Creepypasta Wiki:Collaborative Writing Project 5

Welcome to the Fifth Creepypasta Wiki Collaborative Writing Project!

Theme: An obscure staircase that forces one to relive their memories, and promises a great prize to the one that successfully ascends it.

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Chapter One: Awakening
Jacob Sullivan was one of those people that would never refuse a dare, and always sought to prove that he was better than everyone else. So when he was tasked with visiting an abandoned house after a long, drunken night of playing truth or dare, he only chuckled. He didn’t fear ghosts or believe in the supernatural. Such a thing would be trivial to him.

“And remember,” said Jeff between drunken hiccups, “pics or it didn’t happen.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll get you some shots, slosh breath!” retorted Jake with a devilish grin.

As he was putting on his shoes, Jake was confronted by Amelia, one of his many one-night stands.

“Jake, I...” she started.

“Yes? What is it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on now, I haven’t got all night,” said Jake a bit more sharply.

Amelia’s glare went down.

“Jake… please don’t go there.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” snapped Jake. “What, you’re concerned that the ghost of Ben Harrison will come and start humping my leg?”

“No, no,” struggled Amelia. “It’s just that… no one has gone near that place for at least fifty years. People have gone missing there back in the day and...”

“You think I’ll go missing too?” asked Jake, with a not so subtle hint of mockery in his voice. “You think that place is haunted or something?”

Amelia only nodded.

“Well, let me tell you something, Amy dear!” laughed Jake. “If there are any supernatural entities in that house, they are welcome to kiss the darkest part of my lily-white ass.”

And with those words, Jake stepped out in the windy night, leaving concerned Amelia and a rowdy bunch behind him.

Shivering in the cutting wind, Jake wished he brought a thicker coat with him. Then again, he didn’t anticipate it would take him so long to find this place. Jeff’s instructions were unclear at best. He had already been wandering around for thirty minutes, and still there was no sign of the house.

Suddenly, Jake stopped. A strange feeling came over him. It was like a fishhook was pinned on his solar plexus, yanking at it, urging him to turn right. He obliged his gut and faced the direction.

Not a hundred meters before him was a small copse of pines, and behind them, Jake could unmistakably see the ruins of a great building.

Not wasting another moment, Jake rushed in the direction of the ruin. He was freezing his butt off, and the sooner he could get those shots the sooner he could go back to the party.

The fence was rusted and bent, but it wasn’t chained, and Jake was inside in moments. He stood in the remains of a frontyard of what appeared to be a villa, built less than twenty years ago, judging by the style. Jake found it hard to believe the stories that this place was hundreds of years old.

But something felt… wrong. While he had no real fear in him, he had to admit that the front yard looked very strange: what little grass there was left was already long dead and dry. No plants or vines grew along the dusty remains of what was once a majestic marble fountain. No bugs or small animals skittered around. It was almost like a deadly cloud enveloped everything inside the fence for the briefest moment before dissipating. It was completely silent, and Jake soon noticed he couldn’t even hear the wind anymore. He turned towards the pines, and saw that they were still moving.

A seed of doubt now started to germinate inside Jake. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but there was something very ominous about this place. A little fragment of common sense in him screamed to go back. But he wasn’t about to just quit. He was the best, and he wouldn’t stand down now.

The doors seemed out of place for such a building. They were large and ornate, with engravings that Jake couldn’t make out adorning both of them in perfect symmetry. He pushed them. They weren’t locked. They opened with no resistance, with no creaking from the hinges. And Jake stepped inside.

He was in the remains of what appeared to be a lobby. Pieces of chairs and tables were scattered all around, and a large dusty desk stood to his left. But what caught his attention was what stood in the middle of the room.

It was a large, stone stairway with handles of forged iron. While everything in the room was only half visible, the stairway was lit brilliantly by the moonlight that shone through the hole in the ceiling. Funny, Jake thought: the angle at which the light fell gave the impression that the stairway went on forever. Still, it was a good vantage point for taking photos, and Jake decided to climb it to capture the entire lobby in one panoramic shot.

“I wouldn’t do that just yet if I were you, mate.”

Jake froze in place. He was just about to climb the first step when a voice spoke out of the darkness. Male, seemingly American, but dry, cold, and devoid of any life.

He turned, his flashlight illuminating the detritus before falling on the source of the voice.

Jake immediately regretted that he didn’t simply run the moment he heard the voice.

What stood not ten feet from him was a horrible figure. It was tall, but slightly hunched over. What little flesh was left on it was rotting, revealing dry bone in many places. It wore what appeared to be rags of a Marine uniform, complete with a pair of surprisingly well-preserved combat boots. While there was still plenty of flesh left on its face, its lips and eyelids had rotted away long ago revealing perfect white teeth and azure eyes.

“At least, not before you hear what I have to say,” spoke the horror, revealing a blackened tongue.

Jake cursed, trying to run, but tripped over his own feet and fell to the floor.

The corpse appeared to sigh.

“Please, let’s not be uncivilized here, I just have some-”

“What the fuck are you!?” screamed Jake. “Get the fuck away from me!”

The flesh on the corpse’s face moved, giving it the impression that it was frowning.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice, you know,” said the corpse in patronizing tone. “Didn’t your parents teach you not to be rude to strangers?”

“Stay the fuck back!” screamed Jake, trying in vain to sound unperturbed. “I’m warning you; you come any closer, and I’ll cave your fucking skull in!”

The corpse sighed again, leaning over and unfastening one of its boots. It straightened up as much as it could and flung the boot with deadly precision, hitting Jake in his stomach.

Instantly, Jake stopped screaming, sucking wind, and grasping the spot where boot struck him with the force of a metal fist.

“Good,” spoke the corpse. “Now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way, will you listen to what I have to say, or do I have to throw yet another boot at you?”

Jake nodded, still having a hard time to believe his eyes and ears.

“I’ll be taking that as a ‘yes,’” said the corpse, before sitting on a desk. Now that Jake could get a better look at it, he noticed that its left hand was bare bone, and its right hand was missing altogether.

“First, I believe some introductions are in order,” said the corpse like they were having an interview. “I am the Gatekeeper. And you are…?”

“Jake… Jake Sullivan,” said Jake. His fear now slowly drained, he started to regain his composure and attitude. “What is this place? Who are you?”

The Gatekeeper gave him a patronizing stare.

“Seriously, now? You don’t even know what this is? Then why would you even come-wait! Let me guess,” the Gatekeeper babbled out. He lifted its bony fingers to its forehead and started poking it, producing a sound like two billiard balls colliding. He stopped and looked at Jake. “It was truth or dare, wasn’t it?”

Jake nodded again. Gatekeeper rolled his eyes.

“You’d think they’d invent something more creative after fifty… anyhow,” started the Gatekeeper with clear annoyance in his voice, “you stand at the precipice of the Stairway of Chaos.

“Now, if I had my right hand in place, I wouldn’t bother telling you all of this: I’d just poke you and you’d know all you needed to know. But, circumstances force me to this, so let’s just get it over with.

“I’ll not bother you with soporific history: all you really need to know is that you can choose to climb the Stairway if you want. But be warned: with each step you take, you’ll be forced to relive one of your memories, and by the way the Stairway works, that memory tends to be unpleasant. You’ll have to find a way out before your body forgets how to breathe. If you can find a way out, you’ll be beamed back to here, and you can continue.”

“And why would I even want to go there?” asked Jake abruptly. All of his fear and uncertainty faded and his arrogance was back. “Why should I risk my life for-”

“Well, if you allowed me to continue, you’d know by now!” snapped the Gatekeeper. “It is said that whomsoever manages to climb to the top will receive a power beyond anything that humans can imagine.”

Jake pondered the Gatekeeper’s words for a moment.

“Can I leave?” he asked.

“Naturally,” said the Gatekeeper. “As long as you don’t take a single step up the Stairway you can go as you came. But once you start ascending, turning back will cost you… everything.”

Before long, Jake decided. Whatever was at the top was surely worth more than a few meager photos.

“Were there others that tried to ascend it before?” asked Jake.

“Thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe,” replied the Gatekeeper.

“And none ever succeeded?”

“None.”

“Well, I’ll be the first one to do it,” proclaimed Jake.

The Gatekeeper raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“That’s a bold claim,” he said, “but what do you have to back it up? Pardon me for being forthright, but you don’t look like a great warrior or a thinker. What makes you so sure you’ll be able to climb all the way to the top?”

“Because I am the best,” said Jake without a hint of emotion. “Best there ever was. There is nothing I cannot do.”

The Gatekeeper appeared mildly impressed.

“Well, good luck to you then,” he said after a brief silence. “Have fun, as ironic as that may sound. I’ll just be here looking for my boot.”

Not wasting a single second more, Jake lifted his foot and put it down on the first step.

In an instant, he felt as if someone doused his insides with freezing water. His vision blurred, and when he came to, he was seeing a scene completely different than the ruined lobby. It was daytime, and thick grey clouds covered the sky, spilling rain onto the streets of the city like there was no tomorrow.

Jake stood still, shocked. Despite all that happened in the last hour, he could hardly believe his senses. And yet, it was here before him. He even wore different clothes. Exactly like that day…

The Gatekeeper’s words came to his mind: he had to relive that memory and find a way out, and quick.

He hurried along the street, to the building he once called home. He knew what would happen when he unlocked the doors to his apartment. Hr knew the scene that he would see. And yet it prodded his heart. It was one of his worse memories.

He searched his pocket for his keys. Without fail, they were there. He reached the door to his former apartment: 207. Steeling himself for what was about to happen, he pushed the key into the lock and turned it, opening the doors and rushing inside.

He knew what he would see. And it still wasn’t any easier.

His first girlfriend from his high school days, Maddie, and his best friend from back then, Jason, were on the couch. They were both buck naked and were… going about their business.

Jake felt tears swelling in his eyes. It was at this day, five years ago, that he learned that he could trust no one.

Maddie noticed him in the doorway and yelped. Jason instantly turned around, cursed, and got away from Maddie, who did her best to wrap herself up in the blanked and look innocent.

