 Have you ever heard of the charno man? Nope. I say, stuffing a croissant down my gullet and chasing it down with scalding coffee. I choke and sputter, but clamp a hand over my mouth so I don't lose any of the $4.99 breakfast I just paid for. And I don't have time today, Jerry. I'm late. I wait thanks to Agnes, the old barista behind the counter, but she's distracted by a couple of girls. They're singing some dumb nursery rhyme, probably from a TikTok video. We're all late for something, Jerry says, and his eyes do that funny thing where for a single second I swear they gleam, just a trick of the light. Are you sure you haven't heard of him? He says, the charno man. I wipe breadcrumbs from my chin and start heading for the exit. Nope, never. My hand touches the doorknob, and I pause, trying to focus over the shrill chorus of the girl singing. All of a sudden, the name sounds familiar. Is he in that new Marvel movie? Jerry shakes his head. I shrug, pull open the cafe door, and leave. Work is long. I spend my morning filing reports and checking boxes on forms that look identical. Then I take a short break to contemplate killing myself over lunch before getting back to it in the afternoon. Sometime around 4pm, my phone vibrates. New text, unknown sender. Hello, it says. Who's this? I message back. No response. Good. I like it better that way. At 8pm, Netflix asks me if I'm still watching the office. I tell it I'm not, and pull myself off of my broken sofa. Outside the apartment window, I hear the sound of rolling sirens and junkies arguing in the street. I decide it's probably time to put my head down. My phone vibrates. New text, unknown sender. The sun of the master is bleeding. I take a few seconds to stare at my screen, my eyes running over the words. It's the same number that messaged me earlier. I pick up my phone and steady my thumbs over the keyboard, wondering how on earth one even responds to something like that. I settle on who the hell is this? The number replies, all roads lead to Vermillion. I board the bus for work, and it smells like piss and heroin. A pretty woman in a smart skirt and blouse asks me for the time, and I tell her it's 7.02am. She looks familiar. She smiles and asks me if I've ever thought about slitting my throat. I blink. A word falls out of my mouth, and I think it might be no. She sits down across from me and pulls a butter knife out of her purse. Her thin fingers run along the edge of the blade. She mutters something, over and over. A name, maybe. Matthew. Matthew 4.8. At the next stop, she gets off and tilts her head to the sky. The knife finds its way to her throat, tapping against it like a metronome, and as the bus rounds the corner, she glances my way. In the distance, I hear screaming. I'm sorry, but I asked you to check these boxes, not these ones. My boss slaps a stack of paper on my desk. He's running his hand through his blonde hair. He's shaking his head. This is becoming a problem. He says, it's code for I'm going to fire you soon. I recheck the proper boxes. This time, I don't even make it to lunch before I contemplate leaping off the top of the building. I take out my phone to check the time. New text, unknown sender, undo that which binds us. I rub my eyes, standing up for my cubicle, and glance around. Somebody in the office is messing with me. My eyes find Bill, 39 years old, twice divorced, more bitter than an orange peel and half as attractive. His computer screen is covered in spreadsheets and numbers. His phone is in his hands. Prime candidate. My vision drifts down, zeroing in on his phone. There's something on the screen, but it's hard to make out at this distance. A video, maybe. It's moving fast, a mess of colors. Bill takes a look around. His tongue darts out across his lips, and he repositions himself in his chair. He slips a hand into his pocket. The video's perspective shifts. I see a naked woman surrounded by six men, all of them grinning ear to ear, except the woman's eyes are dead. A man steps forward. My phone vibrates. New text, unknown sender. God won't hold you at the end. There's a knock on the side of my cubicle, and my boss is there, chewing gum like a camel. How are those spreadsheets looking? He asks. I look down at the pile of papers I just finished. Something boils inside of me. You didn't ask me to work on any spreadsheets. I say through gritted teeth. You wanted me to recheck the boxes on these forms. A moment of dead air hangs between us. I see his expression flicker into a smile, before becoming a frown. Oh, sorry. He says, I actually asked you to get these finished by four. He drums his fingers along the cubicle wall. You know, I really don't think this is going to work. Have your things cleared out by eight tomorrow. It's raining on the way home. I pass a homeless man in the street, and he reaches out and grabs me by the arm. I recoil and words