Before I start, I know I’ll catch some flack, so I’ll be upfront: I was married when I fell in love with my then-engaged coworker. This is the story of how that happened. But I’m here at r/nosleep for a reason: this is not just a tale of forbidden love. You see, fate placed Will and me together in the Weston Rare Books Archive—and I’m finally ready to talk about it.
Though I had only been at the Archive two months longer than Will, I was his assigned tour guide for his first day. Our boss, Carl, introduced us at the front door and when I smiled, Will’s lips curled in kind. I was not immediately overcome with love. His attributes—though appealing—weren’t uncommon: dark hair, dark eyes, strong shoulders. Probably his most striking feature were his full and brooding lashes. But there was, from that first grin, a pull so subtle, so instinctual, that I could not deny it; I could not, at first, even recognize it.
“Will, I presume,” I said, reaching out my hand. “Welcome. I’m Allie.”
Will took my hand in his. “A pleasure.”
“That’s what you think now,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I’ll take your report at the end of the day.”
“Try not to scare off my new recruit,” said Carl.
“Come on,” I said. “If he’s not scared off by the Weston Archives, what could I do?”
Carl only shook his head. “The natural can strike more terror in the hearts of man than anything supernatural.”
“Only if you don’t believe the supernatural exists,” said Will—and I knew we would get along just fine.
Carl patted Will on the shoulder. “Good luck, kid. I’ll see you at the end of the day.”
When Carl was out of sight, Will turned to me. “What did that mean?”
“Just a touch base. Maybe an opportunity to finish some paperwork,” I said.
“No: the supernatural?”
A grin spread over my face. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Don’t know? What, is this place haunted or something?”
“Come along, young Will,” I said, although he was certainly in his early thirties like me. “Have we got a tour in store for you.”
The Weston Rare Books Archive is practically a wizard’s abode. Constructed without windows, its diffuse light instead shines through thin-sliced marble sheets. From the outside, it looks like an ivory tower. From the inside, its warm glow has an otherworldly aura. All to protect its beating heart: a glass-encased library that runs from the first to the thirteenth floors. But its builder’s passion was not limited to books.
“What can you tell me about Maxwell Weston?” I asked, as we climbed the staircase.
Will scrunched his brows, twisting his lips. “He was a dentist from Massachusetts. Born what? 1815? Famous for helping to introduce nitrous oxide to the medical community.”
“Extremely factual. You’ve done your research.”
“Then why do I feel like there’s more?”
I grinned. “This is the first level of books, dedicated to science texts. As a dentist during the Industrial Revolution, science—biology, anatomy, chemistry—they were Weston’s first love.”
We passed through the glass double-doors into the stacks of shelves. The texts were worn, torn—but not dusty. Will wandered the stacks with a bland interest, his eyes running along their spines, quietly noting titles. He jerked to a halt when he rounded the final corner.
I grinned. “As I said: anatomy—human anatomy—was Maxwell Weston’s first passion.”
There on the shelves in front of us were jars of internal organs scavenged from people who lived almost two hundred years ago. In one jar, the dead eyes of a preserved human head stared back at us: a woman who’d been undoubtedly pretty, who’d died in her thirties.
Will couldn’t take his eyes off the yellowed face bobbing in formaldehyde, ready to awaken in terror at what had become of her.
“What the fuck-” he gasped.
“That,” I said, “is the head of Edna Barrows—the last woman subject of Weston’s famous ‘ether frolics.’”
“Ether frolics, right,” said Will, struggling to regain his composure. “That’s that thing-” He stammered over his words. “That’s how they introduced nitrous oxide to the world. They’d rent a theater, sell tickets, get a subject high out of their minds on nitrous, and entertain the crowds.”
“Right; all five of the early anesthetic adopters did that, Horace Wells, Crawford Long—it’s how Maxwell Weston raised his fortune. How he funded building this place. But Weston went a step beyond even that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on,” I said, motioning toward the back of the room. “Let’s take the elevator. We should head up to the thirteenth floor.”
Will boarded the elevator—a rickety, caged box that squeaked as it ascended—and passed a sideways glance at me. “You’re being awfully withholding.”
“I just think it makes a better story this way; but I could just write you an essay, I suppose.”
He smiled. “I like a little mystery.”
