South Beach was a run-down, desolate neighborhood in Staten Island, abandoned about five years ago. No trains, no traffic. Shadows of lost souls, ragged Stranded wandering in the night. Uncertainty. No future in sight. Billy and Isaac left the reeking streets lined with burnt-out cars, making their way through the wetlands—a near-impenetrable marsh, in the center of which lay an old fish farm, an abandoned industry overgrown with dense vegetation, its jagged silhouette illuminated by the city’s light-polluted clouds.

Billy’s phone was just as drained as he felt; the cold sapped its last reserves, and the battery warning glowed ominously at just 4% power remaining. He slipped it back into his pocket, letting his freezing fingers rest in the fabric, hoping to protect them from the bitter cold of the open land. The frozen snow crunched underfoot with every step. Just a few years ago, this swampy area had been a popular spot for anglers. By the edge of a lake stood an old barn, part of the deserted fish farm, isolated in the stillness. Abandoned. It felt this way, gazing out over the frozen lake, knowing that nothing swam beneath the surface, that all life there had vanished. Was climate change to blame for the loss of the massive catfish, sturgeon, and pike, or was it the acid rain that began pouring down over New York once the world’s new economic engine revved up, churning out more and more factories and power plants to harness R-energy?

Billy stood with Isaac on the bank, both of them looking out toward South Beach—a bleak, forsaken stretch of shore bearing the garbage of civilization, rats, cockroaches, and disease, but nothing else. They walked along the shore in silence; far out in the murky water, a wooded island rose, with another nearby. Hoffman Island and Swinburne Island. Dry reeds sprouted from the thin ice, lining the shore all around. Anyone wanting to disappear would find it easy here; no one would willingly walk through this dead, dreary place, and no one would come here without a reason, unless they worked at the nearby fish hatchery.

"Does the hermit have an official address?" Isaac asked, nodding toward the island barely visible in the early morning fog. "How does the postman get his letters out there?"

Billy let the sharp wind blow past his ears for a long moment before answering. "I’ve seen so much unexplainable crap over the last few days that it wouldn’t surprise me if the postman rows across the cursed water every morning or if Hermes himself delivers the mail with winged sandals."

South Beach was lined with bare ashes and alders, their fine branches weighed down with snow. Even among the trash on the beach, plants grew. Somehow comforting, Billy thought, that nature was reclaiming what was once hers.

"Do you see a house out there anywhere?"

"No. Too dark," Billy replied through chattering teeth, leaning against Isaac’s shoulder, his forehead feverish. Isaac twisted his fingers through the scruffy beard he’d grown over the past week, squinting out into the darkness for a path to the island, then suddenly tapped Billy on the chest with the back of his hand. "Direct your attention to the small pier on your left, where you’ll find a selection of models to choose from."

Billy squinted and saw two small anchored boats about thirty meters ahead, tied to the deserted pier.

"I was about to say it must be our lucky day," Billy muttered, pulling the collar of his coat tighter around his neck as he trudged through the snow with Isaac.

"Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"Your take on the day?"

"If it were a fish on the line, I’d throw it back."

"Because you feel sorry for it?"

"Because it reeks."

As he took his first steps onto the creaking dock and examined the small boats up close, he wanted to take back every word he’d just said about luck.

"Is this a joke?" he blurted as he leaned forward to rock one of the small boats with his outstretched hand. The wood was frayed and splintered, moss growing over its many cracks. The other boat was full of stagnant water, and Billy could only hope it was just dirty rainwater.

"Well, it won’t be a first-class trip, but do you have a better idea, Billy?"

"We could tie walnuts to our feet and try walking over the water."

"And that’s supposed to be better?"

"Not better, but safer."

A gust of wind blew through the silence.

----------------------------------------

"I bet there isn’t a soul living here. Only the dead. People who came here with cholera, who died here. This place is dark. We’re insane. Or desperate. Maybe both. Probably both."

"Stay positive, Billyboy. Sometimes what you think becomes real, so let’s just go with the idea that the guy does live here."

It wasn’t just the rowboat that was in bad shape; the rowers themselves were barely better. It took them over two hours to reach Hoffman Island. Finally reaching the shore, Billy crawled out of the boat, completely exhausted from the grueling effort. With his legs spread apart, hands on his knees, he heaved up half-digested burger and a spurt of blood.

Isaac put a hand on his shoulder. "No time to give up."

"Enough with your damn pep talks. Why am I puking blood, for God’s sake?"

"You’ll be alright, Billy."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"I don’t think I’m gonna make it much longer."

"Come on, lean on me. We’ve got a little time left.”

"You don’t have a clue. Neither of us knows what’s happening to me."

"Let’s just go."

"I’m trying."

As they entered the woods, they could barely see their hands in front of their faces. Even though the trees were bare, they grew so close together here that the branches blocked out any light from the moon.

Billy was amazed at how much his other senses sharpened when he couldn’t rely on his sight. He could suddenly smell the sharp, earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. All around, he could hear branches snapping somewhere in the underbrush, and small twigs occasionally fell from the trees, landing with dull thuds on the forest floor.

"Turn on the flashlight app on your phone."

"Was just about to tell you the same thing."

"My battery’s dead."

"And I’ve only got three or four percent left." He could get a few minutes of light, but he didn’t know if he’d need his phone for something even more crucial. Instead, he fished around in his pockets for the box of matches he’d taken from Burger’s Paradise.

The matches rattled inside as he clumsily tried to grab one with his stiff, freezing fingers. His first attempt pressed the match so hard against the strike strip that the head snapped off, falling into the snow with a faint glow. Isaac clicked his tongue loudly. "Negative emotions influence your actions. Take a deep breath and feel the calm of nature. Then lighting the match will work. Strength lies in calm."

