricade, the patient takes off his rag and hangs it like a curtain between the two huts, making a little curtain for himself.

As the patient is now sitting curled up and naked in his very un-cozy nook, looking out at the rain through the holes from his ripped tunic, he finally has the quiet time to think things over.

From afar, the setup would have scared the living daylights out of anyone. Quiet alley, pouring rain, dark and eerie corner, ripped, bloodstained curtain, and a pair of protruding pale feet. And that’s precisely his intention. He wants to make his nook as creepy as possible. He doesn’t want anyone or anything to disturb him right now.

If any more crazy shit happens, he will surely lose it.

With each passing moment, the rain becomes heavier. The chilly wind howls like a weeping widow. The patient is buried in thought. Soon, fatigue takes over him, and without realizing it, he drifts into a fitful sleep.

* * *

“Gigi, stop licking me,” the patient groans, turning his head from the sloppy, wet tongue. “Five more minutes. I’m tired.”

Three minutes later, the sloppy tongue licks him again. This time, it is on the side of his waist, running over the soft flesh and tickling the patient into broken giggles.

“Gigi, sit down.” The patient becomes annoyed as he fumbles and pushes his dog away. “I swear you are—”

Since when has Gigi gotten so…big?

And why is she breathing so loud? She’s a freaking Samoyed!

Sweat builds up all over his body. The patient takes a deep breath, summons all his courage, and opens his eyes.

CHAPTER 2

INTO THE WOODS

The creature’s almond-shaped eyes are large and piercing blue. They’re so abnormally bright that they glow in the dark. Thick, shaggy, dark gray fur covers its face and humanoid body. It has upright ears and a broad snout. Its long, mauve tongue greedily circles and licks the smooth skin of the patient’s left side, treating the flesh like the most delicious, prized cut. Its eyes remain locked on its prey’s—sharp and threatening, a warning not to try anything stupid.

It is already nighttime, for the late afternoon rain has long stopped. The roads are all dried up. The heavy clouds have given way for the full blood moon to shine and cast its ominous scarlet rays down to the gray, grungy town that has sunk to rest.

There is no streetlight, and none of the houses are lit; everyone has already gone to bed. Or perhaps they just don’t want to see what’s roaming the streets at night.

The patient is frozen with terror, unable to close his mouth or even to breathe aloud. All he can do is watch the giant, hairy creature give him the most enthusiastic licking that will make him never look at dogs the same way again.

He has never felt so violated, so appalled in his life. To make matters worse, he’s fully naked, and this creature seems to be a male, making the situation even more frightening.

When the creature moves its furry, clawed hands onto the patient’s pulled-up knees and tries to pry his legs open, his last nerve officially snaps.

There is a lone, rickety wall that is fifty feet away from the patient’s nook. Several seconds later after the creature has made this bold move, that wall receives a hairy wrecking ball that puts a permanent retirement to its existence.

A hair-raising roar pierces through the still air and causes the ground to tremble. The creature rises from the rubble. Its chest moves up and down with every raging breath. Its eyes glower with murderous intent toward the human in the alley. Letting out another ear-splitting howl, the creature gets on all four and launches at its fleeing prey.

As for the patient, the moment he successfully sent the creature flying, he grabbed his ragged curtain tunic and dashed lickety-split out of the alley.

The good thing is that the patient used to play many high-endurance sports in his last life, so he knows how to utilize his energy well. He doesn’t bother screaming for help. Instead, he focuses all of his strength on his legs and his breathing while his brain maps out an escape route and watches out for any obstacles on the road.

The patient turns to check if the monster is still after him and finds it still is, with no less ambition than before. The longer the chase gets, the more pissed the creature becomes. By the light of the hazy red moon, the patient can finally have a clear view of the beast: it’s about seven feet tall, has long fangs, a hunched back, and wolf’s features.

The patient can’t help but roll his eyes as he runs. Of course, a werewolf would appear to make his already wretched life even more miserable. Blood moon, creepy town, foggy night, all the right conditions for the supernatural to show up and hunt down the unfortunate souls with nowhere to go.

The patient spots something scattering on the ground. When he gets close to it, what he sees makes his blood run cold.

In the center of the road lies the crown of a split head beside a mound of crudely torn body parts: arms, legs, and a dismembered torso. One eye in the head is intact, popped open, while the other dangles on the other half of the face. The patient can still see the look of terror on that face. Pieces of the white brain and coils of organs splatter on an oozing puddle of blood. As the patient runs, he finds the remaining body parts: a lower jaw, pieces of a gnawed tongue, a pulled-out, half-eaten spinal cord, and…bloody, dissected pieces of male genitals.

Thanks to the many horror flicks he’s seen, the patient is able to stomach the gore by repeatedly telling himself to think of them as movie props…until he sees the raw, explicit display of ‘stick’ and ‘stones’ lying torn to pieces in a bloody pool, squashed and mutilated. Instantly, all the recklessness flushes out of his body like it has been swept by a tornado, leaving only a cell of a scared and helpless man.

Extreme fear has different effects on each individual. Some would trip and fall, while others would freeze. Some would wet themself, and some would pass out. In the patient’s case, extreme fear only makes him run even faster. He has thought it through. He would rather run and drop dead from exhaustion than get caught and mauled.

After an absurdly long and anticlimactic chase that doesn’t really get anywhere for either party, the werewolf is the first to give up.

The creature pants for breath and glares at the still-running human, angry veins forming on its face and arms. It stamps its foot on the ground, then looks up to the blood moon and gives a deafening, earth-shaking howl. This time, it finally gets the patient as he trips and falls under the pressure of the trembling ground.

The patient grunts as he feels a sharp pain drill into the tender part of his thigh. A small scrap of metal has cut his inner thigh, dangerously close to his manhood.

The patient bites back a scream as he pulls out the shard and dabs away the blood with his rag. He glances around, stunned to find the werewolf is no longer behind him.

“Crap!” The patient hastily gets up and scans his surroundings. He can’t find the werewolf anywhere, but it knows exactly where he is, and that puts him at a serious disadvantage.

The patient puts on his rag, as he’s been naked the whole time, then continues running while looking out for the creature. After passing a few roads, his ears pick up a faint flapping noise coming from above. He turns to the sky.

“What the…?” The patient is flabbergasted.

About one block away, the werewolf that has been hunting him is hovering in the air thirty feet from the ground. Behind it is a pair of large, blood-soaked bat wings waving in a steady rhythm.

It looks like those wings just sprang out of its body. That would explain the blood and flesh chunks on the membranes.

The patient turns back and runs like a deer on fire.

And the chase continues. After passing about ten blocks, a loud melody suddenly comes up from out of nowhere and startles him. With a heavy breath, the patient fearfully glances around.

Half a block away and up in the sky, the big, bad, flying werewolf is now playing a golden trumpet—intently, with great concentration.

“What the fu—” The sheer ridiculousness of the sight makes him turn back to check on the monster more often than before. Then, he decides to take a break since the werewolf is no longer chasing him.

The menacing werewolf’s cheeks are puffy from blowing the horn. Its almond-shaped eyes are round. Its furry chest heaves at every musical note. The patient can see it’s really trying to give a good performance; even its demeanor is that of a maestro. But the melody is godawful. Every note is like a punch to his ears.