“So did Maxwell Weston,” I said. “Not just your mundane, whodunnit-style mysteries, either. He was obsessed with the higher mysteries of the universe: the darker mysteries.”
“A strange passion for a man of science.”
I mulled the thought over for a moment. “Not really. Not when current science is inadequate to explain all the world’s mysteries. It makes sense that a curious mind might start to wander into-” I hesitated for a moment.
“Into the shadows left unilluminated,” said Will.
“The shadows left unilluminated,” I repeated. “A poetic way of putting it. Do you write?”
Will startled at my guess. “Gave it away that quickly? Am I that transparent?”
“You’re at the Rare Books Archive,” I said. “Something about the place draws in writers like you and me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a writer,” he said. “I’ve only published one short story.”
I grinned, catching his gaze. “If you write, then you’re a writer. Own it. Claim your stake. Be brave.”
Looking in his face, at the warmth that rippled across his expression, I felt a little blossom in my heart: a bloom of chemistry. We stood there, a timeless moment, until the elevator ratcheted to a stop. Even then, neither wanted to make the first move. My lips twitched into a smile, though, and the moment passed. I swung the gate open and we stepped onto the Archive’s thirteenth floor.
“You see,” I said, resuming my tour guide tempo, “Maxwell Weston was a firm believer in the occult.”
Will’s eyes scanned the room. Hand-written books in leather-bound volumes lined the shelves. He pulled one that seemed to call for him—but crinkled his forehead when the words inside proved indecipherable. It took him a moment to realize that he was not the victim of incredibly poor penmanship.
“It’s written in code?” he asked.
“Most of them are,” I said. “And though the Archive has, historically, had team members dedicated to unlocking such codes, we’ve proven unlucky.”
“Why have I never heard of this before?” asked Will, pulling another book from the shelf. “If the Voynich manuscript is so famous, why not a whole collection of them?”
“Well, for one: this level isn’t open to the public. For two: Weston’s got a dodgy reputation, if you step outside of his known vocation.”
I motioned Will over to another room, flipping on a light switch. This room had been little changed since the 1800s. In its center was an oiled-wood work bench, with tools and equipment still out, as though Weston might walk in at any moment and get to work. Lining its walls were wooden shelves stocked with jars filled with dried herbs and dark goops.
“Don’t tell me that another face will be staring at me from here,” said Will.
“No. Well, nothing human. Not that we know of.”
Will paused a beat, the implication hanging in the air. “That we know of?”
“Well, Weston was known to mix his medicinal gases with folk herbs, tinctures, ointments—potions, really—learned from local, anonymous witches. To this day, we don’t know exactly what he used. Some of them have been so altered through the passage of time—or unknown processes—that their composition still remains a mystery.”
Will eyed one dark compound after another.
“During his ether frolics, he’d take stage with a wand and call, by names that audiences could never remember, on spirits to illuminate the room, to entrance his subjects, to snuff or light distant candles. And then,” I said, lowering my tone, leaning in toward Will, whose eyes shifted from the glass in front of him down to my own, “he’d carve runes into the skin of his subjects—etchings that would without fail disappear by the night’s end, leaving not a scar.”
Will’s face bugged as he struggled to recover. “Sounds like a charlatan. Those subjects must’ve been plants—in on the show. Why would anyone let a showman cut real and bleeding wounds into their skin?”
“Because,” I said, my voice still low, my expression stern, “Maxwell Weston got results.”
After a moment, I laughed and pulled away. “Whether it was love or grief, vengeance or justice, health or wealth, if Maxwell Weston deemed your case a worthy cause, his spells could cast miracles. In at least one account, Maxwell carved the rune dagaz into a man’s forehead, just at his third eye. Blood ran down his face, first red, and then black and smoking, before finally dissipating in a white mist. By the evening’s end, the wound was healed and the man could see again.”
“And this was confirmed?” asked Will.
“By third party accounts.”
Will twisted his lips. “Well, maybe it was just aphantasia—you know: mental blindness. Maybe they always could see, they just needed a placebo that made them believe that they could.”
“Maybe. But still: it makes you wonder.”
“Yeah but you’d think that with such power, Weston would’ve been viewed as Christ come again. Instead he got that dodgy reputation. There’s got to be more to the story.”