"I thought you were done with the wisecracks."

"Sometimes I relapse."

Billy, however, took a deep breath. The hiss of a flame flaring up signaled the success of his second attempt. He shielded the weak flame with his other hand, casting a large, dark shadow on the path ahead.

"At least we can see something," Billy whispered, not quite sure why he’d lowered his voice. Probably just adjusting to the silence of the surroundings.

They trudged deeper into the forest through the untouched snow, stopping repeatedly to light another match. The dim glow barely revealed what lay a few feet in front of them. He kicked a pale femur with his shoe. Along their path lay the bones of the dead, those who had perished here on the island from disease. Over by the roots of an alder tree lay a skull. These people had simply been left here. They came to America dreaming of a better life, only to be dumped here to die. That was over 150 years ago. Damn, thought Billy, technology or not, people hadn’t changed all that much.

"This place gives me the creeps," Isaac said.

Animal calls echoed from the treetops and the surrounding brush. Even though Billy was outdoors, the blindness and uncertainty of what might appear at any moment in the darkness made him feel strangely trapped, his senses limited and incomplete. Panic started creeping up on him, making him pick up his pace, but this only caused the match in his fingers to go out.

The ink-black darkness ahead reminded him of his own death, cold and unyielding. Quickly, he struck another match. The second-to-last one. Despite the freezing temperatures, a thin film of sweat coated his forehead.

"Shh! Do you hear that?" Isaac had also started whispering.

From further ahead, the sudden bark of a dog sliced through the silence. At first, the animal whimpered hesitantly, but the closer they got, the more it erupted into furious barking.

"A dog! A damn dog! Someone really is here."

The woods ended so abruptly, it was as if an invisible line had been drawn where no tree or brush was allowed to grow. The property lay like an open plain in the middle of the forest, with a modern mansion at its center, its windows stretching from floor to ceiling on one side, and a rooftop terrace dotted with several telescopes pointing their eyes toward the clear, black night sky. What the house lacked in height, it made up for in width, nearly dividing the barren property into two halves—front and back.

"How about we throw the old man, along with our past, into the ocean and start a nice new life here in this house?" Billy joked, knowing full well that he was deathly ill and only managing to stay on his feet because of the meds.

"Tell you what: once we’ve freed Tabitha from those crazy researchers and gotten you back to health, we’ll take over this fortress."

"Deal," Billy said, smiling, but then he spotted unfamiliar footprints in the snow, leading straight to the house’s entrance.

"Up there!" Isaac whispered as loudly as one could.

Out of nowhere, a light came on in a second-story window, and a moment later, the head of an elderly man appeared. He casually took off his nightshirt, moving with the calm pace of someone who’d long left his obligations behind, enjoying the peace and quiet on the final stretch of his life.

"Damn it, you think the old geezer has any idea why we’re here?"

"Doesn’t take a genius to figure out we’re not here to sell vacuum cleaners. And we’re not thieves either, not coming all this way just to rob a place no one knows exists. So, if he remembers anything and is involved in this mess, he’ll have a pretty good idea why we’re here."

Two steps led up to the entrance. The dog was still barking. On either side of the door stood hip-high stone pillars, intricately carved with the words NON PLUS ULTRA.

"The end of the world," Billy murmured to himself.

The end of his own story felt disturbingly close.

And yet, he wasn’t even thirty. He felt too young to leave this world.

This couldn’t be it, he thought.

And suddenly, he realized that he and Isaac had been pursuing the same goal all along, like everyone else in the world.

Getting healthy again and finding answers were just stops on the longer journey to...

...happiness.

"Hey, Billyboy?"

"Yeah?"

"What exactly are we gonna do when he opens the door?"

"Politely ask if we can come in."

"Like vampires?"

"Like humans."

Billy rang the bell.

"Seriously!"

"I wasn’t joking. We’re going to ask for his help."

"Are you nuts?" Isaac tapped his finger on Billy’s forehead.

"Ow, damn it! Got a better idea? Gonna tie him up and torture him? We don’t even know if he’s involved in any of this."

Silence.

Isaac’s gaze shifted to the door, barely half a meter away, swaying slightly on its hinges. Suddenly, they heard the creak of floorboards inside and the sound of a key turning in the lock.

The door swung open, and Billy jumped back as a grumpy old man stepped out onto the porch and started shouting, "Quiet! Shut up!" He raised a menacing finger at the dog. Only when it stopped barking did the old man acknowledge the strangers on his doorstep. Stroking his white beard, he scratched his bald head as he eyed them. "I don’t want fiber-optic cables. I just want peace and quiet! Now get lost." The old man turned, about to shut the door, but Billy wedged his foot in the doorway.

His heart raced.

Anger clouded his mind as he realized, once again, that someone was trying to play him for a fool in this twisted game.

"I know you," he said.

"I think you’re mistaken, my son," the old man replied, suddenly serious.

"No, I’m not." Billy trembled with rage.

Someone... someone much more powerful than him, was playing a damn cruel game.

"You’re the mysterious stalker," he said.

"Who?"

"The…?" Isaac didn’t understand a word of it.

How could he?

Billy himself barely understood what was happening.

Furious, he said, "You’re my stalker!"

"That’d be you two," the old man replied.

"No," Billy said firmly. It was the worst possible time for jokes. "You followed me from my apartment to the theater, showed up at my own funeral dressed as the undertaker, and then tracked me down in a black helicopter at the solar cell factory. And now you’re here. This is where you live."

The old man pulled a face. "I guess I’d better call the mental asylum and let them know I’ve found their missing patient."

"Wrong," Billy said, pushing the door open, forcing the old man to step back. "You’re going to give us some answers, Nicholas Curtis."