The flying werewolf keeps its eyes fixed on the patient as it plays. After about half a minute, it stops and stares at the young human in confusion. Then, it goes back to playing the golden trumpet again. But the tune sounds rushed this time.

After regaining enough strength, the patient turns around and flees. The creature continues to blow the trumpet for a little longer before it rage-quits and lets out a roar, and then it goes back to chasing the patient again.

Give me a freaking break. Please.

The patient doesn’t understand what’s so appealing about him. Does he even have enough meat to sate the creature? His new body is literally a stick. But this werewolf is so persistent. And the chase has been going on for close to an hour. Damn it! Nearly one hour running on foot! He is frustrated and angry, and apparently, so is the musical werewolf, as it’s been throwing howling fits.

Was it because I didn’t clap at the performance? the patient wonders.

The houses are getting thinner, and the landscape is dotted with abundant trees. About ten minutes later, they finally reach the edge of the town.

The patient frowns at the view of the woods ahead of him. He doesn’t want to run into a forest at night when the blood moon is high. God knows what evils are in there. But then he can’t turn back either. Nobody would be gracious enough to open their door and let him in. And he can’t keep running back and forth with this creature all night. The town’s too open, and there’s no place to hide.

God, why are you doing this to me? Do you really hate me so much that you have to make me die twice on the same day?

As he’s torn by the two dead-end decisions, a thick, husky voice speaks up. “Come back. Come back to me.”

It comes from the flying werewolf.

It speaks.

Holy shi—

“I will not hurt you. I only want to look at you. If you turn around, I’ll hold you in my arms and cherish every inch of your flesh.”

Well, the forest it is!

The patient speeds toward the woods. He can still hear the creature screaming for him to return.

* * *

The werewolf doesn’t go after him as he enters the woods. The patient thinks either there is a magical barrier or something in this forest that really scares it. The fact that he is here right now disturbs him to no end. But he has taken a leap in the dark, and now all he can do is stay on high alert all the time, hoping to survive till tomorrow.

Beneath the crimson moon, the dark woods look as though they’re covered in a red veil. The patient keeps scurrying on the moonlit trail until he can no longer move. His knees give out, and his body falls to the golden leafy ground.

The night wind slips through the dry leaves, making rattling noises. The most prominent sounds are the dreary hoots of the owls and the patient’s harsh breathing.

The patient is exhausted. He is gasping for air like a drowned fish yearning for water. He can taste the metallic tang in his dry throat. His entire body aches from the running. He lies there, unmoving, with his eyes closed. After a short while, when his breathing stabilizes, he attempts to hoist himself up, but an acute shooting pain immediately hits him in his crotch. It is so painful that it makes him moan out loud.

Every movement hurts. It feels like there are hundreds of needles pricking into his manhood. The patient carefully lifts his rag, and what he sees scares him to death. His genitals are swollen and badly bruised. The skin around the sack chafes and throbs with a deep red color. There are scratches on his penis caused by friction from running commando for too long.

“Oh…ah…” With a shallow breath, the patient slowly tears the hem of his tunic. The fabric comes off easily since it has been so old and ripped. The patient lies down on his back, lifts his tunic, spreads his legs, and with a deep breath, pushes his lower body up to slide the torn fabric underneath his backside. He takes a moment to think of how to make a new jockstrap for himself. But his brain is too tired and muddled to be innovative, so he ends up wrapping the cloth randomly around his manhood.

The patient remains on the ground for a good while before he tries to stand up again. The pain has subsided and is not as unbearable as earlier. He pulls up his tunic to see his new underwear; it looks like a bad adult diaper made with toilet paper.

As long as the fabric can support his genitals, who cares about the design?

The patient stretches his arms and back, feeling the sore muscles twitch at every movement. He then looks at the surrounding area. He is in the middle of a lonely forest trail with both sides flanked by tall, bushy trees. There are no turns, so he has no choice but to move ahead.

After about half an hour of walking aimlessly on the dark trail, his stomach begins to rumble. The patient looks around, hoping to find fruit trees, but has no luck. He sighs, rubs his sunken belly, and then walks for another thirty minutes until he reaches a fork.

The patient looks at the two pathways in front of him. Both are equally pitch-black and creepy. He frowns and comes closer to the center of the two trails. There, he spots something hidden inside the clumps of bushes. With great caution, he moves the foliage with his hands and finds a wooden arrow road signpost.

The patient is over the moon with his discovery. He quickly drags the sign out of the shrubs and puts it back on the ground. But his short-lived happiness is gone when he finally sees what is on the sign under the illuminated moonlight. The right arrow has carvings of a stack of human skulls piled on top of each other; there are carvings of flowers in between each head. The left arrow has carvings of a sun followed by a wholly separated human skeleton set up in a symmetrical line: a left foot, left leg bone, the left thigh bone, half left of the pelvic bone, half left of the torso, left arm, left hand, then the human skull in the middle. The rest is the repeat order of the bones on the right, and the end of the line is the carving of a half-moon.

Very fudging helpful. Thanks a fudging lot, signs. The patient balls his fists and swallows the urge to kick down the signpost he just put up. After calming down, he inspects both arrows and decides to go with the right one because it looks less disturbing than the left and also has flowers in it. So how bad can it be? It can’t be that awful compared to the left trail, right? Right?!

“Right!” The patient makes his decision. He takes in several deep breaths and does a little stretching. Then, confidently, he takes the first step onto the right trail. But suddenly, a cold chill creeps up his back and makes him shudder. He immediately turns around and finds nothing behind him.

The patient stalls for a moment; then, he continues on his way. But after a few steps, he feels something brush over his nape. He turns around again and can’t hold back a scream.

There is a row of about a dozen people wearing bloody, off-white rags, sluggishly hovering in an even line. Each holds a dimly lit candle in their right hand and a blood-soaked pink flower in the other. They have no fingernails, as it looks like they were pulled out by force. In the center of the flower are a pair of gouged-out eyes that still look fresh, with the nerves attached to them. But that’s not all. They are all walking without their heads!

And the fact that they are walking under the red moonlight makes this scenario ten times more horrifying.

The sight before him terrifies the patient more than the musical werewolf, by miles. He stumbles to the ground but immediately drags himself back up and runs back to the fork. But he can’t reach it, as the trail seems to get longer the further he runs. There’s a rustling sound on his right. A headless ghost emerges from the tall bushes and blocks his path.

The patient’s heart almost drops when he sees the ghost holding out its bloody, no-fingernails hands to him. Without slowing down, he launches a kick right at the ghost’s crotch and knocks it over; flower and candle fly to each side of the trail.

After his success against the beheaded ghost, the pathway seems to return to normal. After about one or two minutes, the patient finally reaches the forest fork.

The patient breathes like a person with asthma. His ragged tunic is drenched with sweat. He looks at the signpost. The right path is obviously a no-no, leaving him with the left one. However, the patient doesn’t want to go with the left trail because the sign for this trail looks absolutely unsettling. What’s with the separated human skeletons all lined up sinisterly like that? That just looks sick and evil. It probably will be even worse than the right path.

And he can’t just choose another path either, since the hedges surrounding the trails are too tall and dense to break through them by hand. The patient tries to poke at them and finds it’s impossible to make another way for himself without a machete and a flashlight.