“Oh, there is,” I confirmed. “Maxwell Weston was not a purely benevolent force, as people never are. And it’s women who were the most frequent examples of that—so of course it was ignored.”
“What, was he, like, a creep?”
“That and more,” I said. “You know that head downstairs? Edna Barrows?”
Will nodded.
“Well, she had come to Maxwell Weston with troubles of her own—as his subjects always did. Impregnated by a man betrothed to another, she begged to bind her former lover to her in vows of holy matrimony. The audience jeered at her, calling her a harlot. But Maxwell cast a protective circle around Edna with his typical showmanship, mixed together a poultice of unknown agents, lit it on fire, and let the smoke fill the room. The audience started to cough, their eyes filled with tears. Weston beckoned the audience to take in the smoke, to fill their chests, to understand the carnal nature of a treacherous heart. Then he placed a mask around Edna’s face, instructing her to inhale.”
“He sounds pretty solid so far,” said Will. “Taking her side over the audience’s.”
“Perhaps—at first—but when Edna was thoroughly incapacitated, Weston took a dagger and cut open her bodice, baring her chest to the entire audience. The small swell of her belly was just visible. And then, with the same dagger, he carved nauthiz—need, necessity, constraint—across her chest. He dug his dagger in so deeply that the layers of flesh beneath glistened white before bubbling with blood. A scream sounded across the theater—some say in Edna’s voice. And then Weston plunged his hand into the gaping wound and pulled out her still-beating heart.”
Will paled, leaning against the workbench. I cut in closer.
“Weston whispered incantations, etched the heart with unknown symbols, and ate it, raw and wet.”
Will took in a sharp breath of air. “So he killed her? Pickled her head?”
“No. He laid his palm across her chest. The lights flickered. And then the wound was healed. Edna awoke, not a scar in sight, and did, indeed, marry the father of her child—though it is said that she was forever altered. Cold to the touch. Pale even through blazing summers. Expressionless. Her child, a girl, fared no better. But since no one could breathe without a heart—let alone walk—nothing substantial ever came of this case. Still, Weston was scandalized for the increasing gruesomeness of his shows. He took his money and built this place: an archive, lab, and theater in one. His ether frolics became private events. When Edna Barrows died eight years later, Weston claimed her body for science—a privilege granted by the waiver she signed to be in his show—and, well, her head floats here to this day.”
“Sounds like nitrous, and whatever he mixed it with, was a hell of a drug,” said Will.
“Yeah,” I said. “But the weird part is that when Weston and his assistants opened Edna’s chest for the autopsy, no heart was found within.”
Will flattened his brow. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
“Not even a little,” I said. “The record’s here, in this room. We can look it up for you, if you want. But I suppose the records could be fucking with us both—and everyone else, at that. Maybe Weston really was just a great charlatan, trolling us from beyond the grave.”
And that was the start of my relationship with Will: a friendly camaraderie between he, the skeptic, and me, the storyteller. After that first day, we joked, told each other stories, swapped writing projects, and offered critiques. There were days when we’d stand in the stacks for hours just talking. Tellingly, neither of us mentioned our respective partners for over a week.
It’s not so much that I wanted to hide my marriage—my wedding band was on my left ring finger where it should’ve been—but the thought of another person was just vacant from my mind when Will was in front of me. When we spoke, he and I were all that existed—all that mattered. I know it sounds selfish, but I really can’t condemn myself for it. Not when my marriage was falling apart. Not when I felt so uneasy at home. Not when I was finally learning a new vocabulary for my ex-husband Mark’s rage and secret spending: abuse.
Mark had always had a bad temper. He’d scream and shout, smash my things, punch holes into walls—I found out later that even his friends called him “Kylo Ren” behind his back. He’d even grabbed me by the throat one dark night. He’d cornered me in our hallway on another night. And I still didn’t leave. Didn’t imagine leaving. The final straw was one morning when I tried to talk with him about a story I was writing. When he snapped at me about how he was too busy to hear my yammering, I realized that our marriage was dead. And then I went to work and spent half the day talking with Will, never tiring of his company.
I cried that evening once settled in my car; I cried the entire commute. I was leaving a place—no, a presence—where I felt so at home to go to my actual home that was becoming increasingly foreign to me. And for what? For a promise I’d made when I was twenty-two?