Jason appeared inconvenienced by this. Jake knew exactly what he was going to say, and mentally repeated it before the words were even spoken.

“Jake… hey, buddy!” Jason laughed, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was still in his birthday suit. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon!”

Jake bit his lip, tasting his blood in his mouth. Everything was exactly how he remembered it.

Almost everything.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake spotted something like a glitch in the Matrix. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there. An aluminum baseball bat was placed precariously on his cupboard.

That wasn’t there that day. And Jake knew why.

He picked up the bat, and swung it without a moment of hesitation, smashing Jason’s skull.

His former friend fell to the floor, the side of his head spewing blood like a fountain. Maddie screamed and jumped over the side of the couch, trying desperately to get away.

Jake positioned himself between her and the doors, cutting off her escape route. With no exit left, Maddie crumpled to the floor and started weeping.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jake!”

He was having none of it. He raised his bat and swung it again, hitting her in the head. Blood sprayed and splashed his eyes. Before he could clean it out, his vision went blurry again.

Once again, he felt doused in cold water. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the lobby, his right foot on the first step.

“Well, well, that didn’t take long!” Gatekeeper exclaimed. He was still rummaging through the junk on the floor, looking for his boot.

Jake tasted the blood in his mouth. So that was real.

“What happened there wasn’t really real,” said the Gatekeeper as if he read Jake’s mind. “But your body reacted to what you did, and you sorta bit yourself a little bit. I advise you to be more careful in the future.”

Without a word, Jake took another step.

His first stimulus was the sound of screaming. When his vision cleared, he stood at the banks of the river. A bunch of children were standing at the edge of the water. They were all waving and screaming. And Jake soon remembered why.

Without hesitation, his 13-year-old body broke into run, and before he knew it, he dove into the rapids, and started swimming towards the linchpin of this memory.

It was his friend, Cyrus, who nearly drowned on that day.

On that day, Cyrus survived only because of a brave fisherman who was there in time to save him. Jake didn’t dare to jump in the water, and he spent his entire life in regret because of that. It was on this day that he promised himself that he would no longer fear anything.

Jake swam up to Cyrus, clutching his arm, and dragging him to the shore. He felt he was slowly loosing his battle against the raw power of the river, but he wouldn’t give up. No. He couldn’t.

Finally, he felt another hand grasp his own, and he was pulled out onto the shore along with Cyrus. His sight went blurry again.

When he came to, his left foot was on the second step. He felt tired, like it all actually happened.

“You’re not looking too good, sport,” said the Gatekeeper. He found his boot and was currently fastening it with his one remaining hand. “I don’t know what you saw, but you were shivering like a willow branch on the river.”

Jake stepped on the third step.

He found himself in his seven-year-old body, to a scene he hoped he would never have to remember again. His father was crumpled on the floor, blood streaming from the wound on his head mixing with the shards of the scotch bottle.

And his mother was there. Violently kicking his father’s unconscious body.

“Worthless pile of meat. Get up, you lousy bastard!”

Jake remembered all too well how his mother abused him and his father. He still bore scars from that. But he also remembered how his father would take it: stoically, like he was a marble statue. And only because he wasn’t allowed to fight back or report her to the authorities. He loved Jake dearly, and would endure storms just to be near him. But if he divorced from his harpy wife...

But this time, his mother took it up a notch. Instead of mere verbal abuse or a few slaps or punches, she shattered a bottle over his head.

“Get up! Get up and deal with it, you shithead!” Jake’s mother bellowed drunkenly.

“And you!” she screamed, turning towards him, “you are no better than this swine. You will never amount to anything!”

Jake knew what would happen: how his mother would be taken by the police, and how his father would be taken by ambulance. And how his late aunt and uncle would hug him and take him to their home.

And on that day, he promised to himself that he would one day be able to do anything.

But he wasn't able to do anything. Not now. He couldn’t take it. He was just a child: a weak, tiny child against a grown woman. It was too much, knowing what would happen after this. Jake screamed and ran outside through the front door.

As soon as he stepped out, his vision went blurry. But something was wrong. This time, it felt like he had no insides at all.

His vision cleared in an instant. And what he saw shocked him.

He was back at the Stairway. And the Gatekeeper was in front of him. His expression was now void of all emotions.

“You lost, Jacob Sullivan,” he spoke, his voice little louder than a whisper.

Before Jake could rebel, the Gatekeeper shoved his skeletal fingers into his mouth. Jake felt incredible pain as something was dragged from his throat.

The Gatekeeper pulled out his fingers, holding something between them: a white, wispy substance, halfway between a fluid and a gas. He blew onto it, sending it flying like dandelion pods.

He turned to Jake again, and pressed his rotting maw onto his mouth. Jake felt his world going dark, and the last thing he saw before he passed was the decayed body of the Gatekeeper crumbling to dust.

Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Jake’s body lay still in the pile of dust.

Then suddenly, it moved. First a finger, then an arm, then a leg. It stood up, and looked at its surroundings, glaring at the familiar room with its bright, azure eyes.

Chapter Two: Ascent
Laura Doe stumbled past the thicket of pines, the hot summer night seeming to smolder her beaten body. But she didn’t like to think of herself like that anymore, as Laura Doe—not now that she was a new woman. Her own woman. No, she was Laura Fukuda, the name given to her at birth from the parents she remembered only as faceless trinkets from a better time. She didn’t know what had become of them before she was adopted at the age of five back in 1971, whether they were alive or dead. But even if they were still alive, she knew they wouldn’t recognize her. That had been forty-seven years ago. She was a different person… disillusioned with the world completely.

But as these thoughts raced through her head in a matter of seconds, she realized that she was standing in front of the ruins of her childhood home, her adopted home. She was a bit confused, as she had heard this place was supposed to be hundreds of years old, perhaps even thousands. She shuddered at the idea that perhaps it took the shape for her. She did not want to be back home.

She approached the door, which seemed to be a misfit amidst the ruins of the late-fifties suburban home. The overhang above the front porch was sagging, almost as if trying to crush her under its weight. But the door—the door was brand new. She could almost see her reflection in the shiny wooden finish, though the night would not permit it. She took a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob, which was cold to the touch—it reminded her of pond water in winter.

She opened the door.

It was a grim imitation of what she remembered. All the furniture was the same, sure—hell, she could even see the sewing machine her adopted mother had used from time to time between her hours as a receptionist—but it was in disarray… as if it had been left to rot since she’d last been inside the place more than thirty years before.

“Please knock, it is very disrupting of my thoughts to have visitors come barging in unannounced.”

The voice was unemotional, as if it had merely said so out of flat self-amusement rather than genuine annoyance.

Laura looked towards the voice and saw an elderly Japanese woman sitting on the couch, staring at a blank television. She wasn’t exactly sure how she hadn’t noticed the woman before, as she was in direct view from the doorway.

“I—I apologize very deeply, ma’am.”

“Yup. Well, I suppose you’re here to actually utilize this establishment? Or maybe you’re like that knucklehead who came here a few months ago and just wandered in…. Wandering these pines for some reason that really isn’t my business but one in which I will pry nonetheless.”

“I… don’t understand,” Laura said. She clasped her hands together nervously.

The woman turned her face towards Laura and she gasped—her eyes were missing and the skin seemed to be on the verge of decay… like a dead corpse.

“Hm. Another knucklehead, I guess. Well, you’d best get out if you don’t know what you’re doing here, then.”

“I know what I’m doing here. And pardon my rudeness, but what exactly are you doing here, sitting around and interrogating me?”

She tried to ignore the woman’s features as she stood up and strode over to her, pale in the moonlight that streamed in from the windows and collapsed holes in the roof.

“I’m the Gatekeeper. Obviously, you don’t know much if you didn’t expect me. Say, are you Japanese by chance?” Her hands were gnarled and slightly bloated, and a strange smell emanated from her person.

Laura composed herself, trying to shake off her bloodshot nerves from the night’s events—the ones that had led her here to begin with—and smoothed the white knee-length dress she hadn’t been able to wear in years.

“Why, yes, yes I am. But what does that have to do with anything?”

The woman stroked her chin thoughtfully before responding.

“Well, you see, a Japanese woman with a striking resemblance to yourself came in just recently. Right after that knucklehead I mentioned earlier, actually. A strange thing, to see three visitors in such a short amount of time. Before that kid came stumbling in, it had been decades since I had seen another soul. I believe before the kid, it was some war-crazed Marine. At least he wanted something. That kid was just a drunken idiot. Got what came to him.

“Anyways, I digress. Yes, the other day this elderly Japanese woman came in, and she looked a lot like you. She didn’t seem to want to talk much, but hell, how can I help myself? Two visitors practically back to back! Anyways, she mentioned that she had heard whispers of this place and had spent years tracking it down. Said she wanted to use the powers offered here to find someone very dear to her. Someone she hadn’t seen in many, many years…. Let’s see here. Gonna get a good look at you.”

The woman grabbed Laura’s face with her cold bloated fingers like she was some kind of specimen, one of great scientific interest. Her cold empty eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

“Please forgive me,” the woman said. “I’ve found it a bit hard to see since then, as she did happen to gouge out her eyes before she was through.”

She took another moment, and every fiber in Laura’s weary body screamed for her to run away. Something was not right here. Something besides the woman seeming to be a living corpse. It was as if she were speaking through a mouth not her own.

“Ah, very interesting. Yes, clearly of Japanese descent, just like her. Same strong jawline. An odd bit of youth in the face. Thick hair, white—though yes, that’s age, not what I’m looking for. Similar height, though you seem to be far more emaciated than she was. Middle-aged. Early fifties, I’d say, despite the hair. And those eyes, my lord, there’s a raging fire in them. You’re here to prove yourself, aren’t you?”

Laura nodded her head in the woman’s strong grip, which was subsequently released.

“What’s your name, stranger? Bill? Billy? Billy Bob? Billy Bob Joe? No? What is it?”

“L…Laura Fukuda,” she stammered, trying to appear unfazed by the present ordeal. She could see herself in the woman’s face.

“Fukuda? Why, that’s simply amazing! You see, the last woman to come through here’s name was Fukuda. Himari Fukuda.”