The patient sighs and turns to the single trail that led him here; an old crone already stands behind him. The unannounced appearance of this woman makes him shriek in a very unmanly voice as he staggers backward.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry if I scared you. Are you alright, young man?” The woman speaks in a sweet, grandma voice. Her neatly combed white hair peeks out from beneath an off-white scarf. She wears an old, ankle-length, black floral dress with a worn-out, ash-colored cardigan. She is skinny and haggard. There is a small wart on the tip of her long, hooked nose. She looks ancient, maybe around eighty or ninety years old. Despite the gentle tone, there is a look of malevolence in her cloudy brown eyes. She carries a straw basket covered with an off-white cloth on her right arm.

The patient takes one look at her, and he’s already cussing in English and Russian in his head. Anyone with half a brain can see this old crone is a witch!

While the patient is considering how to escape, the witch speaks again. “You look awfully lost out here at this hour.” She looks at him up and down and then smiles. “And you look like you are in need of a hot bath and a hot, hearty meal as well. Why don’t you come with me? My house is not that far from here.”

“No, thank you. Please excuse me.” The patient puts on a straight face and walks past her. But her scabrous hand grabs his hand, and the crone pulls him back to face her.

“Now, now, child. You can’t leave like that.” The witch shakes her head, her voice still sweet. “Why don’t you try one of my freshly baked scones before you go?” She lifts the white cloth off her straw basket. Inside it, there are many types of bread and colorful pastries. They all smell so tantalizingly good that they make his starving stomach growl even louder.

“No. I’m good. Thank you, but no thank you.”

“You won’t be able to make it back out looking like this. This forest is dangerous. There are many evils out there just waiting for a cute young man like you to wander in. Who knows what those creatures will do to you? It’s not uncommon for youngsters to get lost in here and have their flesh stripped off from their bones, just like a deboned chicken. Heeh heeh heeh!” Her grip on his hand tightens.

“Let go of me!” The patient uses all his strength to pull his hand back.

“YOU WILL GO WITH ME!” the witch yells, and tries to grab his other hand.

The patient raises his fist, but his mind goes blank before he can push her away. His body feels as if it weighs nothing. He sees the witch laugh menacingly as she swings out her wrinkled hand and grabs his hair. Then everything sinks into darkness.

CHAPTER 3

THE MAN UNDER THE MOONLIGHT

The patient wakes up to a killing headache and aching pain all over. He blinks a few times, trying to open his eyes, but his eyelids are too heavy. He attempts to move his body but fails as well. This place reeks of rotten meat, dead animals, feces, and strong, pungent herbs mixed together. It makes him want to vomit. Suddenly, a shooting pain flares across his back and causes him to yell. But the noise comes out muffled.

“Mmm! Mmm!” The patient panics and struggles even harder and feels more pain pouring down his bare back.

“Stop moving, you little mutt!” shouts an old woman’s voice, and another stroke lands on his skin.

The patient grits his teeth and forces his eyes open. He sees the old crone swing a whip at him. He isn’t fast enough to dodge it and receives another lash on his back.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the witch sneers, then whips him again. “How dare you avoid my whip, runt?! When I beat you, you’ll stay put and take it. Understand?”

The patient puffs in shock and anger as he glares at the witch. He is lying on a dark gray wooden floor, completely naked. His hands and feet are tightly bound from behind by a thick rope. His mouth is gagged with a cloth.

The witch sees the hateful look in his eyes and swings her whip again, each time harder than before. She cackles when he winces in pain but cannot do anything about it.

At around twenty strokes, the witch stops to breathe. The look of satisfaction gleams on her face as she looks down at the young man lying trembling by her feet. She hunches down to grab a fistful of the patient’s brown hair and hoists him to sit. Her face leans in so close to his. He almost faints from the stink that comes from her wrinkled brown lips.

“Listen carefully, you little rascal! I’ve deboned many like you before. In fact, I just did that two hours ago. Why don’t you see it yourself?” The witch yanks his head toward the kitchen. In the center is a large, black cauldron cooking on a stone hearth. That’s where the revolting smell comes from.

On her wooden kitchen counter, there sits a pile of bloody human bones that still have some flesh stuck to them. Next to the bones is a sharp, bloodstained knife that seems to be the tool used to carve off the human flesh. Blood is still dripping from the counter to the floor.

If it weren’t for the gag, the patient would throw up. He averts his eyes, but instead, he sees a pile of decapitated heads in the right corner of the kitchen. He can’t help but shudder in front of the witch.

The old witch jeers at his blanched face. “You should thank your lucky stars that I got you after the Sacred Hour. Oh boy, only if I were to meet you just two hours ago, you would have made a beautiful, extra delicious main course for my ritual. Shame! Such a great shame!”

Still holding the patient’s hair, she drags him across the main room, where an iron ring is mounted to the ceiling. The witch weaves a rope through the ring’s opening and ties it around the patient’s bare chest. The patient writhes against her grasp and receives a hard slap. But she doesn’t stop there as she grabs her whip and flogs him again and again until his entire body is trembling uncontrollably, and he is no longer struggling.

“Stop yapping. You’re starting to piss me off.” The witch whips him one last time. “I’ve been tolerating a lot from you because you’re a real pretty boy. But if you continue to be a dumb mutt, you’re gonna join the group in the kitchen.”

The witch continues to spew more threats, but the patient doesn’t really listen to her. He’s trying to calm himself down and think of ways to escape this evil crone. He discreetly scans his surroundings for weapons and exits. This place is just a small wooden hut with only one main door locked from the inside. The patient is then hung by a rope to the ceiling; his bound feet graze the floor. This position especially strains his body, and if he doesn’t find a way to break off from the rope, he doubts he will have enough strength to defend himself against the witch.

What should I do? How to escape? Think. Think!

His head is spinning, trying to devise ways to get out of here alive and in one piece. But his view is limited, as he can’t see behind his back.

“Tch, you’re too thin. No meat at all!” the witch comments as she circles him. The patient shudders when she suddenly slaps his bare butt. “This will not do!”

Yes, I already know that, you psycho hag! Since I’m unsuitable to cook, can you let me go and find an alternative? An actual pig this time, maybe?

The witch goes to the kitchen and returns with a bowl of food in her hand. She removes his gag. The patient is dismayed when he sees the cloth gag is actually the underwear he DIYed earlier tonight. Nasty old hag!

“Eat,” the witch scoops a spoonful of the mud-colored soup and brings it to his mouth. The patient shakes his head furiously.

“You little brat, I spent eighteen hours making this soup!”

Eighteen hours? Not only is this crazy hag evil and murderous, but she also can’t cook for shit. That soup looks like a pile of vomit. Then, the patient spots a mounted skeleton deer head with sharp antlers on the wall, just ten feet behind the witch.

“Ma’am, I’m so hungry. Please give me some food. I haven’t had anything in my stomach for days.” The patient speaks in a defeated voice, looking extremely pitiful.

“Then eat the soup!” the witch snaps.

“Can I have the bread you offered me earlier?” he asks. “Please?”

“What bread?”

“Ma’am, the bread in the straw basket you showed me earlier.”

“Huh?” the old witch looks confused; then she seems to remember what he’s been talking about. A wicked smile forms on her face as she puts the soup bowl on the table and goes to the kitchen. She returns with the bread straw basket she carried in the forest. She brings the basket close to the patient’s face and takes off the white cloth cover. “You want to eat this?”