escape me. They're not pleasant, but he doesn't mind. Have you ever heard of the charnel man? He asks. My eyes settle on the face behind the rain-soaked mop of hair. It's familiar, desperately so. Yes, I say. You told me about him two days ago, at the café. Jerry smiles and his blue eyes gleam a little, except this time there are no flickering lights to play any tricks. He gets up from his cardboard mat and digs into a rusted old shopping cart. I want to show you something. He tells me, I want you to make a choice. I hug myself and shiver. I've just been fired from the only career I've ever known, and all I can think about is how much I hate the weatherman for not warning me it was going to be raining so hard. What sort of choice? I ask. Jerry pulls two objects out of the cart. He grins at me, and his teeth are yellowed, what few are left. He holds out his hands, and one of them is an old sneaker, so worn down that its tip is separated from its base. And the other is a dead bird. I bring a hand to my mouth, stifling a wretch. Jerry, I say, why do you have that thing? It's disgusting. He doesn't respond. His eyes are gleaming again, and his smile is so wide that it's splitting his face in half. He shakes the sneaker and the laces jiggle and the tip and base waggle like moving lips. Then he shakes the bird. I hear something snap inside of it. I pull away and my feet are moving on their own. I'm walking backward, shaking my head, staring at Jerry who's still standing there, beaming in the downpour with hand-me-downs and dead things in his hands. He reminds me of somebody I know. He calls after me, but I hardly hear him. It sounds like he's saying a name, Matthew, maybe. When I get home, my apartment is a mess. It looks like somebody's been there, rifling through it, looking for something. My drawers are pulled out, the cutlery is scattered across the linoleum. My cupboards are swinging in the breeze of the open window, and the plates and cups are everywhere they shouldn't be. My feet crunch against smashed ceramic and broken glass. It smells like whiskey. Outside, I hear sirens. They sing a chorus with arguing junkies and the pitter-patter of falling rain. It's rhythmic. It's soothing. It's cold. So I close the window. My eyes find my laptop on the living room table, and it's open. The login screen reads three failed attempts in bright red text. My phone vibrates. New text, unknown sender. They soak our eyes with gasoline. I need answers. My finger steady against the screen of my phone, my body alight with a slow pulse of adrenaline. I tap the letters one by one, then I hit send. It's a question, that's all. Why? There's a sound from my bedroom, scratching, breathing. I investigate. My footsteps groan against the carpet, my heart assaulting my ribs as I press the door open. The hinges squeal. My eyes gaze into the black of the room, not quite illuminated by the dim light of the hallway. Something shifts in the darkness. The scratching stops, and something growls. I flick the light switch and my room is suddenly bright and empty, untouched. The bed is unmade. The closet's closed. The garbage is overflowing. Nobody is scratching, and nobody is growling. My phone vibrates. New text, unknown sender. We dance with broken feet. Something crashes down the hall. I tear myself from my bedroom, moving down the short hallway towards the flickering blue light of my television. When did I turn that on? I shake my head, stepping into the living area, ready to confront the junkie that broke in looking for some spare bills to get his fix. There's nobody there, though. It's just the weatherman on the television, droning on. We haven't seen weather like this in four, maybe even eight years. What a storm. He's filling the airwaves with excuses, talking about how the rain couldn't have been predicted, about how it wasn't his fault, and about how he definitely shouldn't be fired. I reach for the remote. Don't touch that dial. The weatherman's tone is different. It's changed. I gaze up at the television, and it's like he's staring straight at me. He reaches under his desk and pulls out a pencil. He studies it for a second or two. And shrugs. This one's for you, Matt. He slams it into his eye, and the television goes blank, but not before a torrent of blood spills onto the table and his body convulses in shock. Elevator music plays over an icon that reads technical difficulties. My phone vibrates, new text, unknown sender, calamity is our birthright. Something crashes against the window. I turn in time to see a crow's face smeared against the glass before it drops from view. A moment later, it appears again a short distance away, wings beating furiously against the storm. Its beak is broken. One of its eyes is hanging from its head. It soars toward me. The glass shatters, and the bird rolls across the living room carpet, staining it with blood and rain. The