Laura shambled over to the couch as the ground seemed to spin out from under her.

“And she said she was looking for her daughter.”

Laura had to close her eyes to keep herself from looking at the woman.

“She said her daughter’s name was Laura. Say, that ring a bell?”

“Who are you?” Laura whispered hoarsely. Her eyes were still closed.

“You deaf? I told you, I’m the Gatekeeper. Don’t worry, I’m not Himari. My name… well, I don’t remember my name. But Himari is gone. And my guess will be that soon, she’ll turn to dust. And then you’ll be gone, too.”

“Shut up,” Laura muttered through clenched teeth.

“And she wasn’t the first. And you won’t be the last.”

Laura’s hands clenched tightly. They were ready to strike. It wouldn’t be the first time they had that night.

“I said, shut up,” she repeated. Her eyes now bore into the sockets of the Gatekeeper’s.

“What? Has this place gotten to you already? Oh, my, then you really better leave while you still can.”

Laura stood up slowly, forcing her body not to lash against this monstrosity.

“Out of my way.”

“Tell me why, first.”

Laura grabbed the Gatekeeper’s neck and threw her into the television, the glass shattering around the old woman’s shambling corpse. Laura turned her head towards the stairs and she began to march towards them, fire blazing in her chest.

“Wait.”

Laura ignored her and kept marching towards them, noticing how she couldn’t seem to see the upstairs rooms at all.

“Laura, wait.”

Laura stopped and turned her head back towards the ghostly scene, where the Gatekeeper stood erect by the couch again.

“Huh. Maybe you’ll have the determination in you after all. But… why is it that you want to do this? You do know that once you begin, you can’t stop, right?”

“It’ll be nothing I haven’t experienced before.”

The Gatekeeper shook her head, and Laura noticed patches of hair missing. She looked back up at her.

“But can you experience it again?”

Laura stood for a moment before turning her head back to the stairs, saying nothing.

“Why? If you want to know if you have a chance, then you must know why.”

Laura sighed.

“To take hold of the life I’ve never lived. Now let me be.”

Laura approached the stairs and looked up.

Darkness.

“It’s called the Stairway of Chaos for a reason, Laura.”

Laura ignored her and took a deep breath.

She raised her foot.

“None have succeeded.”

She turned one last time back towards the Gatekeeper. Back towards the shambling corpse of the mother she hadn’t seen in forty-seven years.

“You won’t be the first.”

Laura put her foot on the first step.

Her insides froze over as if the teeth of some wraith had bitten into her. She winced and suddenly found herself back in the doorway of the house she was in. But it was daytime, and everything seemed bigger. And neater.

She looked up and saw her adopted father, Robert Smith, staring down at her. She could feel the bookbag on her back and noticed that her adopted mother, Betty Smith, was coming through the door behind her. Laura knew where she was.

She was home.

And it was spring, 1973. Laura was seven years old.

“Laura,” her father said, face cold. “Your school called me today. Would you like to tell me what you think they told me?”

Laura shook her head, too afraid to speak. Robert scared her too much.

“Laura, answer your father,” Betty ordered.

Laura sniffled and mumbled indistinguishably. She seemed to be watching herself through her own eyes, not entirely in control of herself.

“I’m sorry?” Robert asked angrily.

“I got in a fight,” she said.

“There you go, Laura. Would you mind telling me why?”

“Because Jimmy said I didn’t belong. He called me a dirty Jap. He said he was gonna kill me like the Japanese killed his grandfather in the war.”

Robert raised his eyebrows.

“So? Why’d you decide to hit him?”

“Because he’s been mean to me ever since I came here. And my friend, Eric, said that if I stand up to him, that he’ll leave me alone.”

“Laura, you got suspended from school. We brought you into this home, now you better fucking respect some of the rules around here! What’s rule number one?”

“Ladies don’t speak unless spoken to.”

“That’s right. What’s rule number two?”

“Ladies never talk back.”

“Rule number three?”

“Ladies never hit.”

“And rule number four?”

“Boys are always… always right.”

Laura was starting to cry.

“That’s right, Laura. And do you know how many rules you broke today?”

“All of them.”

“That’s right. Now come upstairs to your room. You need to be disciplined.”

She shuffled up the stairs, the ones she had just moments ago begun her journey on. They came up to her room, where he slammed the door behind her.

“This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you,” he said robotically. He never meant it.

She wiped her tears and set down her bag as he took off his belt and began to beat her with it over and over again. She tried not to scream, but she couldn’t help herself. Which was unfortunate, because screaming just made him hit harder.

She realized that it was finally over. She’d had her eyes closed, and was flinching, ready to receive the next blow. But she instead she heard the clink of the belt as he put it back on.

“Now, stay in here. You’re not to leave this room for three months except to go to school and go on two bathroom breaks per day. You know the drill. You can only go to the bathroom when your mother or I are present. Go to bed. No supper tonight.”

Laura nodded sheepishly as he closed the door. Suddenly, Laura felt more in control of her body than before. She looked around the room, taking in the scene of so many bleak childhood memories.

Then she spied the window.

It hadn’t been opened earlier, and she felt strangely compelled to climb out of it, to run away forever. Then she remembered where she really was, and that she had to find her way out.

She snuck over to the window and closed her eyes, hoping that she wouldn’t hit the ground. Because in reality, in the past, she hadn’t run away. Not yet.

She jumped and felt as though she had fallen into a frigid lake. And then she was back in the decrepit house she’d just left.

“Well, that took a while,” the Gatekeeper said. “But, it’s too late to turn back now.”

Laura ignored her and stamped her foot onto the second step, preparing for the coldness that followed.

She was standing on a sidewalk, now, in the city, far away from the suburbs of 1973. She took a look around and saw that it appeared she was walking down 2nd Street, the street she had frequented many times, but hadn’t seen in a long time. She looked down at the clothes she was wearing and took note of the high heels, fish-nets, mini skirt, and crop top. She tried to remember when she was, and realized: February, 1985. She was nineteen years old, though her body screamed twenty-one. And she had taken advantage of that.

She had been a runaway for a year and a half. She’d left the Smith home when she was seventeen and kept moving until she finally turned eighteen in January of 1984. She laid low for a while until she decided to become what she liked to think of as a self-employed call girl, though some would call her a prostitute. On one hand, she enjoyed being independent, but she knew she didn’t want this. She kept telling herself that she would only do it until she could get a place of her own. She needed savings, and the quickest way to do that in this city was to sell your body. Maybe after she had some financial security she would get a different job. One that didn’t require her to put out.

She was in control of herself now, and, going on a whim, she began heading towards the diner she and her best friend, Rebecca, would frequent together on Mondays and Wednesdays. She was another independent call girl, though Laura feared she wasn’t careful enough. Rebecca had been hanging around a lot of men involved in orchestrating the local sex trade. Sure, it didn’t matter how careful you were, necessarily, but Rebecca was careless.

She continued down 2nd Street, and about a block before she would come to 3rd Street she heard a scream. It was late, and she didn’t see anybody nearby. She heard the scream again and froze. She remembered this.

She raced back and stopped in front of a dark alleyway.

Those screams belonged to Rebecca.

But she wouldn’t repeat the mistake she’d made back in 1985. She wouldn’t become paralyzed with fear and allow her friend to be raped and murdered.

Quickly, Laura yanked off her high heels and charged down the alleyway, and there, sure enough, was Rebecca with a large figure shadowing over her, thrusting up and down.

Stealthily, she went up behind him and without a moment’s hesitation pulled the gun out from his pants lying on the ground and shot him in the head. He fell like a ton of bones on top of Rebecca. Thirty years ago, she wasn’t able to do that. But Laura was not the same. Laura would not let anybody stand in her way.

She lowered the gun and pushed the man’s body off of her friend, who was sobbing profusely, mascara streaming down her cheeks like a cold river. She looked up into Laura’s eyes, and for a moment, Laura was stunned. She hadn’t seen Rebecca in over thirty years.

“That’s some mighty fine crying going on over there,” Laura heard behind her. “Not so tough anymore, are you? I gotta say, it almost hurt when you threw me into that TV. These bones aren’t as strong as that kid’s were. I’d gotten used to them, you know. What a shame, to be in this feeble shell.”

Laura ignored the Gatekeeper and kept pressing forward, each step bringing a fresh pain into her heart. She felt beaten, betrayed, and left for the gutter. But she would not give up now. Not when freedom was so close. Even if she had to relive every moment of her life, all fifty-two years of it. Even if every last drop of her own blood had to be shed, she would get whatever it was up there that would grant her the ability to live the rest of her life on her own terms. Every last drop.

Finally, after having seemingly lived a second lifetime, she found herself facing a wall of darkness. She looked behind her, and the Gatekeeper was but a speck below her, the size of an ant. She was bloody, her muscles were on fire, and she felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her chest. She heard the Gatekeeper call out something below her, but she couldn’t make it out. She was too far away.

She looked down to see that she had only two steps left. Heart thudding, she raised her foot, trying to see if she could skip the last two and go straight to the darkness in front of her, but she could barely get it to the next step.

She took the familiar icy plunge, and found herself in a basement, chained to a wall. She knew this place all too well. All too well.

She had been swept off of her feet by her own special Prince Charming while off-duty in 1986 by a man named John Doe. A boring name, sure, and yes, she had doubted him when he told her that was his name, but he was the real deal. A real John Doe. And he was the best man alive. In about a week after meeting him, they were officially dating, and about two weeks after that, they moved in together and she dropped her profession and began working at the diner she and Rebecca had frequented so much.

Six months later they were married.

Seven months later they had moved out-of-state.

That was when things went sour.

He quickly revealed his true intentions: to have a mindless baby machine who stayed home and did his every bidding. And it started with him refusing to let her get a new job.

“But babe, I’ve got such a good gig, you don’t need a job. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about anything other than piddling around the house and keeping things in order.”

Then he stopped her social life.

“If you fucking love me so much, then why do you need anybody else? Women can’t be trusted, and so I need you to tell me I’m all you need.”