The patient screams when he sees what’s in the basket. There’s no bread or pastries but a punch of human eyes, tongues, and severed fingers drenched in blood.

“Hey, no puking on my floor.” The witch grabs his pale cheeks. “Oh dear, you look scared to death. Alright, I won’t tease you anymore. It’s not like I’m gonna cut you open today. We missed the grand occasion. Next time, I guess, so there’s no need to be terrified.”

Oh wow, very effing reassuring. Thanks!

“Open your mouth.” The witch holds up a spoon of soup to him. “Ahh—”

“What’s in it? Please don’t force me to eat humans.”

The witch snorts and gives him stink eyes, “Don’t flatter yourself! You’re not eating my meat supply. There are only vegetables in it.”

Who the hell stews vegetables for eighteen hours?!

But then…he really doesn’t have a choice now, does he? If he refuses the food, who knows what this crazy hag is gonna do to him? So, the patient takes in a big breath and swallows the soup.

It tastes like crap.

After eating a couple of spoonfuls, the patient tells the witch he’s full and…thanks her for the meal. He tries to be on her non-psycho side, but when she hears him say thank you, she gives him a slap.

“Ouch!” Crap! Was it because he didn’t look sincere enough when he said thank you? He thinks his voice sounded pretty genuine.

“You cheeky brat!” The witch raises her hand again.

“Please don’t hit me. I’m sorry. It hurts. A lot.”

Probably because of his “pretty” face, cited by the witch (not by him since he hasn’t even had the chance to see what he looks like in this new life), she doesn’t deliver the second slap.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says.

The old witch crosses her arms and looks at him up and down. Then she asks, “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-two, ma’a— Ouch!”

The witch slaps him again. “Who do you think you’re lying to, runt?”

Holy crap! She knows! He’s actually twenty-three. Well, he was twenty-three in his past life.

“You can’t be older than seventeen.”

“Wait, what?!”

“Shut up and answer my goddamn question!”

“I’m seventeen,” he says unthinkingly. He can’t believe he is this young in this new life. It sure feels good to be reborn young again.

“Too old!” The witch looks disappointed. She walks behind him and presses his butt cheeks apart.

“What are you doing?!” the patient yelps, and he receives a brutal smack across his bare butt.

“Stand still, or I’m going to stick a knife up your ass,” the witch snaps. She takes her time to spread, touch, and examine him.

The patient screams when the witch mercilessly pricks a sharp needle onto the tip of his manhood, which earns him three hard slaps. She collects his blood and drops it in a glass test tube with green liquid inside. The substance turns transparent when it touches the patient’s blood.

“Alrighty, you’re still a virgin. That’s very good! If you already got your ass screwed, you would be in the pot now. So, feel lucky you ain’t a tramp. Heeheehee!” the witch cackles, patting his cheek.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Initially, I wanted to make a stew of you. And to be honest, I still want to cook you. Right now. But given your pretty face is just too expensive to be on a plate, I will sell you.”

No. Hell no!

“Tomorrow,” the witch adds and then squeezes his mouth open. “Ah, wonderful! Teeth are all straight!”

“Ma’am, can you please untie me? These ropes really hurt me.”

The witch snorts and shoots a look of ridicule at him.

“I can’t feel my arms or my legs. How can I walk or stand tomorrow?” he pleads. “This position is really painful. Can you at least untie my feet so I can stand up straight?”

The witch appears to consider his words. It makes sense to have him look not too worn out at the market tomorrow. Suppose she keeps him tied up all night in his current position. In that case, he won’t be able to stand up straight in the morning, and she might lose a considerable amount of money for selling less presentable goods.

“Do you know how animals are prepared before cooking?” The witch crosses her arms and taps her foot on the wooden floor. “They get their throat slit open and have their blood drained off.”

The patient’s face turns white. The witch continues. “It’s a crucial step for butchering any animal. If it’s a male, you have to castrate it first. Then you slit its throat and drain its blood. After that, you start to chop off its feet, hands, arms, and legs. Take out the eyes, tongue, nose, and ears. Then you gut it. You have to ensure it is still alive while you do all that, though. Fear makes the meat more tender and delicious.”

The patient hisses when the witch grabs his hair and pulls him close to her face. “Just so you know, the spot you’re standing on is where I usually prepare my ‘animals’ before I turn them into a stew. So, if you try anything stupid, you know what’s going to happen to you, right?”

“Y-Yes…ma’am.” The patient nods fearfully.

“That’s a good boy.” The witch lets go of his hair and lowers the rope so that the patient doesn’t have to stand on tiptoe anymore. “Pretty and docile. That’s how you survive in this world,” she sneers, patting his cheek hard.

“Thank you…ma’am.”

“Now, where did I put those damn shackles?” The old witch mumbles and wheels around. But the moment she turns her back to him, the patient has already swung his body backward as far as the ceiling rope allows him to gather the maximum momentum. Then he charges at the witch at full speed and lands a powerful kick on her back, causing her to slide over to the wall where the deer’s head is mounted.

The dear’s head decoration is not hanging high. The old witch slams right into the sharp, skeletal antlers. They go through her chest and kill her on the spot.

* * *

After slaying the evil witch, the patient has to do involuntary exercise. He draws both his feet off the ground and keeps on swinging his body in the air back and forth, hard, like a ball on a string. About thirty minutes later, his efforts finally pay off as the old wooden ceiling where the ring hook is attached gives in and collapses.

After the patient gets down, he hops into the kitchen and burns the rope off his wrists. When he’s free of all the restraints, he peeks at the cauldron on the hearth and sees many human body parts boiling inside it. The gruesome sight sends cold chills down his spine and makes him nauseous. He would be in this pot if he failed to kill the witch. Upon searching the kitchen, he discovers his ragged tunic inside a wooden trash barrel. He wearily picks up the rag and checks if there’s any human part on it and is relieved to find only regular trash.

The patient quickly puts on his tunic and explores the hut. He discovers it’s situated on a large branch of an oak tree. He can climb down to the ground if he’s careful enough. While in the room, the patient avoids looking at the witch’s corpse as he passes it. Even though the old witch was evil and slaughtered many people, the patient still feels extremely guilty and uncomfortable about the fact that he killed her. This is the first time he ended someone’s life, and while the action was somewhat justifiable for his own survival. He isn’t proud of it. Killing is bad.

As the patient is about to open the door to leave; a sharp, burning pain similar to the one he experienced at the brothel in the afternoon suddenly flares up in his chest. The patient can clearly sense a powerful surge of murderous energy from behind him. In less than a second, his body already moves several feet away from the door. Just a second later, a butcher knife lashes down at the same spot he just stood, but it misses him and sticks into the wooden door instead.

The old witch turns her head to look at him. Her hair is no longer white, but fully black now. Her face looks demonic and more terrifying than before. “I WILL SHRED YOU INTO PIECES!” she screams and pulls the knife out of the door, then launches at him again.

If this had happened an hour ago, the patient would have pooped in his pants at how petrifying the witch looked. But he isn’t afraid anymore. Because he has just confirmed that he indeed has a superpower. He dodges the witch’s attacks while trying to look for a weapon to retaliate. He’s sure that he can trounce her again; she still has the antlers pierced through her chest while she tries to kill him.

She is already at a disadvantage.