crow twitches and calls. I raise a sneaker to put it out of its misery, but before I do, I make sure to look into its eyes, the one in its head, and the one hanging by a thread. It's a force of habit. Why? My phone vibrates, new text, unknown sender, all flames end in ash. Wind and rain rush through my window. The apartment is filled with a sound of sirens, junkies, and lies. I bring a hand to my head. I close my eyes. Somebody's knocking on my door, hammering on it. I get up and peer through the peephole. It's the old lady from the cafe, Agnes. Apparently, she's 74 years old. She looks about 150. I pull away and unlatch the deadbolt before swinging the door open, a question on my lips. He's gone. A man is standing there. Jerry's holding a worn-down shoe and a dead bird in his hands, a crow. He's smiling, so wide that it's splitting his face in half and his eyes are gleaming. Have you heard of the charnel man? He asks, and a cockroach squirms out of his mouth. I slam the door in his face and stumble backward onto the floor. My phone vibrates, new text, unknown sender. The skeletons are waiting. The scratching starts up again, and this time it's vicious, desperate. It's coming from my bedroom. There's a voice, but it's barely there. It's gurgling, it's groaning. I crawl on my hands and knees, my body trembling as I reach the doorway to my room. The closet shudders, there's something in there. It's on the other side, and it wants to get out. I lurch onto my feet, my eyes wide and pulse hammering in my veins. My footsteps are tiny. I move inches at a time, dragging myself forward. The groans escalate into shrieks, into screams, and my hands grasp the closet door. I pull. My phone vibrates, new text, unknown sender. This is your kingdom. A fly lands on my face, and I smack it. More buzz around me. I swat them away, stepping back, and as I do, I hear the low whine of rusty wheel bearings. My eyes find the open closet. It's opened up into an alley, dimly lit by the yellowed street lamps above. There's a shopping cart framed beneath the light. Stuffed with three corpses, their skin is pale, flies have made homes inside their ears and eyes. I fall to my knees, something boiling inside of me. I recognize the faces, I know them. The first is the woman in the smart blouse, and her throat is split apart and maggots are spilling from the gap. The second is my boss. His blonde hair is missing, scalped from his red skull, but he still got that stupid smile on his face. The last is the weatherman. His eye socket is filled with a number two pencil and dribbling blood onto his suit, like he doesn't have a care in the world. I slam the closet shut. Vomit coats my bedroom. I hurl until there's nothing left inside me, until even the acid in my stomach runs dry. I mutter the word, no, over and over. I mutter it as if it's some great and mighty spell that might somehow bring them back. But it doesn't. So I move on to the word, why? Footsteps groan on old floorboards. I turn around, and it's a familiar face, with yellowed teeth and gleaming eyes. He's smiling so wide that it's splitting his face in two. His voice is familiar? Too familiar? Why not? He says, it's what you wanted. I open my mouth to scream, and ashes fall out. Here you are, one dark roast. I blink, and my room is gone. The smell of dead things and maggots and rotting corpses vanishes, replaced by the thick scent of fair trade coffee and organic deodorant. A little old lady is holding a steaming cup toward me. It's Agnes, apparently, she's 74 years old. And don't forget this, dear, she says, pressing a croissant into my hand. You enjoy your morning now? I fish into my pocket for my credit card, but all I find is a bloody pencil and a crumpled piece of paper. There's a name written on it, Matthew. When I look up, Agnes is waving a hand at me. You know better than that. We only pay what we can afford around here, Jerry. She offers me a wink before approaching two young girls singing a shrill nursery rhyme. My eyes find my reflection in the cafe windows. I'm wearing a tattered jacket and torn shoes with a mop of gray hair and yellow teeth. I raise a hand to my lips and inspect my wide mouth. There's blood on my fingers. Memories of violence swim in my mind, drowning in the boiling anger. Quiet down, please. Agnes says, scolding the girls now singing like a tempest. Their voices are everywhere, though, rebounding around the cafe like an echo I can't escape. Tortuous. Accusatory. They're not just singing, they're singing to me. Have you heard of the charnel man whose face is split in two? The charnel man, the charnel man, he looks a bit like you. A voice whispers to me, beckoning from within my own mind. It's smoother than glass and twice as sharp. In every word it speaks feels like a razor blade tracing along the inside of my skull. I am the light bringer. It says, and you are my torch.