Foolishly, she stayed with him. Her life had broken her into this pattern, and she couldn’t break it yet. Not until 1991, when his pot roast wasn’t hot when he came home. They’d also just gotten bad news: Laura would never have children. What use was she to him anymore? She was just his personal chef. That was her purpose in life: to make pot roast.

He beat her. He beat her bad. He even grabbed a knife at one point and tried to kill her. So she broke. She tried to kill him back.

But he won.

He didn’t kill her, per say, but he almost did. Several broken bones, gouges all over her, and even several burns across her back.

“Can’t have you misbehaving again, now can we?” he’d said.

And by that, he meant chaining her up in the basement and feeding her wet dog food and leaving her in her own waste for twenty-seven years.

Twenty-seven fucking years.

Twenty-seven years as his sex slave, to be used and beat whenever he damn well desired.

Laura looked at the calendar on the wall and saw that it read July 16, 2018.

Those numbers were alien to her. Her husband thought that by keeping a calendar down there, he could torment her by showing her how much of her life she was missing. But 2018 meant nothing to her. As far as she was concerned, she had been in hell for an eternity. Luckily for her, they were getting older. He no longer wished to beat her and break her. Only use her as a sex doll. She had been waiting for this. The day when he was tired, and she was strong.

And he was coming down the stairs.

In every relived memory, Laura had been forced to do something different than what had actually transpired. But she could feel that this was different. She could tell that she was supposed to repeat history. She was supposed to repeat history and go to the Stairway of Chaos. The legendary beacon of terrifying hope she’d heard rumors of in decades past, before she had become John Doe’s dog. And she’d heard that it was on the very outskirts of town, no less. And once she made it back, she would go inside and find herself at the top of the stairs, and she would relive the final memory before traipsing into that exciting Unknown.

And to do so she needed to kill John Doe once more.

She listened as he clambered down the creaky stairs, wheezing and coughing from years of chain-smoking and beer guzzling. Her excitement mounted, and she forgot how tired she was, how much she had been drained. If she had done it once, she could do it again.

“Hey, baby,” she said seductively as he opened the door and stuck his pudgy, pockmarked face in.

“The fuck you just say?”

He was drunk.

“You’re not to speak a goddamn word, you Asian bitch. Don’t wanna hear the words of a fuckin’ treacherous tramp like you. Now you be quiet, and let’s just get this over with.”

She waited as he fumbled with the padlocks, his hands shaking violently.

The chains were loose.

Laura patiently bid her time, watching again for the perfect moment to strike.

And it came. Right as his head was lowered to take his smelly yellow underwear off, she grabbed the dog bowl and smashed it into his skull.

“Gah! You fuckin’ whore!”

She lunged forward, the chains loose enough for her to jab her fingernails into his eyeballs.

“You fuckin’ cunt of a bitch! I’m gonna rip you limb from limb!”

But Laura knew she had him. She wouldn’t get tired.

Or so she thought.

As she had him on the ground, hands clamped around his throat, she suddenly found that she no longer had the energy she’d had earlier that same night. Her heart began to pound harder and harder, and her muscles grew weaker. John Doe took his chance. He pushed her off of him and began to strangle her himself. But she was too weak. She’d suffered a lifetime within a single night. There was no way her body could handle it. And she knew this as her vision began to fade.

She was standing in the stairs once more, head pulsing and vision darkened. Hazily, through the fog in her brain, she saw that she had but one step to go. But as she raised her foot, her legs gave way, and she went tumbling back down the stairs. Each and every one of them. She tumbled past the hundreds of steps she had made, past each and every horrible second of her life.

The Gatekeeper said nothing as Laura Fukuda slid onto the ground floor. The Gatekeeper said nothing as in her dying breath, she reached towards the Gatekeeper’s face and croaked ''Himari Fukuda…. Mother….''

The Gatekeeper simply stuck her fingers into Laura’s mouth and pulled out a pale, shining essence and blew it out.

The Gatekeeper said nothing as the body of Himari Fukuda crumbled into nothingness.

Laura Fukuda never saw anything else.

Chapter Three: Hubris
Dean Porter’s eyes shifted from the rear view mirror, down to the bulging satchel within his back seat. He had not seen a vehicle following but his paranoia had not faded since his hasty retreat from the First South Financial building. The sun had long since waned and as he flicked on his headlights a passage came into view between a large groves of pines.

The wheels of his Chevy Nova angled toward the path, kicking up dust as the rear of the car followed behind. Within moments it came to a stop beneath what may have been a beautiful home at one time. The grounds around him had become littered with loose shingles and broken glass. It was evident the property was vacant and would be the perfect place to lay low for the night.

After parking his car out of direct sight, he grabbed the beige bag from the back seat and began his way to the door. The tip of his boot pushed upon the ornate wood door and it creaked to life. A few steps in, his eyes passed over an array of disheveled and dismembered housewares. The door was forced shut by his heel and the duffel bag tossed to the side with a thud before he even noticed the expanse of stairs that lay before him.

Dean’s eyes furrowed, confused by how immaculate the steps seemed to be in comparison to the rest of the house. His curiosity drew him closer to the feature, his hand resting upon the banister. The steps seemed to rise higher than even the roof would allow and Dean could only assume it was an allusion in the architecture. His boot rose slightly, his body readying to ascend the steps.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice echoed from behind him in the dark. This caused Dean’s body to jerk to the right and crouch, eyes widened to search the night.

“Who’s there?” he asked, his right hand landing on the 9mm that rested in the back of his waist band.

The silence was broken by shuffling and soon a frail figure leaned against a small desk in the corner of the room. Dean could not make out many features in the dim light but something about the way the person was standing lead him to believe they must be injured.

“You don’t want to start out that way boy,” the female voice spoke again with exasperation in the tone. Dean began to remove his pistol, the metal catching what little moonlight that offered him sight.

“And that thing won’t do you any good either,” the figure said with a sigh.

Dean ignored the comment and raised the pistol, aiming at the looming silhouette before calling out, “I asked… who are you?”

“Fine, fine,” the figure spoke again as it attempted to come closer. It hobbled a bit, favoring one leg until it reached a chair that was nearer to Dean. As the moonlight lay upon the form Dean could discern that it was an aging Asian woman. Her skin hung loose to her, almost unnaturally. Bruising and cuts scattered about her arms and legs but the most notable detail had been the ankle that had given her trouble. The joint bent at a painful angle, causing Dean to wince at the thought of how excruciating it must be.

“I am the Gatekeeper,” the words coming between haggard breaths, “And you don’t have to tell me who you are because you will never make it past the first step.”

The safety released on the gun with the flick of thumb, the sound echoing into the emptiness of the room before Dean responded, “What are you talking about lady and why are you sitting here in this run down old house?”

“I might as well tell you and get this over with,” her fatigue hanging on every word. “You see,” a thin finger edged out toward the staircase, “That is the Stairway of Chaos.”

Dean blinked rapidly, his head tilting slightly, “The what?!?!?”

The wrinkled woman rubbed at her forehead for a moment, “You’re going to have to pay attention. I am far too tired to repeat myself. That is the Stairway of Chaos and at the top is more power than you could possibly ever imagine but…like I said, it doesn’t matter because you won’t make it past the first step.”

“You don’t know anything about me, lady,” Dean barked as he brought the weapon upward pointedly.

“I know enough, like how I doubt that’s your overnight bag over there,” her eyes cutting toward his satchel, “And I know that this lady had far more determination than you, and she didn’t make it either. No one ever has.”

“Power huh?” Dean smirked and looked up the stairs. He couldn’t see the top but how bad could it be, it was just a bunch of steps. He almost took a step, the old lady shaking her head at the sight, then he paused and turned to her again, “What’s the catch?”

The Gatekeeper smirked, “You almost forgot to ask. Now, that would have been interesting.”

“Yeah, yeah…out with it,” Dean snapped.

“Ok, I apologize. I always tell people the whole story but I am getting so tired of this. I am starting to lose count with as many of you that have come recently,” she spoke while gesturing with her hands. The Gatekeeper trailed off in thought for a moment, trying to recall exactly how many had made the trek.

The woman’s face shook slightly, “No matter, the point is that with each step you must relive a horrible memory, down to the most gruesome detail. If you can manage your way out, you get to advance to the next step. If not, well…you lose.”

A smile crept across Dean’s lips as he looked back up the steps. He had gotten out of some of the worst things imaginable in his twenty-nine years on Earth and had never needed help from anyone. He could manage a few bad memories and some stairs.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes with that power and we will see who is smiling then,” Dean huffed.

The Gatekeepers smirk never faded as she spoke, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, kid.”

Dean’s boot rose slightly before dropping upon the hardened wood, instantly feeling a tingle rise up his thigh. A feeling like being bathed in ice water overcame him before finding himself huddled behind a desk within the pitch black basement of his childhood home. Heavy steps bore down on the entrance to this room and Dean knew what was next. His drunken step-father would find his way through the clutter and when he found the boy he wouldn’t relent until bones broke.

Dean never had to do much of anything to fuel the temper of his step-father, but tonight he had found a sliver of bravery when he finally decided to stand up to him. He had landed one firm punch to the large man’s temple, ending the beating his mother was enduring. With one look of hell in his step-father’s eyes, all that courage faded away. He knew what would come and his mother could do little to help in her state. He simply quivered in the night as boxes where shoved aside amidst yelling and cursing.

Then Dean noticed a shimmer of light beside him. His biological father had left behind various items and the hand-made wrapping around this knife was unmistakable. It felt large in his twelve year old hands but he gripped it tight. In an instant he bound over the desk, the blade plunging deep in his step-father’s side. Dean screamed out in the night, tears flowing from his eyes as his step-father lumbered over in pain. He struck again and again, being coated in his abuser’s blood before opening his eyes again.

“That was interesting,” said the Gatekeeper across the room. Dean wiped at his face, the remnants of his fright still wet on his cheeks. Then brought up his other foot to take a step.

“Piece of cake,” Dean said as the cold overcame him again.

