Martin,
I’m sure you’ve seen the news by now, and I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your sister Patricia and her family are among the thousands of victims of this morning’s national tragedy. I wanted to call, but your phone number wasn’t in Patty’s address book, and she was in no shape to find it for us. She and Robert are both in total shock. They lost four of their children overnight, and the police aren’t sure exactly what happened. All we do know is that Emily, the six-year-old, was the only one who survived...
—From a hand-written letter by Hannah Goodwin to
her brother-in-law and his family, August 24, 1986
A soft buzzing woke me up. Not like a bee or a fly, but like...electricity. I was lying on something hard, rough, and cold, but the cold was all wrong. I could feel it not just against my face and arms, but against parts of me that should have been insulated by my clothes.
My eyes flew open as I shoved myself up with both hands, but the glaring assault of fluorescent light—the source of the buzzing—was like a spike driven through my skull. My arms gave out and my eyes fell shut. My cheek slammed into the floor, and I sucked in a shocked breath.
The floor. I was lying on the cold, hard floor. Naked.
My pulse racing, I lifted my head carefully and had to breathe through a wave of vertigo. My head throbbed fiercely. Light painted the insides of my eyelids red. I sat up on my knees, shivering, and folded my arms over my chest to cover myself. Then I opened my eyes again.
The glare was no longer crippling, but my headache was. I blinked and my eyes started to adjust to the light, but the world was a blur. Another blink, and several dark stripes came into focus.
No, not stripes. Bars. Thick iron bars.
Panicked, I scrambled away from them on my hands and knees until I came to a gray brick wall. I leaned my bare back against it, my knees pulled up to my chest, and finally made myself look at my surroundings.
I was in a corner cell with two walls of iron bars and a rough concrete floor.
No.
My heart pounded hard enough to jar my whole body with each beat. The adjoining cell had a hazard-orange floor with No Occupancy painted on it in black block letters.
No, no, no, no...
Across a wide aisle from my cell were other, normal cells.
Jail.
I was in jail. Because I’d turned into some kind of monster and stuck my fingers through that carny’s skull.
But that wasn’t possible. I wasn’t a monster, and I had never hurt anyone in my life.
Yet I could remember exactly how that man’s flesh had felt beneath my fingers. I could still feel the resistance his skull had offered, then that satisfying pop when my fingers had breached it.
Nonononono. I buried my face in my arms and squeezed my eyes shut, but the images were still there.
A dangling cigarette.
A cattle prod lying in the hay.
Blood dripping down the sweaty man’s face.
What the hell had I done? How had I done it?
Tears rolled down my cheeks and I swiped at them with both hands. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t a cryptid. My parents were human. I didn’t have so much as a birthmark to be examined, much less feathers, or horns, or scales.
Yet in that tent, I’d had... What had I had, exactly? Weird hair? Pointy fingers? That didn’t fit the description of any cryptid I’d ever studied.
I examined my hands. They were trembling uncontrollably, but looked normal, other than the blood dried beneath my fingernails.
I pulled handfuls of long, dark hair over my shoulder. My hair looked normal. Whatever I’d become had left no trace of itself. How was that even possible? The vast majority of cryptid species can’t blend in with the human population—not even shape-shifters. I’d officially learned that on day one as a crypto-biology major, but like everyone else, I’d actually known it my whole life.
So how could whatever kind of creature I was blend in well enough to hide itself not just from the rest of the world, but from me? How could I not know what I was?
What else did I not know about myself? If I couldn’t put faith in my own humanity, how much of the rest of my life was a lie?
I didn’t mean to do it.
Terrified, I mentally relived that surreal memory over and over, trying to understand what had happened. The only thing I was sure of every single time was that I hadn’t intended to turn into a monster and shove my fingers through a man’s skull. I’d seen it happen. I’d felt it happen. But I hadn’t made it happen. Not on purpose anyway.
And that meant I could no longer trust my own body.
I didn’t realize I was pounding my head into the brick wall at my back until the repetitive thuds finally broke through the vicious cycle of my memories.
The fierce throb in my head felt like my brain was trying to burst through my skull. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The concrete floor had sanded raw spots into my knees and my palms, as well as on more tender patches of bare flesh.
This couldn’t be happening.
On my right, a door squealed open on rusty hinges. Startled, I turned to find a sheriff’s deputy heading down the center aisle toward me. He carried a tall stool under one arm and a bundle of familiar material beneath the other.
The sight of my clothes in his hand triggered fresh tears as I scooted along the wall at my back. When I hit the far corner, I stopped, cradled by solid brick on two sides. I tucked my legs up to my chest again and crossed my ankles to cover my most private parts. I was as shielded and defended as I could get, yet I’d never felt more exposed or vulnerable.
“Hi.” The deputy set his stool down in the aisle, out of reach from my cell.
I rested my chin on my left knee and let my hair fall forward like a curtain, hoping all he could see were my shins, hair, and eyes.
“Do you remember me?”
He did look a little familiar, but no name came to mind.
“I’m Deputy Wayne Atherton. You were a couple of years behind me in school.”
Wayne. Yes. We’d had a history class together my sophomore year.
“Where am I? Are you in charge?”
“This is the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. You’ve been taken into custody as a cryptid living under false pretenses. And as far as you’re concerned, yes, I’m in charge.”
“Did—” My voice cracked, so I cleared my throat and started over, my face flaming. “Did you take my clothes off?”
“No, that was a couple of guys from the SWAT team the sheriff called in to assist with your transport. Dr. Almaguer said he would only examine you while you were still unconscious. To check for species-identifying features.”
Dr. Almaguer.