A week after Mark’s explosion, I moved into our guest room and started planning my divorce. Will was the first coworker I told.
The day after my move, I was weary at my soul—and Will knew immediately. Instinctively.
At the end of the day, we lingered in the parking lot as usual; somehow we’d slipped into the habit of long conversations, neither wanting to depart. This time, Will looked at me with earnest eyes.
“Do you want to come over?” he asked. “It looks like you need someone to talk to.”
“No,” I said, color growing in my cheeks. “That’s the last thing Gina would want to come home to: you comforting a crying woman.”
“She’d understand,” he said. “It’s my night to cook. I can prep dinner and you can tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. It’s just-” The tears bit at my eyes now. “I don’t think Mark and I are going to make it.”
Will’s brow quirked. “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure you guys can fix it. You’re great and he seems like a cool guy-”
“No,” I cut in. “I don’t want to fix it. I want this to be done. I just feel like a fool that it’s lasted so long.”
Suddenly the dam burst, and I told him about the violent flare-ups, the vicious insults, the narrowing of options. “I can’t stay with him and trust myself,” I said.
Will approached me with open arms and an open heart. When he held me that night, I felt his arms snap me back into place. I had never felt so filled, so complete in my life.
This is it, I thought. This is what people spend their whole lives waiting for.
Yet he was engaged. So I swallowed my love as best as I could. His fiancée, Gina, was a nice enough girl. But they were not the same kind of people. Her friends were not his friends. Her interests were not his interests. And the real kicker was, of course, children.
Not long after, we stood on the fourth floor of the Archive, pulling children’s books for a new, upcoming exhibit. Will looked down at one, his countenance cracking. “I really want to be a dad.”
“Well, good thing you’re getting married,” I grinned.
He raised his eyebrows, his eyes dark, his mouth downturned. “Gina doesn’t want any kids.”
I was lost for words. I watched him, wounded and lonely. “I always thought I didn’t want any either,” I said. “Mark and I both. Now I think I was just afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” he asked.
“That I, the individual, wouldn’t survive it,” I said. “That I’d die and just become someone’s mom.”
“Gina feels like that, too,” he confessed, and my heart broke for him that instant.
The words that followed had been dwelling in my chest for months, pouring out of me before I could think of the implications. “But now I think with the right partner—someone who makes me feel like my best self, someone who reflects my favorite version of me back through his eyes—maybe I could survive it. Maybe I even want it.”
His eyes met mine. I held my breath. “Well, I think you’d make a good mom. And I’d make a good dad.”
A bubble of chemistry enveloped us both. Our lips curled up. Our gazes locked. And a loud bang startled us both out of our stupor.
A book at the end of the shelf had fallen all on its own. When we approached to pick it up, the whole shelf emptied itself, books flinging themselves to the ground. The first was titled, You Better Watch Out—an obscure retelling of Little Red Riding Hood.
From then on, strange little occurrences seemed to follow Will and me. Falling books, rattling jars, the eyes of Edna Barrows drifting in our direction as we crossed the room. But we didn’t care. We were falling ever deeper in love. That love made us feel invulnerable. Until one day, Will came to work, seething a dour sobriety.
I tried my best to be cheerful, trying not to reach too deeply—to stay in my lane because he had a fiancée. It wasn’t until our then-weekly boba run that Will started talking about the issue plaguing him: “Gina’s been with me through so much. I’d just kill myself if I ever cheated on her.”
The implication was clear. “Got it,” I said. “I’d never want you to cheat.”
He rambled a bit about how good she was to him, how selfless, how he’s the selfish one, and how he needed to value her more. All I could think was that no healthy relationship should make you feel selfish. That when two people are so incompatible, they’ll always be making concessions that one or the other will resent. I tread lightly, but I burned to speak the truth in my heart. Me, it said. Be with me.
Still, my ambivalent response set him on edge and Will became all the more awkward—ashamed and sorry that he’d implied my intentions were less than noble, nervous that he’d revealed too much of his feelings, uncertain about what my own were.
So, after two weeks of hand-wringing, I finally told him: “Will, I like and respect you too much to use you to end my marriage and I like and respect myself too much to be a side chick. I figured that if anything were ever going to happen between us, we’d both be single—and unless that happened, there was no reason to talk about it.”