His view quickly changed from the stairs to being pelted with cold drops of water. He backed up and realized he was standing naked within a tiled room, fitted with multiple shower spigots. His eyes widened and heart pounded at the thought of being back in the prison shower. He quickly turned to the entrance to see a balding hulk of a man step through and another stand in the doorway to keep look out for the guards. He remembered that this incident left him in the hospital for weeks and he had nightmares of it for a year. He rushed the man, tossing a right hook to his jaw. His would-be attacker stumbled slightly before upper-cutting Dean in the stomach. Air rushed from his lungs as he crumpled to the floor.

The man regained his balance before the other man entered to help his partner. The two approached him quickly, each one smiling at the thought of what would come next, turning make-shift weapons in their hands.

“You know what time it is Dean, just stop fighting,” the largest of the tattoo laden figured bellowed.

“Fine,” Dean said with a sigh and slowly moved to a kneeling position. He rested upon the hard tile floor as the men approached. When they came within reach he sent a fist for the first one’s crotch, causing him to double over in pain. When Dean’s other hand went to strike, it was caught by a man to his left. One on his right dropped his knuckles into Dean’s nose with a crack. Blood spattered the tile beneath him and the pain forced his eyes shut. He knew what was next. If he could not escape he would either be dead or wish he was. The last time he had been left for dead on the shower floor, but he could not let that happen again.

His eyes opened slightly, gasping for air through the crimson streaks across his mouth. He quickly rolled to his right, bringing the man that still held his left arm along with him. The man slammed to the tile with a thud just as Dean’s fist jammed into his attacker’s throat. The other swung a sharpened toothbrush Dean’s way, jabbing it into his shoulder. Dean growled in pain, but through it he found the strength to shove his heal into the man’s knee cap. An audible crack was heard and the leg gave out under the weight of the man. When both lay immobile upon the floor Dean rose to his feet and quickly exited the showers.

When he returned to the steps he gasped for air, wiping at is mouth and nose with the back of his jacket sleeve. It had all felt so real, he could even taste the blood in his mouth. A pain pulsed within his cheeks, causing him to wince. Two of his fingers reached within his mouth, retrieving a tooth that had been dislodged.

“Do I even want to know what all that was about?” The Gatekeeper asked with raised brow.

“Just keep your mouth shut, hag,” Dean said, dropping the tooth to ground and placing another step forward. Again he was frozen in place, his mind assuming that nothing else from his past could possibly be as bad as what he had just endured. When the vision renewed he finally understood just how wrong he could be.

Sand permeated his clothing and the heat was unbearable. He could feel the steel of his M4 within his palms and the stock butted neatly into his shoulder. His eyes were trained on a small village boy over his iron sights. He stood in a desert marketplace smack-dab in the middle of Kandahar, just as he had a few years prior. The boy was approaching a caravan of U.S. vehicles and Dean happened to notice a bulge under his clothing. It had been typical for insurgents to use children as weapons and Dean knew what he should do.

Everything he had been trained to do told him that this boy must die to save a dozen other lives and he remembered what he had done previously. It was hard to forget, knowing that his whole military career came to an end because of it. He had to stop the boy but he felt himself hesitate on the trigger once again. The young man couldn’t have been more than ten years old and had so much life left. The whole idea that a world would allow something like this was unfair. Just as unfair as his entire life had been.

He had fallen so far from those days as a soldier. Find himself doing horrible things, such as stealing large sums of money instead of living up to the flag he bore in that desert. It could have saved him from the dark path he had taken that lead him to prison. After years of being the poster child for runaways, stealing everything he could pawn for cash, and destroying other people’s property for kicks, he finally had made something of himself. He had to make it right, but at what cost?

The weight of his finger on the trigger relented and soon he ran for the boy, “Hey!” He yelled out, hands waving, and rushed toward the caravan. Diving, his body shoved the boy to the ground and began screaming, “You don’t have to do this!”

Tears rolled off the tiny cheeks of the boy as he whispered, “I don’t have a choice.”

The explosion propelled Dean backward, filling his form with shrapnel and when he landed he found himself at the base of the stairs. His head rested upon the duffel bag he had brought in and holes littered his clothing. He gasped for air as the familiar wrinkled face of The Gatekeeper shuffled over top of him.

“Just when I was starting to like you,” she said shaking her head. Two thin digits extended toward Dean’s mouth and plunged inward. It returned clutching a wisp of light, and with a breath that ember had been smote. Then a finger tapped Dean on the forehead, her mouth resting upon Dean’s. Within moments the aging Asian woman fluttered to ash.

The entire room became still for a few moments before the young man’s form rose from the floor and grasped for the bag. A few steps away the knob to what appeared to be a closet was opened and the bag tossed inside atop a pile of unneeded trinkets before the door was shut and the young man took a seat at the desk.

“At least you made it past the first step,” The Gatekeeper said with a shrug.

Chapter Four: Compassion
Standing before the ruined building, Yukio thought that she must’ve wandered astray. She was expecting a standard American house, or an old villa, or a manor.

But what stood before her were the remains of a traditional Japanese castle. Minuscule in size, but there was no mistaking it for anything else.

However, the doors were a dead giveaway: Yukio knew that not a single castle in the world would have gates engraved with such motifs.

And in such perfect, symmetric and orderly fashion.

After a moment of deliberation, she pushed them open. She felt their extreme weight, and outstanding balance. No way that these were merely oak doors. They were certainly reinforced with iron.

Inside was in just a bad shape as the outside: broken furniture littered the floor, no lights burned, and only the pale moonlight illuminated the room of impressive size.

But the Stairway was in the perfect condition.

A few steps later, Yukio was close enough to touch the polished wooden fence, and the grand marble steps.

“You can come out now!” she called.

Silence was her only response.

“Come on now, I know you’re here. Don’t tell me you’re ashamed.”

“Hardly,” answered the cold, emotionless voice. “I figured that someone would come tonight as well. I’m merely mildly surprised by the colour of your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Yukio asked the darkness.

“It’s very… pink.”

"Got something against pink?” asked Yukio defiantly.

“I never said I did. I only said it surprised me. Also, you might want to look me in the eye while we talk. I’m to your left, next to the wardrobe.”

Yukio turned to the given direction, and her eyes fell on the figure that stood there. A figure of the man in his late twenties, with long black hair and a dark leather jacket.

But that is where all the similarities with the human being stopped. His revealed skin was dotted by pockets of decay. His lips were missing, giving the impression that he was grinning. His eyes were bright azure.

Yukio covered her mouth at the sight before her.

“Yes, yes, I’m a rotting corpse. Surprise of surprises.” The Gatekeeper took a few steps toward her. “Now, I’ll assume you came here for the Stairway.”

“I did.” Yukio’s expression suddenly turned somber. “I need it.”

“For what purpose, if I may ask?”

Yukio looked at him. Her brilliant green eyes were no longer joyous, but as serious as death.

“I want my life back. I want the childhood that was taken from me.”

“And,” spoke the Gatekeeper, “you think that the prize of the Stairway will give you that?”

“Granny Laura used to tell us kids about it.” Did her eyes play tricks on her or did the creature’s glowing eyes widen for a shortest of moments. “She told us how it could grant wishes.”

The creature pierced her with its glare.

“You used to live in the orphanage, didn’t you?”

This time, Yukio’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“I lost count of how many orphans came here over the course of time. I learned to recognize your sort ages ago. How you walk, how you talk… as easy to me as telling apart crows from vultures.”

Yukio stood quiet.

“You’re right,” she finally said. “I am an orphan. My father gave up on me. But Granny Laura took me in. I owe her my life.”

“And you think to throw it away to thank her? What on the world is going on through the heads of you children these days?”

“What do you mean ‘throw it away’?” frowned Yukio.

The remains of the Gatekeeper’s face stretched into a vicious Cheshire grin.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you, did she? How the Stairway forces you to relive your worst memories. How you would fail to climb it like all those that came before you.” He walked closer to her as he spoke. “How, once you fail, I’ll pull the soul from your pretty dead body and take it for a joyride.”

He stopped, now close enough for her to see her reflection in his eyes.

“I’m guessing she didn’t.”

Yukio was rendered silent for good five minutes. During that time, her eyes wandered from the Gatekeeper’s unnerving visage to the Stairway. She silently contemplated it. Was what the creature told her true? Was it truly worth it?

Finally, she looked him straight to the eye.

“I’ll do it.”

It was now the Gatekeeper’s turn to be surprised. His disturbing grin faded away as much as it was possible.

“Even after you know what awaits you, you’ll still go up there?”

Yukio smiled.

“Whatever that thing has to show me, I’ve already been through once. I’m sure I can do it again. And all things considered, it will be worth it.”

Gatekeeper was now the one silent.

“What is your name, girl?” he finally asked.

“Tanoshī Yukio,” she responded

“Well...” he finally said, still a bit surprised, “good luck to you, Tanoshī Yukio. For what it’s worth.”

As Yukio took her first step, she was washed over by a wave of cold. Her vision went blurry, and the steps in front of her contorted, forming the front porch of the house that belonged to her parents.

No. Not her parents.

Yukio remembered the day this memory was from. After her mother died from stomach cancer when Yukio was only five, her father remarried, not three months later, to a woman named Alice Steel. A woman that hated Yukio from the moment she laid her eyes on her. A woman who would make every day of her live for the next two years a living hell. A woman she nicknamed ‘Kira’ in secret due to her incredible cruelty. She still remembered the last words Alice spoke of her:

“Why do we even keep this little snot-nose around, Itsuki?”

Her father needed no more encouragement. He never truly loved Yukio. Alice was way more important to him, anyway.”

And now a seven year old Yukio stared at the doors that were just shut in her face. It started raining outside.

She remembered what happened next. How she roamed the streets aimlessly for what appeared to be eternity, until she was finally found, malnourished and feverish by officer Jackson, who immediately took her to the hospital.

She knew that she would survive, but also knew that she couldn’t afford her memory to last for so long. She dug into the pocket on her denim jacket and pulled out a handful of change. Perfect.

Five minutes of walk later, she was soaked, but she also found what she needed: a payphone.

She slid a quarter in it and dialed a number her late mother told her to use only in emergencies.

A few moments later, the voice responded from the other side.

“”

“”

She tried not to sound distressed, but it was clear that Granny Laura knew something was wrong.

