Between the Streets, Behind the Eyes (1)

A Soft Descent Into the Loudest Silence

Fenner’s scream was the first thing to arrive—thin and high-pitched like a teakettle startled mid-boil. Then came Fenner.

He slammed into the cobbled ground with a muffled thump, bouncing on something that squelched unpleasantly before it put him on his two feet. The air fled his lungs in a wheeze, and the world spun in too many directions.

“Why...” he groaned, swaying slightly, “…why is it never a gentle landing?”

A fish with wings the size of soup spoons glided past his head, humming something, but Fenner decided to ignore it. Instead, he looked around, wondering where Orrin had send him exactly. Ivy crept along eaves like green lace and a signpost twisted lazily in the air, its arrows constantly changing direction.

Some signs read things like "This Way," "The Other Way," "Definitely Not Here," and "Stop bothering me." but most signs he couldn’t even read. He’d never seen symbols like that.

It was an odd place (obviously), with crooked streets, lanterns swaying without wind and plants that looked a little too green. The buildings lining either side looked like Frankenstein himself had gotten lonely and stitched together brick, marble, wood, and anything else he’d gotten his hands on. The windows blinked shut whenever he looked at them too long but when he looked away, the blinds would open again, squinting at him suspiciously.

The houses had their own charm, that he had to admit, but… yeah. This was not his kind of town to be in. At all.

One of the stones beneath his boot shifted.

“Get off! You’re heavy!”

Fenner jumped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. The cobblestone wriggled indignantly and settled into a deep huff, its surface cracking slightly like a scowl.

“Staring at the windows is one thing,” it grumbled, “but using me like a welcome mat? Rude.”

“That’s literally your job!” Fenner snapped. “What else are you there for if not for people to step on you?”

The stone sniffed, or at least made a sound suspiciously like a sniff. “Art. Conversation. Sometimes existential brooding. Depends on the weather.”

Fenner ran a hand down his face. “I can’t do this. I literally cannot emotionally process snark from infrastructure right now.”

“Well then maybe don't step on strangers without asking,” the stone mumbled, already sinking sulkily into the moss again—moss that hadn’t been there a second ago.

Fenner took three very careful, very dramatic steps to the side, avoiding every cobblestone that looked even slightly similar to the naggy one. He cast a look around, as if daring the rest of the pavement to try something.

None of it did. But he still didn’t relax.

A few houses down, a shutter creaked open. Fenner watched as it blinked at him—just once—and then it shut again slowly, as if warning him to take another look.

He turned, trying to spot anything remotely normal, and noticed a signpost that looked blissfully mundane.

For a second.

Because on top of it, a cat with too many eyes blinked at him, its tail lazily swishing across a sign saying Hex & Haversack – All Things Somewhat Legal.

A woman floating two inches off the ground passed by, ignored him, and disappeared when a trash can unhinged a jaw-like opening and swallowed her whole.

Fenner stared at the trash can for a long moment. It let out a small burp and settled back into place as if nothing had happened.

“…Right,” he muttered. “Of course.”

The cat on the signpost gave a sympathetic blink—all seven of its eyes—then resumed cleaning its paw with disinterest, occasionally flicking one of its pupils at him like it was spinning a roulette wheel.

Next to the signpost, the street twisted slightly to the left in a way that defied geometry and basic civic planning. He stepped over a crack that whispered turn back in a bored voice and passed a shop front where a mirror in the display window reflected not him, but a very tired seagull in a trench coat.

He didn’t question it. The plan was to ignore everything, find what was needed, and get the hell out of here.

He pulled out the note Orrin had given him.

Fenner stared at the list, refusing to take another breath until he had no choice but to fill his lungs.

“Maybe… I suffered a stroke and am stuck in a coma. Because what the fuck. Where would I get ANY of this shit?!”

He read it again, mumbling. “Rain that didn’t scream while falling down?" What in the—Rain always falls down! And WHY would it scream??” He shook his head, doubting what he was seeing. “Ashes of a bad thought? Glass SOUP???? What in the world is cloud bark?!”