A torrent erupted from there. Declarations. Backpedaling. Torn feelings. Late night conversations. Long embraces that made time stand still.
And then: “Allie: I can’t keep falling in love with you.”
My heart broke. But I didn’t let that affect my course. I moved out of the house. Got myself an apartment. Pursued a divorce.
And just like that, the strange occurrences that had followed us through the Archive stopped—as did our conversations. Will grew cold to me, but looked at me with longing eyes. My heart twisted, ached, and broke every day—especially when I heard Will talk about his wedding or his fiancée. But books stopped flying. Jars stopped rattling. It was only in its absence that I noticed how strange the phenomena had been.
The summer solstice was quickly approaching, and with it our Annual Summer Séance: a fundraiser popular with our donors. Each year, we’d invite some of our VIPs, ready one of Weston’s many theater spaces on the thirteenth floor, gather occult relics, and contact spirits of the dead. This would be my first one; the general excitement was enough to breathe a little life back into my shattered heart.
Of course, it meant that Will and I had to work ever closer together.
We tried our best to divide the work so that we wouldn’t need to see each other too much—but that alone tore me to bits. The chemistry between us burned within me. I so wanted to wrap my arms around him again, to pull him close, to hold him. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, to smell his musk. But he’s engaged, I told myself. He told you where he stands.
In truth, though, I think I just lacked courage. Conviction. I didn’t value myself; didn’t see my love as worthy. Gina might’ve been a nice woman, a pleasant partner, but she wasn’t for Will. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty for wanting a home or children. He shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting her to read his writing, or watch a movie with him. He’d found a good, safe partner when he was twenty-two, but now they’d outgrown each other. There was no reason to stay stuck and unhappy.
And they were unhappy. His eyes told the truth, and even his lips occasionally. He spoke often about a pervading sense of purposelessness, meaninglessness. How he’d been stuck for years in a mire of depression and didn’t know how to get out. He’d longed for friends—but they were all hers. He’d longed for companionship—but she liked different things. He’d longed for children—but she didn’t want any. Why did he stay? Why was he so afraid to leave?
The words tore at my throat, waiting to unleash: “Will, if you’ve been unhappy for eight years, then something needs to change. Something big.”
But I didn’t think it was my place to say it. I didn’t even think he’d listen if I did.
The day of the séance came. Will and I were together in the theater, laying out poppets, potions, and tarot cards. When his eyes brushed in my direction, I smiled—but he turned coldly away. When he dropped a little woven poppet, I leaned down to pick it up—and he did, too. Our fingers brushed.
They connected.
They entwined.
“Will,” I said, standing upright, not letting go of his fingers. He looked down at me—and for the first time, I realized that his eyes were not cold: they were sad. He’d been sad—heartbroken—too. “Please.”
His thumb stroked mine gently before trying to pulling away. I held tight.
“I’m going to regret this if I never say it, Will: I love you. I do.”
His brows furrowed, his lips twisted. “I-”
And the jars of potions and herbs and poultices began to rattle so intensely that it rang in our ears like a storm in a crystal shop. Will snatched his hand away from mine, folding his body over me. Glass shattered, flying about the room. Dark, tarry goops seeped from cracks, flowing down the shelves in rivers. A cold wind rushed past us, carrying the taste of ash and rot. Through it all, Will held me close, telling me that it would be alright. That I would be alright. That he was there and nothing would hurt me.
The chaos spun around us for what felt like an eternity—but less than a minute had passed by the time it stopped. The room was a mess. And Will’s face was huddled so close beside mine.
A chemical instruction passed between us.
Our lips met.
And I knew then and there that I’d never really known what love was—not before this.
When we broke apart, his face was pale. He stumbled backward.
“What happened here?” boomed a voice. Will and I turned to the doorway. Carl stood, taking in the scene.
Will and I simply stood, gaping, shaking our heads.
“You know, they have hotel rooms for this sort of thing,” said Carl. He seemed to delight in the embarrassment that passed between Will and me, gleeful as our cheeks reddened, our eyes widened, our voices raised to say, “No, no, nothing like that.”
“I’m just fucking around,” said Carl. “This is the night of the séance, after all. Weird things always happen on days like this.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Jars go flying. Books hurtle off of shelves. And people, too: they sneak around, fornicate; they’ll fuck right on the workbench if you’re not careful.”