“”

The call ended, but before Yukio was able to put the phone back, the cold washed over her again, and her vision blurred once more.

When she came back, she was sweaty and her breathing was ragged. She heard a faint chuckle on the side and turned to see the Gatekeeper a few steps in front of her, carelessly leaning on a fence.

“You can climb the stairs so fast?” she asked in disbelief.

“I can,” he responded with a grin. “They don’t appear to work on dead and undead. But they appear to have taken a number on you. You look positively battered, my dear.”

To his shock, Yukio responded with a smile.

“Like I said,” she said, struggling not to laugh at the shocked grimace on the Gatekeeper’s face, “if I did it once, I could do it again.”

Before the Gatekeeper had time to compose himself, she took another step.

Fifty steps later, and she showed no signs of fatigue or the desire to stop.

“How do you do that?” asked the Gatekeeper, nearly horrified as Yukio emerged from her fifty first memory with unwavering smile.

“Do what?” she asked, grinning at his perturbed expression.

“Walk out of there all giddy and carefree!” he half-shouted. “Most people would be bawling like babies by now, and yet you still smile! What, are you a masochist or something!?”

Yukio finally broke into laughter.

“No, nothing like that!” she said to the horrified Gatekeeper. “I just follow what Granny Laura told me: she said that the world may be bitter and sweet, but that if I look to the future with hope, I can pull through anything.”

The Gatekeeper stood in stunned silence as Yukio took another step. When she emerged, still smiling, he looked at her face with a pained grin.

“You Japanese women sure are tough,” he said silently.

“What do you mean… wait!” Yukio’s eyes grew wide. “Did… did Granny Laura come here too?”

“If you’re talking about Laura Fukuda, then yes: she did come here, about a week and a few ago. She almost made it to the top, but… she didn’t. Just like her mother before her.”

Yukio’s eyes filled with tears, but she stood her ground. “And now,” he continued, “it looks like her ‘daughter’ is doomed to fail as well.”

To his surprise, Yukio merely wiped of her tears and smiled again.

“Well,” she said in a shaky voice, “I guess that’s another thing to add to my wish list.”

The Gatekeeper looked at her, mortified.

“You almost remind me of myself in your age,” he said. “I too was optimistic and confident, although not nearly as much as you.”

“Did… did you try to climb the Stairway too?” asked Yukio.

“Aye, I did,” said the Gatekeeper. His cold voice started showing notes of Near Eastern accent. “It was so long ago. Seems like eternity...”

“Tell me!” perked up Yukio. “I want to know!”

Once again, the Gatekeeper was taken aback by the young girl’s optimism.

“Are you sure? It’s not a very pleasant tale.”

“I’m sure!” smiled Yukio. “I love stories.

“Very well then.” The Gatekeeper sat on the stair in the lotus pose. “Take a seat, would you,” he said to her.

“Are you sure, I can?” asked Yukio. “Wouldn’t want to fail because of a loophole.”

“Don’t worry,” said the Gatekeeper with as much smile as his mutilated face would allow. “As long as you don’t move up or down you can do whatever you want on the stairs you are on.”

Yukio sat on the stair, her back leaning on the fence.

“It all began,” started the Gatekeeper, “some 5,500 years ago.

***

I was but a boy then, living in a small, worthless village somewhere in Mesopotamia. It was a poor, thankless life, and I quickly learned the hardships of it.

But it did little good. Despite all out efforts, our crops and cattle were dying. The land dried up faster than the rare, weak rains could soak it. We were… desperate, to say the least.

Soon enough, people abandoned trying to work the land, and resorted to prayers. Day and night, they would pray, and I was told to pray with them.

Then, one night, the gods seemed to answer our prayers. One night, a star fell from the sky.

It landed about two reaches of an arrow out of our village: and naturally, we all went to investigate. What we found in a crater was an orb of some unknown metal. It opened, and a being stepped out. It looked like a man, but he was taller than even the tallest of us, his skin pale and his hair dark. He bore a great emerald on his forehead. And he was the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

He spoke to us in our language, telling us not to fear him. He said that his people heard of our plight and sent him to help us. And in an instant, all the people of the village were on their knees, praying and praising who they thought was one of the gods.

And he truly did help us. He taught us so many things. He taught us how to write and read and count. He taught us how to guide water from distant rivers to feed our lands. He taught us how to dig deeper than ever, and discover iron. He taught us how to trade. How to build buildings that would last a lifetime. How to prepare potions and ointments that cured the ill… And when all else failed, he would step in to fix things himself. When the emerald on his forehead glowed, the lame would walk, and the mute would sing.

In a mere decade of his guidance, we transformed out little village in a huge city. Other people came, and he instructed us to let them join us. “Do not forget,” he’d say, “the time when you were in poverty. Help others as I have helped you.”

More people would come every day, and more children would live to their maturity. In a decade, our numbers grew from merely 100 weary elders and weak children to 4,000 men and women. It seemed there was no end to our prosperity.

We loved the strange man, whom we named Master, and we wanted to make him our king. But he adamantly refused. He said that he came here to guide, not to rule, and that we should rule ourselves.

One day, the Master came to me, and called me by name.

“When I came to you” he said, “everyone from your village bowed down to me. Why do you think it is so?”

“They though you were one of the gods, Master,” I responded quickly.

“And yet you did not bow,” he said. “Why is it so?”

“Because, I knew you were not of the gods. I did not understand why then, but I do now. Gods take a lot, and give little. You take only what you need, and give back sevenfold. You cannot be of gods because you are greater than all of them”

He appeared to be satisfied with my answer: he declared me his apprentice, and said that he would teach me to carry on his legacy.

For days, I read from the strange metal books he brought with him. My mind was open to so many possibilities, so many ideas.

Three more years passed. And yet, despite all our wealth and prosperity, people seemed unhappy. Master was saddened by this greatly. He would talk to them for hours, and yet he could not discover what plagued them.

I decided to help both my people and the Master, and after many sleepless nights of study, I came to him with an idea: to build a device that would purge people of their ill memories.

He was immediately roused from his stupor. He was truly happy for the first time in months. He immediately commanded that the great amounts of stone, clay, wood, and metal were to be delivered to us.

We worked for days, without rest. Even with all our technological advances, I knew that what Master did was magic. For there was no other way to explain the things I saw. The lights that would surround the stones as he would speak to them. How the wood was always so easy to carve, yet held like it was of iron.

And, in just a fortnight, with invaluable help of a score of our strongest men, it was completed: a simple, yet large building of wood and bricks, and in its middle, the majestic staircase built from the beautiful white marble.

Master and I wasted no time, and gathered all the lethargic people before the construct.

“Climb these steps,” the Master said, “and your souls will be cleansed of any misfortunes that may plague you. And when you reach the summit, there will be nothing but peace and joy in your hearts!”

Master then offered me to be the first one to climb the stairs. I was overjoyed at his offer. I was eager to test our greatest creation, and… it became clear to me now how much did Master trust me.

But as soon as I stepped on the first stair, I knew something was wrong. Instead of bliss that should’ve overcame me, I felt only the freezing cold. Then, the light shined from the summit.

I didn’t even have the time to move: it enveloped me like water, and I felt my flesh and bones melt away, leaving behind only my naked spirit that would stay there since.

Seeing what happened to me, Master roared like an injured lion. But it was too late: I was beyond his help.

The people screamed, fleeing like frightened sheep. But the light was catching up to them. They could not escape.

Master, seeing that there was no other way, took a step up the stairs. I tried to warn him, but no words came out of me.

The light did not hurt him as much as me, but I could see his alabaster skin darkening, and his hair singing from the intense heat. Step after step, he grew weaker and weaker, until he finally reached the summit.

There, he knelt, facing the skies ans started a chant. I cold not understand him, but his body was fading fast, and, just as he finished his prayer… he disappeared, along with the ravenous light. Only the emerald that he bore was left of our great Master.

People managed to flee the city, but it was now completely leveled. Only the building with the staircase was left standing, for whatever reason. In fear, my people left that place, and scattered across the world, carrying with themselves shards of knowledge that Master bestowed unto them.

I, however, stayed there. I took the emerald that was left from the Master, and in an instant, my body grew back from inside out. I was amazed. However, as I soon noticed, I did not need food, water, or rest. I noticed that the cold or heat no longer affected me, and that I no longer felt pain. I also noticed that my flesh was decomposing on my bones.

The power of Master’s emerald became all too clear to me then. It was the source of all his knowledge, his magic. It was a part of his being. It was the power of the gods. And it was not meant for this world. So I decided to build a safe to guard it the only place I knew no one could ever reach it: the summit of what I came to call Stairway of Chaos.

Over the years, people came to claim the emerald, no doubt inspired by the tales of the scattered remnant of my people. I tried to talk them out of it every time, but I almost never succeeded. I guess the temptation of ultimate power outweighed the words of a talking corpse.

And over the years, I learned a few things: how the Stairway no longer outright killed, but instead forced one to relive their worst memories. How, once the ascendant failed, I felt their soul loosen the grip on their body, and my own soul dragging me towards them. How I was able to remove their soul out and move my own to a now vacant vessel.

For years, nothing changed. Until one day, all light vanished in front of my eyes. For a moment, everything was pitch black, and then, the light came back. But it was different. It wasn’t as bright, and it looked colder. When I looked outside, everything was green and lush, a complete opposite of my desert homeland

After 700 or so years of existing in Mesopotamia, Stairway and I have been moved to Peloponnese, at the peak of Minoan Civilization.

I spent another 350 years there, before being moved again. And for these last 4,000 years, the Stairway has been moving around the world. Sometimes it would stay in one place for decades, sometimes for mere weeks. Once, it stayed at the coast of a great sea for only a few seconds. And some 200 years before today, it settled here.

***

The Gatekeeper finished. They both sat in silence for a few minutes.

“So, if the emerald is so powerful, why didn't you ever use it?" asked Yukio.

"I did," said the Gatekeeper. "However, it doesn't seem to work for the dead. The only thing it does for me is that it will restore my decaying body whenever I touch it. I don't do it unless I have to, though: it's... an unpleasant process."