But he is too confident and doesn’t see a small stool behind him. Thus, he trips and knocks himself to the ground.

The witch takes advantage of his fall and swings the butcher knife down at him. Even though the patient sees stars from the fall, he still manages to dodge the blade. He kicks the witch at her waist, knocking her to the floor.

Somehow, his superpower doesn’t seem to work anymore, and the patient has to use his own fighting ability—of which he has none.

He quickly gets up to his feet and kicks the knife from her hand. He tries to reach for the blade, but she grabs his foot and causes him to trip. Then she jumps on top of him and starts to strangle him. But he pulls her hair, and she has to let go of him. And thus, a heated fistfight begins.

During the fight, the patient is the one with the upper hand because he’s young, and she’s old and severely injured. As the battle proceeds close to the main door, the patient spots a wooden broom in the corner. Without thinking, he grabs the broom and beats the evil witch with it.

After several strokes, he realizes he’s been swatting her with the brush instead of the handle. Silly me, he thinks and turns the broom to hit the witch with the correct side.

“Oh, no. Please stop! I can’t take this anymore!” the old witch pleads.

The patient doesn’t stop. He hits her even harder. Did you ever stop when you butchered those people whose heads are in your kitchen?

“I’m an old woman. I can’t take this abuse. I’ll give you gold if you stop!”

He rolls his eyes. He raided her house while she was presumably dead, and she doesn’t have squat.

“Dear Devils, can’t you just think about the nice things I did for you? I’ve never treated anyone as well as I did you. I even fed you soup—”

The witch can’t finish her sentence because he swats her extra hard with the broom.

After beating the witch for a while, the broom suddenly vibrates and sparks out tiny stars. The patient stops to examine it, but the broom begins to jump up and down on its own. A few seconds later, it flies out of the witch’s house, bringing the patient along.

* * *

It is still night outside, and the moon has finally put back on its silvery gown. As the red veil is lifted, the forest appears less ominous than before. The animal kingdom is enjoying its peaceful rest when an earsplitting scream tears through the cold air and wakes every forest inhabitant from their sleep.

“Slow down, you dumbass broom!” yells a young male voice.

“Aah-oooooooh,” howl many wolves, responding to the sound.

“Hoooo hoooo hoooo,” say the owls.

“Uh…Crap.” The patient covers his mouth. He feels like he’s about to throw up.

He’s been riding on the broomstick for nearly half an hour, and it isn’t a pleasant flight. The magical broom has been flying in the pattern of a washing machine cycle and irregular zigzags.

His tormented flight eventually comes to an end when the stupid broom launches straight into the mighty trunk of an old Sierra redwood. The broom is instantly destroyed, and its rider free-falls. Luckily, the distance isn’t too high from the ground, and the patient is quick-witted and grabs any branches he can during his fall. He lands on a grassy field and miraculously survives.

The patient lies in the verdant meadow. He’s so beat up that he never wants to open his eyes again. Call him a loser for all he cares, but right now, he just wants to die and get everything over with. He wants to quit this hellhole world. He’s so tired of running. His body is so exhausted and in pain that it feels like someone is slowly clipping his skin with a pair of scissors.

“Mama,” he mumbles before slipping into unconsciousness.

* * *

About thirty minutes later, the shrill howling of wolves wakes the patient. After half an hour of undisturbed rest, his mood finally improves. His ears also stop buzzing as he can hear the gentle burbles of a stream somewhere extremely near to him. With joy, he sits up and sees a glistering stream only twenty feet away. But when he tries to stand up, he realizes both of his ankles are dislocated due to the fall. He won’t be able to walk.

The patient cusses and flops back to the ground. After several sessions of sulking, he finally crawls with his arms toward the stream. It is a difficult journey. By the time he reaches his destination, his forearms and hands are bruised and his ragged tunic is covered with dirt.

He examines the stream and takes a couple of sniffs to make sure nothing is unusual. Then, he greedily drinks the water like a dying man lost in the desert. He lets out a soft moan when the cold liquid flows down to his painfully parched throat.

He is splashing the water on his face when the burning pain shoots into his chest again. This time, it hurts so much that he has to clutch his chest tightly and pant for air. His ears ring, and sweat beads upon his skin. As the patient thinks he might experience a heart attack, something strange catches his attention. He doesn’t fathom what it is at first, but after carefully looking at the water, he realizes there is a reflection of someone in the stream.

The patient gasps and jolts backward. On the other side of the stream stands a tall figure of a man, hidden in the black shadow. The man doesn’t move or speak. He just stands still and stares at the patient.

The patient knows he is truly done this time. He can’t run or fight because he has no weapon to defend himself. And even if they get into a fight, he doubts he can win against this well-built dude—supposed this guy was a human, which is unlikely since what kind of daredevil human goes into the woods at this hour?

No sane human would, except for man-hunters and their unfortunate prey.

The mysterious man steps forward, and the loud ringing in the patient’s ears intensifies. The burning pain in his chest is also radiating throughout his body. The patient can’t see the face of the man approaching him as he is overtaken by darkness.

CHAPTER 4

RAVENLOCKS AND THE FAIRYTALE COTTAGE

The patient wakes up to the lively chirping sound of birds and the sweet scent of flowers. Upon opening his eyes, he finds himself lying in a clean, white bed in an unfamiliar bedroom. The room is of decent size, with a mahogany wooden floor, white walls, and nice furniture. There is a large vase of red roses on the nightstand beside his bed. Each blossom is vibrant and so perfect that he can’t help but lean in closer to sniff. Just as he has imagined, the fragrance is sweeter and much more intense than the regular roses from his old Earth.

Wait, this is not the time for this. The thought dashes through the patient’s mind, and his face becomes tense again. He stays put for a couple of seconds to sort his thoughts out. Next, he lifts the blanket and is relieved to see his legs are still attached to his body. He doesn’t feel pain anywhere, so that’s a good thing. Then he realizes he is wearing white, oversized pajamas instead of his tattered rag. A few disturbing notions pass through his head, but he shrugs them off. So what if someone changed his clothes for him when he was unconscious? Big deal! He’s not a girl, so what does he have to lose?

He feels good, alive and kicking, and totally not afraid of—The bedroom doorknob turns, and the patient freezes in the spot. His face blanches in anticipation of the person behind the door.

At last, the door opens, revealing a tall, drop-dead gorgeous young man with fair skin and black hair like a prince from a fairytale. He wears a white button-up shirt and a pair of neatly pressed khaki trousers.

The patient can tell the young man didn’t expect to see him awake by the initial dispirited look on his face. However, when their eyes meet, the patient can see the rapid transition from bleak to elation on the young man’s expression as he sprints toward his bedside. The patient’s heart leaps as he almost punches the guy in the face out of fear and self-defense, but the young man drops to his knees next to the bed and cries out, “You’re awake!”

Before the patient can say anything, the young man grabs both of his hands and plants a kiss on them. Then he rests his forehead on those hands and starts to ramble. “You were sleeping for so long without moving. I was so scared that you would never wake up again. Thank all the Holy Tathagatas, that was not the case, and you finally opened your eyes. You can’t imagine how terrified I was when I saw you lying motionless in bed. I’m so, SO grateful. I could gladly give away half of my life or my core to express my utmost gratitude for all the Holy Tathagatas that have finally heeded my prayers and returned you to me again!”