All of this was so strange coming out of Carl’s mouth. Carl, who’d been generally kind, if not faultlessly professional. I was too shocked for words—by Carl’s attitude, by the freak chaos that had broken out, but most of all by Will’s kiss.
“I think you’re taking it a little far, Carl,” said Will.
“Am I?” asked Carl.
“Yeah,” he said, his tone flat. He gestured to his shirt, saturated with unknown chemicals. “I have to go home. I’ll be back before the séance.”
“See you then,” said Carl. “And with a better attitude, I hope.”
I was already trying to make myself busy; trying to distract myself from the day’s drama with a broom in hand. But Carl came and took it from me.
“You go and get ready, too,” said Carl. “I’ll take care of the room. A little bit of chaos will add to the effect.”
I nodded and turned to leave, before Carl’s voice came after me again: “Oh, and Allie? We wear white to the séances. Dress appropriately.”
I drove home, my hands cold against the padding of my steering wheel. Falling books were one thing; a storm of witch’s brew was quite another. I thought about the swirling glass, the howling wind, the piercing crackles—and Will’s chest against my back, his face beside mine, his gentle voice telling me not to worry, that he’ll protect me. I thought about his lips on mine. His tongue.
But no. I had to drive. I had to shower and change and get myself back there. I had a job to do and I couldn’t let thoughts of a boy distract me from it. Thoughts of a ghost, perhaps; but maybe I’d get answers when I returned. Maybe it was all a prank by Carl—a way to set the stage. Maybe the Summer Séance was just one more opportunity for Maxwell Weston, or someone in his name, to play charlatan—to play a trick on the unsuspecting.
I clung to rationality like an ice pick, the only thing saving me from a perilous abyss below.
When I returned in my white cotton dress, it was nearing sunset. The ivory tower seemed aglow in the day’s final rays of sunlight. It bespoke an eerie power. Although I loved playing the storyteller, basked in the lore of Maxwell Weston and Edna Barrows, I’d never, at my heart, been particularly superstitious—not even particularly spiritual. But as I gazed at the tower, a prickling sensation played at the back of my neck; a new certainty clawed at my gut.
You Better Watch Out.
That book, fallen from the shelf, sprang to mind. The image of the wolf in grandma’s clothing streaked across my vision—and the axeman who cut the wolf open, delivering young Red out like a newborn child. I thought, too, about what had made that version of Little Red Riding Hood so bizarre: at the end, it was discovered that the wolf was a mother, looking for sustenance to feed her hungry pups. In an act of so-called mercy, the axemen found the pups and slaughtered them each in short order. Then, when Red and the axeman wed, each pup was worked into a wedding dish. And instead of exchanging goblets of wine or slices of cake, they took turns eating the mother-wolf’s still-beating heart.
It was a gruesome tale and it felt more than ever like a warning. But I saw Will’s car in the parking lot and knew that if he was in there, I belonged there, too. I had to speak to him. I had to tell him the truth that was in my heart: I love you, it sang. Let’s be family. Let’s have a family.
There was no more waiting. I would do it that night.
As I entered the building, an eerie silence seemed to whisper hush. All the room fell still. I turned the key for the elevator—but nothing happened. After waiting a moment, I decided to take the back stairs.
When I climbed the first set, a subtle whisper seemed to call my name. I stepped through the threshold into the anatomical collection. And there the head of Edna Barrows drifted. I let out a sigh, feeling like a fool—when her eyes drifted in my direction, snapping to meet my gaze.
Go, she seemed to say. Go.
Every instinct in my body begged me to listen. But Will was here. I had to see him. His presence pulled at me like a magnet. I continued my climb up the eleven remaining flights of stairs—pausing only briefly at the fourth floor, where a gilded title glinted at me in the pale light: You Better Watch Out—until I reached the thirteenth floor.
As I approached the stair landing, I heard murmuring from dozens of voices—all male. I realized, then, that the donors must’ve arrived. I wondered how I’d missed their cars in the parking lot, quickening my pace for the final few steps, anxious, now, that I’d been late. But when I entered the foyer, all I saw were men: donors in black suits, with black shirts and black ties. And I, a youngish woman in my flowy white dress, stuck out like a candle in a cornfield.