"Did you ever try to… just leave?” asked Yukio.

“I actually did,” responded the Gatekeeper. “but I can’t go. I’m bound to the Stairway. Did you see that fence outside?” Yukio nodded. “That is as far as I can go without some forcefield standing in my way.”

“Tell you what,” said Yukio as she got on her feet. “I only have about twelve or so steps left to the summit. Once I get the emerald, I’ll take you on a world tour. Anywhere you want. You have much to see. How’s that sound?”

The Gatekeeper chuckled.

“That sounds great. I’d love that.”

Yukio lifted her foot.

“Wait!” said the Gatekeeper.

Yukio turned to him. He placed his ravaged hand on her shoulder.

“Good luck, my friend,” he said, trying his best to smile.

“Thanks,” smiled Yukio before putting her foot down.

When her vision cleared, she found herself standing in a giant hospital room. Giant, because she was small, merely five years old.

The day she lost her mother to stomach cancer.

She looked around like a frightened fawn, her eyes desperately looking for her mother. She soon found her, lying in bed, smiling, despite looking almost as dead as the Gatekeeper. She ran up to her, and took her hand.

“Yukio-chan...” she said weakly.

“Mommy...” whimpered little Yukio. “Mommy, please don’t go.”

“What are you talking about, my little,” said Risa, forcing back her tears.”Mommy is just a bit ill. I’m not going anywhere.”

But Yukio couldn’t be fooled. She was no longer a stupid, gullible child, even if she looked like one now. She knew that her mother would die only three days later.

She also knew that she had to find a way out. But… she couldn’t just leave her mother. Even though this wasn’t real, she couldn’t just leave. Was there any harm in a few precious minutes…

“Yukio,” whispered Risa.

The Gatekeeper noticed Yukio’s body swerving and rushed to her, not a moment to soon to catch her as she fell back.

He checked for her pulse and breathing. There were no signs of violence on her. But she was undoubtedly dead.

“This… hasn’t happened in a while,” whispered Gatekeeper. “It’s been hundreds of years since one couldn’t force themselves to leave their memory. Since they stayed inside for too long, and their body died because it couldn’t breathe. And I warned you...”

A drop of blood poured out of his right eye and splashed on Yukio’s cheek. The only fluid left in his dead body.

“Stupid girl...”

He took her in his arms and started descending, his heavy boots echoing on still beautiful marble stairs through the somber silence of the night.

He placed her on his old desk and walked to the wardrobe, opening it and rummaging through the contents of the bag he placed inside for a few moments before finding what he was searching for: a 20-ounce glass jar.

He approached the desk and laid down the jar before opening Yukio’s mouths and reaching inside, pulling out a small wisp of flowing, bluish light, which he placed on the palm of his other hand.

“I can’t bring you back,” he said to the light, “but if you want, you can stay with me. There are a lot more stories I could tell you, and we have an eternity before us.” As a response, the light gleamed brighter for a moment. Gatekeeper reached for the jar and brought it closer, causing the small light to leap and glide over to the open jar.

Gatekeeper managed to put a lid on it and place it back on the table just before his body crumbled to dust.

Moments later, Yukio’s body rose up and its azure eyes fell on the small light in the jar which, witnessing its former body move, started to flutter wildly, shining like the electrode on the welding machine.

The Gatekeeper brought the jar to his face.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said in the combination Yukio’s voice and his own, “I’ll take good care of your body.”

He smiled.

“God, I sure am glad nobody was around to hear that.” Hastily readjusting his composure, he ran his hand over his head.

"I can get used to pink."

Chapter Five: Youth
The dilapidated concrete asylum stood menacingly over the stone path, draping a shadow over the mud-covered landscape that surrounded it. A harsh gust blew through the dried, decaying pines strewn across the property, scattering needles over the sodden terrain. Overhead, the autumn sun was masked by the clouded sky, as a lingering imprint of the end of a passing rainstorm.

A middle-aged man stood in front of the entrance to the vast building. In the rays of sunlight that peeked through the overcast, his greying hair was illuminated dully, barely long enough to allow itself to be blown by the wind. A pale green collared shirt was bunched over his distended waist, just the right length to hide the leather belt struggling to hold his jeans in place.

The man’s hand was arched at a right angle, firmly clutching the keys to a 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan, as though they were bound to his palm. Among the various keychains and sports-branded knick knacks that hung from the metal ring, one stood out- a tiny 35-millimeter photo slide, framed thinly with black felt. This square of film was balanced delicately between his forefinger and thumb, completely rigid.

The man remained in his position, fixated on the looming entrance with a blank expression, only flinching as the wind blew onto his tired face the droplets of rain, still clinging to the needles of the trees.

The rustling of the individual branches slowly gained intensity, shaking the water off in sweeping sprays and amalgamating into a single, harsh whisper.

“Wake up, Dana.”

The man blinked. As his deep cobalt eyes adjusted to the surroundings, the breeze began to subside, leaving only the quiet tapping of the raindrops against the mud.

Dana Morris wondered how long he had been standing in front of the building. The sun had been out when he’d first arrived, he was sure. Looking behind him, he saw a trail of footprints leading to his crusted shoes, coming from the parked grey minivan, whose headlights were on full beam. As the pines gently settled, he realized that there was no other soul to be seen.

The air was now completely silent. Dana glanced briefly at the keys, still in his enclosed hand, and shoved them in his side pocket. He turned his attention to the building. Seeing it now, in a conscious state, brought chills to his spine.

Why had he come here? He’d sworn to himself all those years ago never, ever to return to the asylum. But here he was, poised to go in through the tall, ornate doors.

Dana instinctively reached for his keys. Fingering through the attachments, he found the felt frame and squeezed it.

Suddenly, his hand brushed against a paper, lining the inside of the pocket. He removed it delicately and held it up to the thin strands of sunlight.

An old, musty envelope came into view, glowing a deep umber as the light penetrated its aged exterior, revealing what appeared to be a small, slightly translucent square, nestled adjacent to a folded sheet of paper. As Dana squinted, preparing to open the flap, he noticed small lettering on the back. Turning it over, he saw an address printed neatly in the corner. This was how he’d found the location, he surmised. However, underneath the formal text was a crude, thinly penned scribble. He traced the unsteady lines with his finger, then looked up and returned the envelope to its pocket. Clenching his fists, he approached the doors with a newfound determination.

Whatever he had come for, whatever lay inside this building, he knew now that it was his destiny.

With that, he pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

In an instant, Dana’s senses were flooded by the once-familiar sights and smells of the clinic. The pungent odor of morphine, the buzz of the dim bulbs that lined the ceiling-- it was just as he remembered.

But one detail was different. Before him lay an immaculate staircase, engulfed in bright light.

Whereas the rest of the building was dim, the staircase was clearly visible, as though a clear sky were shining directly upon it. The polished stone steps wound indefinitely upwards into the upper levels of the building, and the damascus-forged guard rails refracted into so many points of light that they looked like thousands of tiny stars.

It was unnatural, but absolutely mesmerizing all the same.

Suddenly, he noticed a figure in the corner. The medicinal smells were at once overpowered by the distinct stench of rotting flesh.

“Howdy.” The voice was that of a young girl. “Been a while since I’ve seen anyone come through those doors. Doesn’t anyone knock these days? Please, take your shoes off before you ruin the carpet.”

The shape emerged from the darkness. Dana staggered back as tears began to form in his eyes from the smell.

It was a corpse; there was no other way of putting it. It appeared to be a girl in her late teens, but there wasn’t much left of her. The pale, flaked skin left the bones of her limbs exposed, with very little in the way of muscle to be moving them. Thought her head had retained most of its covering tissue, it had become sunken and rotten, devoid of lips and nose, like a wax figure left out in the sun for too long.

But what caught Dana’s gaze was her hair. It appeared to be grey, but as she moved in the faint yellow light, the ends of the strands glistened and glowed, as if some color should have been there, but had been sucked away by the passage of time.

“I’m the Gatekeeper. Now, please, tell me who you are and why you’re here, so we can get this whole shebang over with.”

Dana was taken aback. Every fiber of his being wanted him to back away and sprint through the doors, but being here again, in this damned place... he knew he couldn’t run away again.

“I…” Dana coughed, struggling to find words. “My name is Dana. Morris. And I was hoping… you could tell me.”

A hoarse laugh escaped the Gatekeeper’s throat. “Nobody finds the Stairway of Chaos on accident. You come here because you want something more than anything else, whether it be purity, peace, or pride. Surely you want something.”

A chill ran up Dana’s spine at the grating sound of the corpse’s laughter. “Uh, well… Miss… Mister Gatekeeper… I guess, if anything, I want to remember.”

“Wake up, Dana.”

His wife’s gentle whisper made its way through his ears like a thick, sweet syrup, stirring him from his trance.

“We lost you again, sweetheart,” she said. “You’ve been in one of your reverie states for the whole car ride. This is the second time this week, too. Where were you? Maybe we should get it checked out…”

“Hon, don’t worry.” Dana smiled, rubbing his eyes. “We don’t need to check anything. I’ve just… got a lot on my mind right now, with everything...”

“You were with him,” she said softly.

The car fell silent for a moment. The timeworn cloth chair creaked as Dana shifted uncomfortably in his seat. After a few minutes, he spoke.

“Today’s the day, isn’t it?” he breathed.

“Yes…” she sighed. “The kids are waiting by the entrance. I told them they’d get ice cream if they waited patiently--”

“There’s no need to rush,” he blurted. His words hung in the air with an almost tangible bitterness. He realized the acerbity of his tone and immediately wished he could take it back.

“Oh, hon, I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen him. He and I never... really… connected after I went off to college, you know? I just don’t think I can deal with what he might say this time. Who knows if he’ll even recognize us now?”

The woman leaned into the cabin and squeezed her weary husband’s shoulders. “You know he loves you, Dana. He can’t help what’s happening to him.”

He straightened himself up from his chair, ignoring the sheets of paper that had drifted onto the floor from the draft, and pulled himself through the passenger door.

“I don’t think I know anything for sure anymore,” he stated.