“I—” The patient opens his mouth, but the young man’s incessant monologue cuts him off. He repeats how ecstatic he is that the patient is awake, specifically thanking every deity out there, from major Gods to minor Gods to the holy spirits of every substance that ever existed in this world. Then he tells the patient the confusing story of his woeful life from a random middle part with zero backstory.

The patient’s head throbs. He is close to passing out the second time from trying to follow and understand this extremely unintelligible rambling. The young man suddenly asks, “How are you feeling now?!”

“I’m…fine…Thanks to…you?”

“I-I’m too overwhelmed to speak!” the young man cries and the patient’s eyebrows rise. But before the patient can say anything, the young man speaks again, “There are no words that can possibly describe how happy and grateful I am right now! Whenever I gaze upon your wondrous face, my heart flutters with indescribable feelings. How is that possible?!”

The patient blinks, then unconsciously touches his chest and finds it still flat as a board. For a moment, he thought he had died again and reincarnated as a beautiful woman. Thank God, it isn’t the case.

“Look, I—” the patient begins, but he is interrupted again. This time, the young man starts to singing praises to him.

The patient is so very confused. While he’s grateful he isn’t in a dirty dungeon or inside a beast’s belly, he doesn’t expect a scenario like this. Yesterday, he was in an unrated horror movie, and today, he is in a sappy soap opera…? What kind of Twilight Zone episode is this? Is he still in the same universe from the previous day? Or is he in heaven right now? Or is all of this some sort of grand evil scheme? Something like a nice country house with white walls in a magical forest, but the basement underneath is filled with bloody corpses and gruesome torture devices?

The patient regards the high-strung young man before him with great suspicion. However, the more he hears the young man blather about harmless things, the more his guard lowers, as this dude seems…genuine and doesn’t look like he is organizing a malicious scheme…

A couple of minutes pass, the young man finally finishes his incredibly lengthy word salad monologue, and the patient realizes it’s his turn to talk, but he can’t string any words together!

“Uh…um…I…” the patient splutters.

The young man still beams at him, his grin so wide and bright, like a happy sunflower of summer.

“Who are you, man?”

It was a simple question. But the moment it slips out of his mouth, the patient regrets asking it. The young man’s face changes from a happy spring to a dreaded winter. He now has a similar expression to a devoted wife hearing her husband declare he wants a divorce: pure shock, betrayal, and heartbreak.

“Hello?” The patient waves at the stunned man.

The young man snaps out of his shock. “W-What do you mean? Y-You don’t remember me? You don’t recognize me? Not even a little?”

The patient shakes his head. He can spiritually hear a cracking sound from the poor guy’s psyche. The young man no longer kneels straight but sits slumped on the floor. His face is so pale and breathless that he looks like he’s about to pass out.

“D-Do you want to lie down? I-I’ll give you the bed,” the patient stammers, genuinely concerned. He doesn’t notice there is another bed opposite his, partly because of the enormous rose vase blocking his view.

“Master! H-How could you not remember me?! I-I’m your Cyril! Please remember me!” (Pronounced Sigh-ral, not See-reel or—ugh—cereal.)

The patient looks at Cyril with pity. Whatever annoyance he has had earlier for Cyril’s babbling vanishes. The poor guy is so desperate, but the patient really doesn’t know him. He feels tempted to tell Cyril the truth that he isn’t from this world, but he isn’t ready for Cyril’s reaction or to be kicked out yet. At least not before he gets to eat something first.

“It’s a nice name you have. It suits you so well!” The patient tries to lighten up Cyril’s spirit, though he truly means it. Now that he has the chance to regard Cyril up close, he finally understands what the term out-of-this-world perfect mean. What an ethereally gorgeous man Cyril is! Heck! Even though the patient is a straight guy, he starts tingling upon gazing at this angelic face. Cyril’s thick, lustrous raven hair is akin to silk, his skin as fair as a pearl, and his big, tender eyes bluer than the morning ocean. Even when he dresses in a simple shirt, it can’t hide the defined outline of his sculpted muscles. If angels grace the Earth, this must be how they would look.

“Master, you gave me that name. I was picked on and ridiculed for being a nameless orphan. Then you chose the noblest name for me despite many objections and told me Cyril was a befitting name for me and not the other way around.”

This dude really won’t let him get a meal before kicking him out.

The patient takes a long, hard, and deep breath and then speaks to Cyril in a soft but serious voice. “Cyril, I am not your master. I’m nobody’s master. I might look like someone you knew, but I’m not him. And I don’t want to take advantage of you or trick you by pretending to be someone I am not.”

The patient expects a sobbing fit, but Cyril takes his words better than he has thought, albeit his face still looks like he is going to faint any minute.

The patient pauses to make sure he can catch Cyril if he drops. When Cyril doesn’t drop, the patient continues. “You were the man in the forest last night, right? Thank you for getting me out of that place. You can’t imagine what happened to me in the forest. You really saved my life. I’m so sorry for disappointing you. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, please let me know, and I’ll do it!”

The patient means it. To repay Cyril’s kindness, he can go as far as to fire walk for him—if Cyril ever requests him to.

Cyril says nothing but stares at him like a beaten, lost puppy, devastated and speechless. He makes the patient feel like the biggest piece of crap.

The patient turns away, as he can’t bear to look at Cyril’s forlorn face. He wonders what’s inside Cyril’s head right now. It is properly overwhelmed with grief and disappointment.

“Well, thank you again. I’m sorry…for everything.” The patient prays so hard for God not to smite him for unintentionally crushing his savior’s noble heart of glass. “I’ll take my leave now.”

“Where are you going?” Cyril grabs the patient’s hand when he sees him try to get off the bed.

“I-I don’t know,” the patient answers honestly.

“Then why do you want to leave?” Cyril’s blue eyes slightly narrow in confusion.

“Because I’m not the person you’re looking for, so I can’t stay here,” the patient replies, a little impatient. It is obvious to him, so he doesn’t understand why Cyril doesn’t get it.

Cyril’s eyebrow rises as he listens. Then he releases his grip from the patient’s hand and straightens his posture. “I apologize for being so rude and imposing on you. You’re right. It’s incredibly selfish and inconsiderate of me to keep asking you to remember me despite everything that happened. I beg you’ll pardon my impetuousness.”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize,” the patient says. He has a hunch Cyril still doesn’t get it. And his feeling is confirmed to be true when Cyril gives him a charming smile.

“You’ve always been so understanding to me, master.”

“Oh my God, I am NOT your master! Why don’t you get it? Please stop calling me master. I hate that word. It’s disturbing and demeaning as hell. Every human being is born equal!”

“Please don’t get mad, maste—eh. It’s kind of disrespectful for me to address you by your name. You really don’t mind if I’m on a first-name basis with you?”

“You don’t even know my name,” the patient says, frustrated.

“Of course I know your name.” Cyril is adamant.

“What’s my name, then?”

“Your name is Ilya,” Cyril responds firmly with no hesitation.

Well…the quickest way to shut Rumpelstiltskin up is to say his name right. The room instantly falls into silence as the table has turned.

“M-Master?” Cyril waves at the flabbergasted patient.

“Yes? What?”

“Are you alright?” Cyril looks worried. “Master…Ilya?”

“…Call me Eli,” the patient Eli requests. There’s a pause before he continues. “H-How do you know my name?” (Pronounced Eh-lee, not Ee-lie.)