I passed through the crowd, nodding a greeting to each. Had Carl misspoken? I certainly hadn’t misheard him. “We wear white,” he’d said. “Dress appropriately.”
My gut was absolutely screeching at me to leave. Whether Will was here or not, this—along with the strange occurrences through the day, through the year—was just too much. I turned on my heel, ready to head for the stairs—but Carl stood directly behind me.
He placed his hand on my shoulder, turning me around. “Don’t worry about any supply runs. We have everything we need.”
“Actually, no,” I said. “I forgot something in my car. I was going to go get it-”
“Well, then,” said Carl. “Let’s go get Will to escort you. It’s getting dark out there. I’d feel much safer if you had a strapping young man around out there at night.” He pulled me along a few paces before raising his head and calling, “Will!”
My eyes snapped ahead, trying to find where he’d been looking, scanning the crowd for that familiar form: dark hair, dark eyes, strong shoulders. But I only saw the faces of strangers in a sea of onyx.
“I’m sorry if I’m not dressed appropriately,” I said. “I could’ve sworn you said white.”
“I did,” said Carl. “Black for the men. White for the ladies. But you know: you’re the first woman to participate in one of these since old Edna Barrows.”
My body stiffened at that suggestion. Carl tried to keep pulling me along, but now I froze in place.
“What’s wrong?” asked Carl. “Feeling superstitious?”
“Where’s Will?” I asked, my voice firm.
“Don’t worry,” said Carl. “He’s safe, near-by.”
“Why am I here?” I demanded.
The anonymous men crowded around me, opening the door to the lab where the cacophony had happened. When I peered inside, I could see that chaos remained; tarry liquids and broken glass scarred the room. Then men donned hoods as they walked inside.
Now I did more than refuse to move: I ducked from Carl’s hand and twirled away, making a break for the stairwell, the elevator, any exit I could take—but the donors surrounded me now, clutching at my shoulders, my hair, my white dress.
“Get out of here!” I heard someone yell. “Allie! Run!”
It was Will, from some distant place.
“Will?” I shouted his name. “Will, where are you?”
“That’s right,” said Carl. “Call to your lover. Your lover engaged to another, while you yourself are a married woman. Call to him. Because Maxwell Weston still hungers for the heart of a treacherous woman.”
With that, the men grabbed me, hoisting me up onto their shoulders. I kicked, I screamed, I clawed at hair, ears, eyes. I hurled myself to the ground—only to be caught by six waiting arms; only to find strong arms wrap around my own, across my chest, holding me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe.
They brought me into the workroom. I continued to kick, to bite, the struggle—even as they bound me with a black silk cord; even as they laid me on the table still littered with muck and shattered glass. All the while, Will continued to shout for me; to shout curses at the other men; to bang against whatever wall he was trapped behind.
A man in a mask stood before me; I could tell by the barrel-bellied form that it was Carl. In one hand was a tinderbox, in the other was a jar with a black compound. He lit it on fire and smoke began to fill the room.
I continued to wriggle—and a secret delight welled in my chest when I found that my hands had loosened their bonds enough to slip through when the opportunity presented. But the men still surrounded me, their hands pressed down on my shoulder. The room housed at least a dozen of them, maybe two. I’d need to wait for just the right time.
Carl approached, a gas mask in his hand. Dread filled me. I struggled all the more, biting at the air when I couldn’t bite his flesh. But in moments, he had the mask secure around my head.
I held my breath.
“Don’t be such a child,” said Carl. “You can’t hold your breath forever. You’ll need to inhale at some point.”
But I held it still.
I held it until my lungs hurt, until my vision darkened, until my body ignored my conscious decision and air—or nitrous oxide—seeped passively into my nose, my lungs even against my wishes.
The lights flickered. The room distorted. I could see the men behind the hoods; see their inhuman faces. Vicious. Hungry. Howling. They were ghouls and I was their prey.
“Let me go!” Will’s voice broke through to me, close now. Through my haze, I saw his form before me. He was bound, dragged along by two other men, thrown to the ground on his knees. He looked up at me and gasped, “Allie.”
Then a voice, warm and feminine, whispered to me, “Don’t breathe in anymore.”
In my stupor, I held my breath.
