Like a dog, Félix Viasma buried his most prized possessions out in the yard.

His cash. His wives. 

Himself.

But unlike the shoeboxes of bills and bones hidden beneath his overgrown grass, Félix’s final resting place stuck out like a sore thumb. Past the gazebo, the pok ta’ pok rig, the Ferris wheel; the refrigerated woolly mammoths’ enclosure, the dodos’ nook; and further still, just behind the stone home community of his in-house emerald connoisseurs, it was marked by a… fitting headpiece.

It towered over the roof of his Park Avenue townhouse, distracting drivers and pedestrians alike with its glistening, gemmed-out spout. It doubled as an unofficial landmark—the first stop of the night for teens with toilet paper rolls and spray paint, and the last for the grumbling Neighborhood Watch, armed with cameras and notepads.

Its basins were forged of solid gold, each engraved with scenes from the highlight reel of his life. The first time he’d bartered stolen tobacco leaves for a handful of shell beads. A true-to-life shot of the shit-eating grin he sported once the Wright boys finally let him take a joy ride in the Flyer I. There was even a first-person view from his front-row seat to Whitney Houston’s performance of “Star-Spangled Banner” at Super Bowl XXV.

And at the very bottom of the fountain, the man’s epitaph was the icing on the cake. Crudely keyed into the metal and barely visible beneath the radioactive blue water frozen over it, the inscription was accompanied by a drawing of a frowning stick figure, covered in worms. 

Félix Viasma is turning over a new leaf. Visitors will be used as its fertilizer.

“…Cute.” Yves’ lips curled in a dry smirk before flattening again. The only thing that could have made it cuter was the little old man who’d sworn he’d be waiting on her in the yard, in the yard and on-time. Peppermint candy in one hand, briefcase(s) full of cash in the other, and his query on the tip of his tongue.

But alas.

So, in the meantime, Yves putzed around the yard. Cycled through her email, settings, and calculator apps. Even laid up against the fence for a bit of shut-eye. 

And still, no Félix. 

Time crawled by at half-speed as she baked under the New York City sun, waiting for a, “My apologies, dear, seems I’ve lost track of time,” or better yet a, “I’ll toss in an extra quarter million for the inconvenience,” that would never come.

Instead, the next thing she heard was a muffled creeeeak.

The tower of basins shifted before her eyes—up into the sky, swaying in the air as if the structure weighed no more than a stack of feathers. A low grinding noise followed, dragging bubbles up to the surface as the mound of gold slid to the left.

“No way,” she breathed, blinking hard. Her hand darted to her forehead, pressing against her clammy skin as if the touch alone could confirm she wasn’t hallucinating from heat stroke. But the scene before her remained disturbingly real: a horrifically wrinkled set of hands was carrying the plug of what should have been the fountain’s drainage system. But the water, like Yves, was locked in place—as if it had forgotten the natural flow of things. The hands set the plug off to the side, dusted themselves off, gave the base a pat for good measure, and sunk back into the hole.

A beat passed.

Then the hands reappeared, waving her down into the darkness.

Another beat.

And the wave switched to a one-fingered beckon. Then a mime’s attempt at lassoing her into the tunnel. But when she still didn’t move, a head full of silver hair inched out into view. Through the lion’s mane billowing in the eerily still water, Yves could just barely make out a pair of eyes, all too familiar and twinkling with mischief.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

No fucking way.

Yves dropped dangerously close to the water. “Mister Viasma?”

She received a quick thumbs up and a wink before the man vanished again, disappearing into the abyss. 

As if in response, a sudden chill settled in over her. She gripped her sweat-damp arms for comfort as she pressed herself against the fence, blinking hard to ensure that she was awake. But each time she opened her eyes, the yard's displays, so charming and intriguing just a moment ago, seemed... different. Menacing.

The air in the yard felt heavier somehow, pressing against her lungs. The animals, once playing together, now were statues—cold, fixed, unblinking. The lowest cabin on the ferris wheel began to sway, squeaking on its hinges. And she could have sworn she heard shuffling coming from between the stone homes.