How the hell does Cyril know his real name? Even his friends from his past life didn’t know about his Russian birth name, Ilya. They only knew him by his American name “Elijah,” or “Eli,” if they were his close friends.

“I told you I know you.” Cyril smiles, though it’s no longer cheery but laced with sadness. “You may not remember me, but I can never forget you.”

“Ever,” Cyril emphasizes. It’s only now that Eli notices red rings under both Cyril’s eyes, like he has been crying.

* * *

Eli sits dazed in bed. On the outside, he appears calm and serene, like a proud tuberose standing tall in the summer breeze. But inside his head, there is a thunderstorm of bewildered thoughts and numerous question marks flying in every direction. Their conversation came to a stop when his stomach embarrassingly rumbled like an alarm clock. The good-hearted lad then profusely apologized to him and left to get him food.

What a nice guy, Eli thinks.

The bedroom door swings open, and Cyril comes in with a wooden bed tray loaded with food. Eli thinks the kitchen is probably next door to the bedroom or something because Cyril left for about ten seconds max. The cheerful young man approaches Eli and puts the tray on his bed. There is a bowl of stew, a loaf of bread, a plate of colorful chopped salad, fried eggs in brown sauce, a plate of pink pastries, fruits, and tea.

“Wow.” Eli stares at the mini buffet before him and then at Cyril, who urges him to eat.

Eli takes the first bite and exclaims. “This is SO good!”

“Really? Please eat more, mas—Eli!” Cyril pulls a chair to sit next to Eli’s bed. “I still have a lot of food down in the kitchen.”

“Did you make all of this?” Eli asks him. Cyril smiles at him. Eli is extremely impressed and thinks a perfect human does exist after all.

After Eli is stuffed, he wants to clean up after himself, but Cyril beseeches him to stay in bed and insists on taking care of the dishes. Eli tells the good lad he can’t just sit around and do nothing. Cyril looks at him with wide-eyed. “What are you saying, Eli? Don’t you know both of your legs are broken?”

What the fudge? “They are?” Eli blinks.

Cyril puts the tray on a table next to a bay window and pulls off the blanket. Eli rolls up the hems of his pajama pants and sees long strips of white bandage densely wrapped from his ankles to below his knees.

“I didn’t notice because I don’t feel any pain,” Eli says.

“You’re sure they don’t hurt you at all?” Cyril looks deeply concerned.

“No, here. Let me show you,” Eli flicks at his left leg. “AHHHHHHH!”

“Ah, that’s normal then.” Cyril lets out a sigh of relief.

* * *

“I’m going to be disabled now, aren’t I?” Eli’s morose whimper is so low that it is barely audible.

“No, you’ll recover in a week!” Cyril says with absolute confidence.

“Are you sure? Are you a doctor?”

“No, but this type of injury isn’t severe enough to damage your legs permanently,” Cyril reassures Eli while holding the showerhead over Eli’s hair and assisting him to take a bath. “Don’t you worry, mas—Eli. Should you ever sustain any serious injury, I’ll give away my core if it’s the price to get you well and healthy.”

“What do you mean ‘core’? What does core mean?” Eli asks.

“My life.”

“Please, don’t ever do that,” Eli says in a serious voice.

Cyril says nothing but grins at him.

* * *

After Eli is done with the bath, Cyril leaves the bathroom momentarily to give Eli some privacy. He returns to get Eli after he finishes towel-drying himself and putting on a new set of pajamas in the bathtub. Eli pretends not to be bothered from being picked up and carried around princess-style by a man, as he tells himself it’s a nice and necessary gesture of help from Cyril the Angel. And there’s nothing gay about it.

When Cyrus walks past the bathroom mirror, Eli turns his head to peek at his reflection. Cyril sees it and steps back, holding Eli in front of the mirror so Eli can get a better look at himself.

“Thank you,” Eli mutters.

“My pleasure,” Cyril responds with a soft smile.

Eli has been excited to see his new face since the old witch told him he looked pretty. But now, as he is looking at the mirror, the reflection of this new face can’t be any more familiar. It’s exactly the same as his old face from his past life, with an addition of a few purple bruises and grazes here and there.

Well, wait…it’s actually the same face Eli had when he was sixteen or seventeen. So he is about six years younger in this life! That’s not too bad, he thinks.

“I’m done. Thanks a lot, Cyril,” Eli says and immediately feels embarrassed. He only knows Cyril for like…less than four hours, and he’s already dependent on him. That’s really bad.

“You always look so strikingly beautiful,” Cyril whispers.

“Excuse me?”

Cyril repeats, and Eli, despite his great effort not to hoot at his angel-like savior’s cheesy choice of words, slips out a dry “heh.” “You’re joking, right?”

“No. What do you mean, mas—Eli?” Cyril sounds genuinely astounded.

While Eli doesn’t think his appearance would hurt people’s eyes, he’s definitely sure his look will be nowhere near the “strikingly beautiful” term. If anything, those two words fit Cyril best.

“Never mind.” Eli shakes his head.

Cyril looks at him. “In my eyes, you will always be the most gorgeous person in the world. And despite what you’re thinking, I’m not being biased because you are my master, Eli. Anyone who met you before all agreed with me. In fact, back then, you were always the center of attention whenever you graced a room.”

“Cyril, you…are so nice.” Eli smiles crookedly. He has a really hard time believing Cyril’s words. Still, at the same time, he is truly moved by Cyril’s tremendous effort to compliment his worn-out, wet mouse of an appearance.

* * *

The bathroom and bedroom are upstairs, next to each other. Before Eli took his bath, Cyril had to unwrap the bandages on both his legs, so now, when they get back to the bedroom, Cyril has to help him put them back on again.

Cyril sits Eli down on a soft, cushioned bench by the bay window. Then, he kneels to apply new bandages to Eli’s legs. This time, Eli is wearing a new set of cream-colored summer pajamas with short sleeves and short pants to make it easier for Cyril to tend him.

Eli’s legs are purple and badly swollen. It must be the adrenaline kicking in that he felt no pain after falling from the witch’s broom. As Eli thinks about all the crazy things that happened to him yesterday, he can’t help but shudder at the thought of his fate if Cyril hadn’t shown up and taken him here. Eli doubts he will still be alive now.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Cyril notices Eli shivering.

“No, no. You didn’t. I just…”

“Yes?”

“I just want to thank you again,” Eli says. “Thank you for saving me last night, Cyril. If it wasn’t for you, I would probably be dead now. With my legs like this.”

Cyril’s expression turns grim as he listens to Eli. He lets out a long sigh and holds Eli’s hands. “I’m so sorry, Eli. I’m sorry I got to you too late. I don’t dare imagine what kind of horrible things happened to you. You will never know how much I despised myself when I saw your injuries after bringing you home. If only I paid attention, I would have gotten to you right when you woke up. You wouldn’t have to go through all of those horrors.”

“What?” Eli doesn’t understand Cyril’s apology or what he is saying. How is it Cyril’s fault? The way Cyril put it makes it sound like he could have prevented all the crazy things before they happened to Eli. But then that’s impossible because a normal person can’t predict the future, unless Cyril is the incarnation of God.

“But I assure you, Eli, that I will make…I will seek justice for you,” Cyril says, his quivering voice hard and solemn. “Those who laid their hands on you will be condemned for their hideous crimes. All of them.”

