My grandmother had told me a story once when I was little, but whether it was true or not — I could never say.

There was a scraggly-haired fella named Moe, but he was “Mr. Moe” to the tenants working the land. Mr. Moe had a reputation among the tenants — he was cruel and monstrous. When he passed by, people would turn to each other and say: “Mr. Moe’s a nasty man, ain’t he?”

One year, Mr. and Mrs. Betts working a plot nearby fell short of a few crops. When Mr. Betts got a little wordy and said, “I ain’t got no more for you,” Mr. Moe raised his fist and beat Mr. Betts into the ground. He beat him in front of his whole family —all women and a young girl — and they could do nothing but watch. Mr. Betts could hardly stand, and Mr. Moe hunched over him, his face contorted and burning red. Then, he turned to the rest of the tenants and screamed, chasing people across the field and back to their cottages. Sometime after, Mr. Moe cussed at some little girls who’d been playing too close to his house. Mr. Moe had struck one of the girls in the face. The little girl went crying to her folks, the Browns, and the grandfather went to confront Mr. Moe. The Browns ain’t never seen the old man again, and consequently, Mr. Moe boosted his demand on their crops. Poor family’s been skin and bones ever since. Some of the other tenants were kind enough to share whatever they could. Times were getting rough, Mr. Moe was getting rougher, and the whole community of freedmen and women was starting to feel the chills of the aftermath of the war and their newfound freedom. The people began to look at each other and say: “Is it time to go?”

Amid these bubbling murmurs was the community’s sunshine, a little boy named Titus. He was a spritely child, always making jokes, having polite conversations, sharing food and drink, and passing along information he picked up somehow. But one thing about Titus: he had a sweet spot for theatrics. Most people could overlook that, but it was an open secret that Mr. Moe detested Titus’s tales, and he’d be quick to give the boy hell for it.

Nevertheless, one evening Titus’s old man, Presley, told him to go fetch some wood. Titus did as told, soon heading back home with a small pile of wood tied to his back. But as he neared some railroads, his eyes fell upon two figures shooting past the trees. Titus ducked into the shrubbery, watching these figures closely. He realized that they were just two people, a couple it seemed — a freedman and a freedwoman. Titus was about to reveal himself and speak, but he was puzzled by their odd appearance.

They were dressed so elaborately, wearing draping clothes that were so blue, they glowed like sapphires. They wore all kinds of painted clay beads, seashells, and coins. Around their shoulders were vibrant, flamboyant quilts. They held each other’s hands and spun, hopping back and forth over the railroads in circles. The dust kicked up beneath them, soaring in the air. They began to hum, and then sing. The song sounded familiar, but Titus struggled to understand the words — they sounded unintelligible to him, foreign even. The couple sang a little louder and spun a little faster, and Titus’s jaw dropped as he watched the couple’s feet begin to lift from the ground. He sat there in the bushes gawking as the people flew higher and higher, taller than the pine trees nearby. After a while, they landed back on the ground and disappeared into the woods...

Why do they send me this shit?

Sat upon the hard floor, I lean against the wall, looking over the letter. For a moment, I lift it, preparing to tear it up. But then I pause. Sighing, I get up and toss it onto the nearby island. It lands upon a growing pile of papers —papers, papers, and more papers, all reading the same bullshit.

“My Governor, Alice Winthrope,” I mumble, digging into the fridge. “Governess of the dying state of Illinois.” For a moment, my hand hovers over the Dos Equis bottle. It’s comfortably tucked in between the tall bottles of LifeWtr, covering it like rain. Or maybe guarding it like Terriers.

Shall I or shall I not?

It’s tantalizing. Tall, shiny, and green. The buzzing refrigerator light is glowing from the other side, lighting up the liquid inside. It’s like staring at lime or green apple-flavored jello.

I grab the water and close the fridge. That’s my last drink. The state won’t provide more of that —beer isn’t necessary. Just water and laughably cheap foods: rations.