A rogue dodo whipped its head around, locking eyes with her from across the yard, its dead stare rooting her in place. Its beak parted slightly, as if it wanted to warn her of something—but thought better of it. Even the stick figure seemed to hiss at her through its stern frown: “Get outta here, lady; can’t you read?”

But the nagging thought of all the zeroes the man's leathery, liver-spotted hands would scrawl out on her check crept up on her. Nine zeroes, to be exact. Enough zeroes for her to finally wipe her hands clean of this… occupation of hers. To quietly retire. To underpay a “real” psychic to assume her role. The Second Coming of Yves, she’d call her—some bright-eyed flunky (bless her heart) who would stroke her crystals, shuffle her cards, and, with love and light, of course, run what was left of Yves’ empire into the ground for her. 

And all the while, Yves would be off-grid and clocked out, lounging on a private island somewhere. Getting fat from expensive wine, tanned to a crisp… Reading something lewd and trashy, being fed grapes by big, muscly men…

...Goddamn it.

Yves opened her phone to her call log and hesitated over the last entry. “’s just… standard protocol, right?” she mumbled to herself. No big deal. 

But then again.

What could the man say? “We all float down here?”

Before she could talk herself out of it, Yves stabbed the ‘call’ button and pressed her phone to her ear. It rang once, twice. Then politely informed her, “We’re sorry. The person you are trying to reach is unavai—”

Just as she was about to dial again, a text notification from an unknown number lit up her screen.

Come on in! The water’s fine :)

She whipped her head to the hole in the fountain, half-expecting someone—preferably, John Quiñones and his camera crew—to pop out and conduct a post-prank interview. 

Instead, there was nothing. Just the odd stillness of the water that refused to drain and the silent, oppressive weight of a billion-dollar decision already made.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, poised to write a new message. Something along the lines of, “Doing an in-person reading. If you don’t hear from me in the next two hours, call the cops.” But she hesitated for a long moment, gaze stuck on the recipient field.

Until she snapped out of it. Wait. The cops?

Scoffing, she stripped off the ornate scarves and elegant skirts she’d layered over her jumpsuit—since when do I need backup? Sure, conning in real-time was at the very top of her no-no list, second only to meeting her marks in-person, and her frayed nerves reminded her of why. 

Still, after a moment’s hesitation, Yves locked her phone and tossed it onto her clothes pile—she’d be damned if she let a case of the first-time jitters jinx her big break.

“Pull it together, Yves,” she muttered, but her voice wavered just enough to make her wince. She brought herself back to the base’s edge, staring down into her reflection. Yves grimaced as she dipped her feet in, only to yank them right back out. The water felt like a pool of saliva—lukewarm and syrupy thick. The surface trembled on a delay, sending faint ripples long after she’d moved.

“Alright, old man,” she called out, forcing steel into her voice. “Let’s get this over with.” With a deep breath, she fully submerged her feet, pausing for good measure.

And for just a moment, everything seemed okay.

Then, the water came alive. 

“Wait—” The word barely escaped her lips before the water erupted in a powerful churn, tripping her up, and turning her every which way but loose. She tried to scream, but the sound got caught in her throat as her head fell below the surface. She reached out for the surface, desperate to find something—anything—to grab onto, but the water offered no purchase.

No. No!

The word echoed in her mind as the current tightened its grip, washing her closer and closer to the drain. She opened her mouth again to yell, but only thick, burning water poured in, choking her. Her lungs screamed for air.

The light above shrank to a pinprick and the golden edges of the fountain’s rim blended into it until they vanished completely. Yves twisted and strained, her limbs thrashing uselessly against the pull. The roar of the water drowned out her terrified thoughts, replacing them with pure, mindless panic.

Her chest heaved, her vision blurred, and all at once, Yves felt herself slip entirely into the void.

And then—silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.