It’s probably the first time Eli hears Cyril speak in such a stern and authoritative voice that sends a chill down his spine, and he involuntarily nods his head like a kid acknowledging an adult’s words.

Eli doesn’t know what kind of face he makes, but it makes Cyril break into a chuckle. “Well, let the past be gone, and from now on, we’ll only focus on making the fullest and happiest memories together, yeah?” Cyril says in the most cheery and inspiring tone.

“Yeah!” Eli responds without thinking. But a second later, after he finally processed the whole meaning of Cyril’s words, he balks. “Wait, what?”

What does “making happy memories together” mean exactly?

Cyril then asks if Eli wants to take a tour of the house with him. Eli says yes because he is desperate to occupy his thoughts with something else besides analyzing everything Cyril has said. There is a shipload of red flags in almost every sentence, and if Eli dives deep into every word, he’s afraid he might jump out of the window and flee out of fear for his virgin butt.

With keen eagerness and joy, Cyril scoops Eli up into his arms. He even thoughtfully wraps Eli in a knitted throw blanket before carrying him princess-style out of the bedroom.

Cyril is very thorough and informative during the tour. He takes Eli to every room in the house, even the half bathroom downstairs. This place has no basement, so Eli’s fear of a bloody underground torture room is crossed out. During the tour, Eli also doesn’t spot any questionable items (like bloody butcher knives, voodoo dolls, human body parts, kinky items, S.O.S notes, etc.) that would shatter Cyril’s angel-like status. Thus, his trust and liking for Cyril are one notch higher.

The tour ends after thirty-five minutes. Now, one must be wondering how big of an estate this place is since it took about a quarter the time of a full tour of Buckingham Palace. Nope! This house is a small, one-bed, one-and-a-half-bath country home. The furniture is lovely but not gilded with gold or jewelry. So basically, this tour should only last ten minutes max instead of thirty-five. Consequently, after the tour finishes, Eli’s liking for Cyril is half a notch lower than before.

“So, what do you think about our house?” Cyril asks enthusiastically, still carrying Eli firm in his arms.

“Mega dope,” Eli mutters, trying to keep his eyelids open.

“Huh? What does ‘mega dope’ mean, mast—Eli?”

“It means da best house tour ever! So thorough, educational, and inspiring. Cyril, you are so good with words; you would make an excellent tour guide or a fantastic museum label writer.”

Ah, fudge! Why did I say that? I’m such a prick! Fortunately, his blatant sarcasm completely flies over Cyril’s head as the gorgeous lad blushes and is genuinely happy at that “compliment.”

“Now, let me show you the garden!”

“There’re more?!” Eli exclaims, appalled.

Cyril shows him the backyard first, and to Eli’s surprise, the garden is absolutely amazing. It looks like a classic landscape oil painting by old-school artists. Plush, green grass covers the entire garden, stretching into the endlessness of the faraway forest. It’s bordered by verdant boxwood hedges speckled with tiny purple flowers. Large bushes of white roses spiral along the two white oak posts of the patio. There are shrubs of various pastel flowers brimming from every edge of the yard. A grove of three beeches peacefully flanks the left of the house, and their cascading branches drift down to screen the white porch from the dull heat of the summer’s sun.

This time, Eli is excited for Cyril to give him a good description of all the flowers in the garden. But Cyril only says, “This is the backyard,” then walks inside.

“Wait, that’s it?” Eli looks at Cyril, surprised and disappointed. This dude spent at least ten minutes listing every mundane thing in each room, yet he has no comments about this world-class garden?!

“You want to stay outside?” Cyril turns his heel back to the yard.

“I thought you would say something more.”

Cyril stares at the garden with deep, musing eyes, then says, “There are white and yellow flowers on the green grass, three trees. Ah, no, five trees. Green leafy fence.”

* * *

Cyril carries Eli to the front porch. If the backyard were an oil canvas, the front yard would be straight out of a fairytale. Exuberant bushes of red and white roses climb the posts and railing of the deck and remind Eli of the fairytale “Snow White and Rose Red.” Eli is admiring the view of the enchanted garden when Cyril suddenly strides down the porch and heads out of the garden.

“W-Where are you going, man?” Eli asks, startled.

Cyril holds him five feet away from the front gate and says, “I want to show you how our house looks from the outside! And here it is!”

“Ah, gotcha!” Eli views the house. “Oh, my!”

What a beautiful house Cyril has! A true fairytale cottage with white walls and green gable roofs nestles in an enchanted forest. Eli’s heart flutters with child-like joy just from looking at the adorable house and its dreamy scenery.

They spend a couple of minutes outside before heading back to the house. But when Cyril is about to approach the main door, Eli stops him.

“Hey, hold on. Let me walk by myself through the door.”

“Huh? Why? Your legs are—”

“Yes, I know both my legs are wrecked. But I’m not ready to have you carry me over the threshold yet, man! We know each other for, like, what? Less than six hours,” Eli says.

“What is a threshold?”

“Oh, it’s a doorsill.”

“Doorsill?”

“It’s a piece of wood usually at the bottom of a door,” Eli explains, pointing at the white threshold of the main door.

“Ah, I always learn new things whenever I’m with you, maste—Eli!” Cyril grins. “Threshold. Doorsill. Mega dope.”

“You’re welcome.” Eli cracks up, then frowns. “And please forget about the last word.”

“Every word you say is engraved deep in my heart,” Cyril states firmly.

“Man, you’re so dramatic.”

“But it’s true!” Cyril remarks, looking very sincere.

“Alright, I believe you.” Eli chuckles and gives Cyril a friendly pat on his firm chest.

“I have a question, though. Why can’t I carry you over the threshold?”

“Because…Cyril, let’s just forget all of this, okay? Let’s go inside.”

“Do you want me to help you walk in?”

“No, too complicated. Let’s just go in the same way we went out.”

“As you wish, maste—Eli!” Cyril chirps.

While busy talking, they didn’t notice a small, sneaky green toad chilling by the flower bucket next to the door. When Cyril walks toward the entrance, he steps on the little “gift” the toad left on his white wooden porch—a pile of slimy saliva. As a result, he skids and trips over the threshold, falling face-first to the floor alongside Eli.

“Ahhhhh!” Eli screams as both his fractured knees smash onto the hardwood floor.

“Oh, no, no, no! Eli!” Cyril picks up himself and rushes toward Eli. But the toad’s saliva is still on his shoes, and thus, he slips the second time and falls on top of Eli, smashing Eli’s left cheek against the floor.

During his second fall, Cyril also hit the console table by the stairs, causing the glass vase to wobble.

Luckily, Cyril manages to catch the vase before it drops on Eli’s head. However, he grabs it upside down, and thus, Eli receives all the water and flowers on his newly washed hair and face.

And that concludes the tour of Cyril’s little fairytale cottage in the woods…

✨ THANK YOU FOR READING! ✨

You’ve just reached the end of the first four chapters of Hereafter 1

…and this is only the beginning.

What’s next? A midsummer witch. An evil butcher. A diaper-wearing bunny. And one overly attached himbo with terrifying efficiency.

If you enjoyed Eli’s snark and Cyril’s unhinged loyalty, preorder the full novel now to keep up with their chaotic, otherworldly journey.

Available July 1, 2025

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