The stack of papers on the island’s countertop brings me back to reality —the crisis. Fragments catch my eye as I glance over the stack of documents.

I stop reading the papers, rubbing my hands against my rough, bumpy arms. My nostrils flare with each inhale, burning yet cool.

I slap my hands onto the stack of papers and swing them across the island. The papers fly around the living room like doves. They fall to the ground like snow. I slam a cabinet door and strut over to the coffee table near the sofa. I lift a golden statue into the air.

It’s of a humanoid figure in a cross-legged position, their eyes closed and elaborately adorned. The tip of its head brightens from the light peeking through the curtains of a window.

I set the Buddha statue down, gently positioning it back on the coffee table. Nothing extraordinary happened today, but something happened. I finally lay on the couch and drifted to sleep.

The following day arrives.

I dreamt of nothing but whiteness, which is odd. Those sorts of dreams are supposed to be the kind where one dreams of blackness —the type of dreams they describe as having dreamt of “nothing.”

Spam smells good when it’s cooked up in a pan this way. Crisp on both sides and chopped. It fits nicely into my bowl of fried rice and eggs. Maybe this isn’t the best breakfast choice, but as my old man would say, “We’re gonna die anyway.”

The house is still again, and I head toward the front door. Leaning against the cool wall, I slide down until my ass hits the ground. There, I begin to eat my food.

It tastes fine. My sight grows cloudy. Water begins to tickle my lash line. My head spins.

Knock, knock.

I freeze. There is the slight sound of shuffling. Then, a letter flies in through the shoot. I watch it flutter past, barely grazing the edge of my bowl and avoiding the oil from the rice. The letter lies there. “Newsletter No. 6.”

But I don’t want to read that shit.

I glance back and forth from the letter to the door. Standing up, I place my bowl aside.

It feels colder than usual. I blink away the water in my eyes and swallow, even though the heavy lump falls right back into the back of my throat. Slowly, my hand reaches for the handle. I breathe in. I breathe out, knees knocking beneath me.

I rip open the door.

“Hey! What’s going…”

For the first time in weeks, frosty air strikes me, the wind rushing into my home and ruffling my clothes. Black tendrils briefly fly around my face before falling back into place. I should’ve cut my hair. Everything is so… white.

And in front of me stands …something. Tall, taller than average. It’s white, white and draping.

But there’s no delivery truck —or any vehicles —on the road at all. Just nothing but snow piled high and the looming trees in the background. And then, that further up the sidewalk.

My words catch in my throat. Its stature is odd. Part of its upper torso is cranked in the opposite direction as its feet. But it has no feet, I realize. Eying the ground beneath it, it’s just snow.

“You…” I struggle to find my train of thought. “Do you work for Governor Alice?”

At that moment, it’s just me and the thing at the end of the sidewalk. Its white drapes shield it from me. It’s back shields me from it. Then, it slowly begins to turn. Not on its feet, but from its head —like a twirling corpse from a branch. For a second, I don’t move. It’s as if everything grew quieter, and the snow got thicker. Its twisted torso begins to crack as it turns to look at me.

My face contorts into a deep-set frown. Slamming the door, I fiddle with the locks until it all clicks into place. I don’t move. Instead, I just stand there, feeling the wafts of icy air blow against my clammy toes. After a while, I head toward the couch and lie down.

I can’t help shifting around. I want to close my eyes and sleep, but I can’t. I shouldn’t, even as I feel tiredness seep into my eyes. It’s as if little people are standing on my lower lash line, pulling down on my lashes in a game of tug and war. I’d probably be able to doze off if it were warmer.

Yet, the coldness in the house is unrelenting. I feel like it’s gotten even colder since this morning. I stand from the sofa, and suddenly, I shudder. There’s a flicker across the room. Spinning around, I look toward one of the windows. Through the curtains, I see a darkness. It grows and grows, becoming bigger and more opaque...