The men, satisfied that I was subdued, turned away. They began to mix tonics, scraping oozing black goo from the shelves into shot glasses, drinking unknown compounds.
“Now’s your chance,” said the voice. “Go.”
With that, I felt the silk cord fall away from my wrist. I pulled the mask from my face—and nearly fell on my face to the ground. But a force suspended me, lifting me down as though guiding a child down a step. Will gaped at me.
“Your feet,” the voice whispered.
I knelt down and unbound my feet. Still unsteady, I crawled next to Will. I worked on the knots at his wrists, struggling against the intoxicating effect of the nitrous. As soon as his hands were free, he unknotted his feet, far more nimbly than I could.
“Can you walk?” he whispered.
I nodded, but lurched when I tried to stand.
“Isn’t that cute?” said a voice. “They’re trying to get away.”
They men stopped their revelry and turned to face us, replacing the hoods over their heads and closing in around us even as Will and I struggled toward the stairs.
“Maxwell Weston still hungers for the heart of a treacherous woman,” said Carl, his voice unaltered. He pulled a dagger from his pocket, its blade glinting in the candle light.
As the crowd drew closer, Will and I struggled to stay upright, edging backward toward the stairs.
“I love you, Allie,” said Will, hazarding a glance at me. “I just wanted to say it this one time. I’m in love with you. I went home to end things with Gina. To tell her that I want to be with you.”
My heart stilled. I pulled ever closer against his body—warm and solid and so, so right.
“I’m in love with you, too,” I said.
And then Will hurled me toward the stairs.
It was a useless gesture, and he must have known that, but hope is a wild thing. I slid down several steps, nearly reaching the first landing, and screaming for Will all the way down. I could barely stand, let alone run. As I clamored to get back up, Will’s voice rose. I pictured the dagger in Carl’s hand. I wondered what it was they were planning to do to him. And then I heard that voice: Relax. Breathe deep.
I did as she commanded. As I breathed, I felt a new power surge within me. Suddenly, my gait steadied. Suddenly, I felt alive, awake.
I didn’t climb the stairs; I glided. And when I entered the threshold, every hooded figure froze. I again saw past their masks and straight to their ghoulish faces as they gaped at the sight of me and released Will, who was bruised but alive. His face, too, was stunned.
I caught my reflection in a mirror: my face was the face of Edna Barrows. Not the floating head that could only stare—but alive and powerful and vengeful. Edna had been waiting a long time for this.
“Go,” she commanded Will.
He didn’t argue; didn’t even try to play brave. He scrambled to his feet, darting for the stairs.
Edna passed by each of the men—none could move, each were petrified. With the flick of her finger, the hoods fell from the faces. With the twist of her wrist, their hearts were torn from their chests. Every face gaped at her in terror before every man fell to the ground, his chest an open pit, his blood black and smoking before dissipating into a fine, white mist.
Down each man fell, each anonymous ghoul, until she reached Carl. With Carl, she took her time, prying his dagger loose from his hand.
“P-please,” he stammered.
She narrowed her eyes at him and then threw the dagger between his brows. When he fell to the ground, she once more twisted her wrist, freeing his heart from the cavern of his chest.
When all the men lay in bloody pools, she glided down the first, the second, the third flight of stairs, until she came across Will, who—unable to go back up—had still refused to leave me behind. When she released my body from her control, I fell to his arms like a marionette with my strings cut.
Together, Will and I stumbled out of the Archive one final time.
The police didn’t know what to make of the scene. Some of our community’s leaders and shakers—some of the richest men in the state—were simply dead. A spontaneous group heart attack seemed the reason. As unlikely as that might be, the men were drinking decades-old potions made by a mad man. No surveillance recording survived the night; all that remained was a green glow distorting any footage from the time Will and I first left the building earlier that night.
As for me and Will, we welcomed our first child into the world just two months ago. Sometimes, we’ll curl around him, his bald head under my nose, and I’ll say, “We made this. We made magic.”
Will will look back at me and tell me how, actually, it was all science, basic biology. Nothing like real magic at all. But then we’ll laugh and he’ll roll over onto his back, hold my hand, and say: “But it does feel magical, doesn’t it?”
And I think I might be uniquely qualified to tell you Redditors that yes, yes it does.