Just as he rounded the next corner, eyes switching between paper and ground, something changed. He couldn’t see the cobblestone anymore and only after a longer look did he figure out why.

Fog.

One that had apparently decided to descend without warning. Thick and low and oddly dense, it swallowed the street.

It wasn’t the gentle, romantic kind of fog, and also not the kind that clings to hills and inspires poets. No, this was the kind that made you question your sense of direction.

It was not comforting at all.

He took another step forward—and the sound of his boot hitting stone was muffled, eaten. Suddenly, something made a sound.

Rhythmic. Metallic. Familiar in the same way that hearing a scream in a garbage disposal factory may be familiar, but deeply and profoundly wrong.

Fenner froze.

“Don’t be a haunted doll,” he whispered to the fog. “Don’t be a haunted doll, don’t be—”

A shape emerged. Not a doll. Not even remotely, but it was tall. Very tall.

Too tall.

Lanky in the wrong way, like someone had tried to stretch a scarecrow over a hat rack and gave up halfway through. Its limbs were long and rubbery, elbows and knees sharp and reversed. It wore a black coat that trailed behind it in strips. Its face was pale, smooth, and wide, like candle wax poured over a melon, with a mouth that smiled too wide. No eyes. But it looked at Fenner anyway.

It tilted its head once, slow, and raised a long-fingered hand, pointing straight down the fog-choked street.

Fenner laughed nervously. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not following tall, eyeless Slappy the magic Shopping Assistant.”

The figure didn’t respond. It just turned and began walking. Each step made no sound, and the coat drifted just above the cobblestones, which Fenner could no longer see. The fog seemed to recoil from its presence, parting with slow reluctance as it passed. And despite everything in his body screaming Don’t follow it, Fenner’s legs moved.

One step. Then another.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe curiosity. Maybe fear. Whatever the reason, he followed.

The fog grew denser. But somehow, he saw more now.

It just didn’t make sense.

The shops on either side shifted from odd to wrong. One had windows filled with watches that ticked backward and leaked a faint trail of glittering ash. Another appeared to be selling taxidermied shadows—still moving faintly—hanging from strings like meat in a butcher’s shop.

Fenner’s heart thudded harder. A shop with no door rattled as he passed it.

Up ahead, the tall figure slowed. A storefront emerged from the gloom like a blister rising from the skin of the street. It turned around, its head tilted again, further this time. Too far.

The smile hadn’t moved—but something behind it had.

Fenner’s breath caught.

For the first time, the figure moved its hand, fingers bent at the wrong angles. A low sound leaked from its chest. Not a voice. Not speech.

Just…sound.

Fenner took a shaky step back.

Something… something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t sure how or why he knew. Maybe it was just the entire town, the weird things, the scary thing, the thing in front of him—something, whatever it was, wasn’t right at all.

He clutched the note tighter.

“I…” he began, but struggled to find his voice. It felt thin. Like… Like if he’d say anything, it would be folded into an origami swan and fed to something that burped smoke.

“I…” he tried again, but the words just wouldn’t get out.

I’d like to go back. I think I’m in the wrong place. It was so easy to think, but so difficult to say.

The figure tilted its head more. Something in its neck made a pop, like a knuckle dislocating.

Fenner’s throat closed tighter. The fog around him stirred, but not with wind. It moved as if it was listening—crowding closer in slow pulses, like breath. Or hunger.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, a faint, high whine curled from somewhere behind his teeth, a sound only dogs and nightmares heard occasionally. The note crumpled in his grip, fingers locked so tight they’d gone numb.

“I…” he stammered, this time just a whisper. “I don’t want—”

The figure took a step forward. Not a big step. But wrong. Like a marionette strung up by someone who almost understood how humans moved.

Its limbs unfolded, bent the wrong way, then corrected halfway through, like it was editing itself in real time. Fenner tumbled back, struggling to move himself away from the figure, and bumped back-first into a post that hadn’t been there a second ago.

It was warm. Breathing. He didn’t look up to see what it was, because the tall, eye-less figure, still smiling that fixed, toothless grin, raised both hands now.

Palms out, bent fingers reaching for him.

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