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                “Mother is the name for god on the lips of children everywhere.”

                                Eric Draven, the Crow

                I hear something.

                I sit up in a flash, grabbing the machete by the bed. And for a moment, everything is still. I don’t breathe, nor do I even move my eyes. I don’t move a muscle or even a thought. All I do is sit and listen. And listen. And listen.

                Movement.

                Steps.

                Feet on pavement.

                More than one.

                Hissing.

                Growling.

                They’re

                 Out

                  Side.

                I move as quietly as I can. I push the covers off of me and stand up from the bed. I walk on silent feet over towards the window. My eyes and my senses on full-alert, I’m aware of absolutely everything in the room. I check over my shoulder, making sure the door is closed and remains closed. I check the closet to make sure no monsters hid in there during the night. I check the edge of the bed, making sure the bed monster doesn’t decide to join in. I watch the bathroom, to make sure nothing crawls out while I’m turned away.

                I make it to the window.

                I move inch by delicate inch, moving my head so I can see farther out.

                I look out, seeing the parking lot. Nothing.

                I move closer, looking down at the bridge. Nothing.

                I move up next to the pane, looking down at the front door to the apartment.

                Nothing.

                I breathe a sigh of relief.

                And as I breathe, I look past the bridge, down to the small gulley of concrete beneath the bridge, that runs behind the first level of apartments.

                I see two of them.

                They jerk as they walk. They haven’t eaten anything in awhile. They don’t seem to even be aware of each other as they move; they just walk calmly onward, searching for anything they can find that might be food. Food for them.

                I move back from the window, sighing.

                My stomach rumbles, the sound startling me. I glance around the room and out the window, making sure I’m the only one who heard.

                I am.

                My mind jerks back to the fridge downstairs. “It was still cold.” I say, moving quietly away from the window. Still in the perpetual darkness, I look around the room. “I wonder if any of the food was still good?”

                I’m careful as I go down the steps, my machete ready. Even though I checked the apartment last night, and nothing could have, should have, come in, I still check it again. With the upstairs clean, I now turn my attention to the downstairs.

                I move first into the living room, into the large open rectangle. I note that the sliding glass door in the far corner is still closed. That encourages me. I look around the living room, considering the large-screen television and the handful of video game systems. In front of the TV is a wide white-leather sofa with a matching chair and a loveseat pairing off on either side. Behind the sofa, filling up the back-half of the room, is a small black-metal dinette.

                It all looks so neo-Rockwellian.

                I sneak into the hallway with the washer and dryer and check inside the bathroom. I can barely see due to the darkness, which stops me. I didn’t notice it when I first woke up, but as I look around, the darkness is far less pervasive. It’s like the difference between a night with a full moon now, versus before which seemed almost like a starless night. Maybe the sun’s up outside of the bio-dome.

                The bathroom’s pretty empty, but I note that the tissue’s rolled backwards. I can’t help but smile, thinking that it’s on backwards. Into the empty dining room and the kitchen. The place is clearly owned by a family. The type of food that fills the space is obviously meant to be kid friendly.

                Lining the wrap-around countertop are a host of the usual appliances, all fairly clean, while the stainless steel fridge faces off against the stainless steel dish washer. I look through the cabinets above the counter. I find a stash of canned food, but it’s clear the place was emptied out in a hurry.

                I open the fridge door, feeling the slight cold. I look inside, seeing little. But a packet of lunch meat catches my eye. I grab it and open the sealable package. The delightful smell of honey-baked ham wafts up to greet me. It smells fine.

                I look through the vegetable bins at the bottom. The apples look bruised but okay, but the oranges appear fine. I grab the handful of them and keep looking. The remainder of the food I find is meat to be heated or cooked. “Damn healthy people.” I curse.

                I grab a trash bag from under the sink and fill it with the oranges. I leave the slightly molded bread and get all of the cans. I search the drawers carefully, finding a fork and spoon and can opener. But as I search, I find a new treasure.

                I recognize the brand of knives from when I spent my senior year selling knives. It was a good gig, except nobody in their right mind spends that much money on cooking knives, no matter how good they are. But they are that; good.

                I find the black-handled knifes and draw them out. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them, but I take the whole load of them with me, tray and all. With my bag, I turn and head for the stairs. I stop three steps towards them and put my stuff down. I go back inside and grab a glass. A very sturdy, large glass.

                The picnic isn’t the most romantic one I’ve ever had, but I want to eat as far away from the door as I can. Laid out in the bedroom I spelt in, I sit on the floor, considering the knives as I eat. I attend to the chef whatever canned pasta, then deal with the few cans of vegetables. I save the oranges for last, as a kind of desert.

                In the barely-lighter world, I can make out the room a bit better. A few pictures hang on the walls, showing me the couple that lived here, as well as a few with their children. I see the two parents, cute couple, with their kids, one of them dressed up as a lion. I’m guessing a school play.

                I see a picture of the two of them in front of the Eiffel Tower, rubbing their noses together and smiling. I have to laugh. I see them, a younger looking them, at the man’s graduation, but I can’t tell what it’s for. I find another picture of them, before they wore wedding bands, at the girl’s graduation. ‘Masters in Bio-Engineering’ I’m able to read off the photograph with her diploma held up. That gets my wheels turning.

                I go back over to the photo of the school play and look past the family. I see in the background the words draped across stage ‘an Ever-After project’ beneath the name of the school. Almost like it’s meant to be forgotten as it reminds you.

                I step back from the pictures and scratch my head. “This whole place is one big experiment.” I say, considering the pictures before me. “Then these people were chosen specifically.” I’m not really sure what that might mean, but it bothers me.

                “I wonder if blood-type had anything to do with the deciding?” I ask, not even fully knowing where the question came from.

                I walk down the hall, past the bathroom door that stays closed and into the room on the right. It’s a small boy’s room, clearly a baseball addict. I see his bat and glove lounging around. But the room is in disarray. I realize this was the smaller boy’s room.

                The door opened slowly.

                The sound of its hinges creaking woke him up and he turned to look. His mother stepped into the room. “Mom?” He asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His mother took his hand and pulled it gently towards her.

                “Mom?” He asked again, just before she bent down and bit his face.

                I turn away from the room. I’m not sure what I’ll do next, but I know I’ve got to leave this place, this home. I don’t know if ghosts exist, but I do know that memories do. And I can’t stay in a place with memories like this.

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