The couple took hands and approached the entrance. As they pushed open the doors, the scent of sterilizers filled the air, causing the two boys to feign exaggerated expressions of nausea. The disgruntled receptionist, a twenty-something woman, distributed the paperwork with a familiarly deliberate lack of ardor. As Dana signed the increasing stack of files, he couldn’t help but feel an intense envy for her disinterest; to be detached from the personal trials and traumas that accompanied the process was something he could only dream of at that point.

Finally, after all the forms were filled and filed, the permission to proceed was granted. Dana led the anxious family down the long, poorly-lit corridor until the crimson outline of the visiting room door came into view.

He silently stepped up to the portal and stood, gazing at the hundreds of rings that peeked through the chipped red paint. As he rested his hand on the doorknob, he squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt a hand on his side, and looked down to see his youngest staring back up at him, smiling the purest, most sincere smile he had ever seen in his entire life.

Rejuvenated, he exhaled and pushed open the door.

The room was sparsely decorated and dimly lit, and yet, despite the encroaching shadows cast on the wall, the room felt unnaturally empty. Empty, all but for a solitary soul lurking in the corner, reclining in a tattered armchair.

Dana knew even before he approached that the man was staring right into his cobalt eyes.

“Hi, Dad.”

The Gatekeeper put his hand to his chin. “To remember? That’s a new one.” Through his sunken eyes, he looked the man up and down, with a silent, cynical condescendence. “Explain.”

Dana shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, uh… a few years ago… um... I was diagnosed with onset Alzheimer’s. Genetic, they said. Came from my father.

“He was a Vietnam War vet. Already suffered from PTSD, poor guy. Couldn’t imagine the things he’d been through. He told me stories…” He coughed. “Anyway, he was already in a pretty unstable state when the dementia set in. Went to visit him with my wife and my first son one day… when we got to the door, he attacked us with steak knife. Thought we were intruders. I kept screaming, ‘Dad! It’s me, Dana! Dana!’ and he said he’d never seen me in his life. Still couldn’t recognize me when the police took him… my son was only seven… God.”

He instinctively removed the felt frame and held it in the air. Inside the tiny square, a family was positioned together in front of a grey background. A woman in her early fifties stood smiling above a pair of young boys, divided by several years, grinning wildly in reaction to some unseen photographer making a face behind the camera. And behind them all, nestled between, was the father, grey and worn, yet still smiling.

He looked up, his eyes darting around the room. He hated this place now more than he had ever done in his life.

“The short-term memory loss started a few months ago. I’d be driving or mowing the lawn and all of a sudden, I’d just… blank. Just stare forward for twenty minutes or more. Then I’d wake up, with no idea what I was doing or how I got there. I tried to play it off, but then it got… bad. Last week, I was driving with my family in the car. If my wife hadn’t woken me up…” Dana closed his eyes, wincing as the cacophony of terrified shouts and screeching tires echoed once more throughout his frail mind.

He cleared his throat, pocketing the frame.

“...Anyway, the point is I know this is only a premonition of what’s to come. It’s only going to get worse for me, and soon I won’t be able to remember much of anything at all.”

The Gatekeeper quietly processed this information. “Well, the Stairway of Chaos can certainly help you with that. I feel obligated to inform you, however, that this place doesn’t deal with the warm and fuzzy.

“This is no fairy tale; this place really does grant wishes. It will give you anything you desire, albeit at a great cost.

“You may have noticed from the exterior that the Stairway selects a… specific type of memory for its ascendants. Once you step onto the first stone, you will be taken back to a moment where you were at your most vulnerable. Your most harrowing memories will be replayed before your eyes in the most visceral sense-- you will relive your relative youth as though it were the present. In order to reach the top, you will have to reach into your deepest strength and pull yourself free, in any way you can. Only then will you be able to achieve your desires.”

Dana stood in astonishment, gazing upwards at the impossible stairway, arching his head to catch a glimpse of a distant hope on the floor above.

The Gatekeeper grinned, stretching his rotting mouth as far as it would reach. “You like that? Been rehearsing that speech while I was waiting.” His expression became solemn. “Not that all that waiting will have made much of a difference. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years captive here, it’s that waiting will only give you false hope.”

After a long silence, Dana eventually broke his trance, composing himself. “So... nobody’s ever made it?”

“Do you see any gods walking among us?” the Gatekeeper laughed. “Has the world been cured of its problems? No. The stairs are designed to drain the challenger of any sense of hope. Everyone fails in the end.”

Dana considered this incomprehensible challenge. The brilliant light reflected off the pristine banister into the man’s hopeful eyes as he approached the first step. Looking down upon it, he marveled at the whorled stone surface, and how its grooves ebbed and flowed seamlessly and elegantly.

“I think… at this point, I have no other choice.”

He hesitated as the scene came flooding back to him.

“Who… who are you?”

Dana sighed. He’d been instructed how to respond to this question so as to not cause a disturbance.

“Dad, it’s… it’s me. Do you remember me? Do you know who I am?”

“I…” The old man’s bottom lip trembled as he examined the face before him. “I don’t know you. Are you the new orderly?”

“Dad, It’s Dana. Your son.” He paused. “Your son. Dana.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small translucent square. “Here, look. This is from a long time ago.”

On the slide was a young boy, dressed in a Scout’s uniform. Though the photo was black-and-white, the bright glow of two cobalt irises shone against the backdrop, and were only complemented by the bright, toothy smile that stretched across his face. Behind him was an older man, wearing a Marine uniform and cap. His left hand gripped the boy’s right firmly, but the genuine grin on his face said that it was a sign of affection, suggesting that he was very proud of him.

“It’s us, Dad,” Dana said. “This is us.”

The man looked at the slide with a confused expression on his face.

“Where did you get this picture? That can’t be me. That’s… not me. You must have me confused with someone else.”

“This is the last time we ever bonded, Dad,” Dana muttered. His wife suddenly stood up.

“Sweetie…”

“It’s fine, hon. Could you… could you take the kids out of the room for a few minutes?”

She nodded silently. As she escorted the boys through the door, Dana placed the slide in his father’s gnarled palm.

“When I was a kid, you were never there for me. You were always away on work, or trying to find work.

“When you joined the military, I was so desperate for attention that I joined the Scouts so I could be like you. And it worked. For the first time in my life, I felt wanted.

“But then you had to go away to train. During your deployment, I couldn’t lift myself out of bed in the morning.”

Dana placed his index finger on the slide nestled in the man’s hand.

“This is us.”

He pulled a pen out of his pocket and picked up the film, carefully inscribing a message and then returning it to his father’s palm.

Father and Son.

“I need you to remember, Dad,” Dana pleaded. “All these years I’ve spent seeking guidance and receiving nothing. Dad… it’s starting for me. I’m losing my mind, just like you and your father. I’m snapping in and out of catatonia and I can’t predict or control it. I’ve tried not to make it a big deal with the rest of my family because… truth be told, I don’t know what to do.”

The old man simply stared silently.

“Dad, can you hear me? I don’t know what to do!” His voice became louder. “I don’t know what to do! You left me with no mother and a family tree doomed to spend the rest of its days in a goddamn mental asylum because none of the branches connect with the others! You couldn’t help me then, so please, help me now! I need you to remember!”

The man was on the verge of tears. Kneeling down, he pressed the photo slide into his father’s hand and furled it into a fist, clutching it as if doing so hard enough would solidify the missing bond that he had so desperately craved throughout his entire life.

“I… need you to remember.”

The old man’s lips began to quiver as he gazed at his broken son.

“Do you remember me now, Dad?”

The room was silent for several moments. As Dana grasped the enclosed hand, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, rolling off his red, sunken cheeks and melting into the pool of tears.

“You… you must be the new orderly.” The old man smiled. “I hate to bother you, but I’m starving. If you would kindly, could you get me some scrambled eggs and toast?”

Dana collapsed his head into his arms, leaving the slide inside his worn father’s bony, still-enclosed hand.

“I guess now is as good a time as any,” he alleged. With paralyzing trepidation, Dana reached toward his pocket, then stopped.

“Did... you ever see him?” he questioned, turning to the Gatekeeper.

“Whom?”

“Oh… my father... sorry. Did you ever come across him, at all? His name was Herman.”

“Dana, before I answer that question, let me fill you in on a few things.” The corpse began pacing in his direction. “I’m an immortal being. I’ve been here for thousands upon thousands of years, and had countless challengers come in here, all with some great story of why they wanted to risk their lives to climb. At the risk of sounding insensitive, I stopped remembering those stories a long, long time ago.

“Yes, I tried to at first. I was young, relatively. Naive. Those first few people came marching in, all high and mighty, and those who didn’t ignore me told me their past. Like the fool I once was, I sat and listened with wisty eyes and aching heart. I stood by them and encouraged them, watching in blind hope as, one by one, they ascended mightily and crashed down just the same.

“I learned quickly that mercy was not something the Stairway allowed.

“Eventually I realized it was far easier to skip the intimacies and send them as lambs to the slaughter than to make them martyrs and spend an eternity mourning.”

“But you can’t help it, can you?” Dana remarked.

“No.” A deep, raspy sigh emanated from the corpse’s absent lips. “Every so often one optimistic soul comes along and sways me. And I repeat the same mistake over and over again. I hope. I look to the top of that damn thing and think, ‘Yeah, today’s finally the day.’ And every. Damn. Time. I’m shot down.”

His pacing stopped, echoing across the lobby. After a brief hesitation, he continued.

“To answer your question, if your father was ever here, either he never told me his name, or he never cared to even make eye contact. I hope you understand when I say that, if he was truly worth remembering, I would have kept something to remember him by.” He peered into the man’s cobalt eyes. “Sometimes, even in those cases, it’s best to let go.”

Dana stood up.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” he breathed.

“Before you go, I have to tell you something.” His father’s expression was of pure obliviousness.

“What’s that?” he replied.

“I… I really shouldn’t be telling you this; it’s quite personal. But I feel if I keep this to myself any longer I’ll self-destruct.”

Dana remained motionless in the center of the room.

“Go ahead, Dad.”

The old man chuckled. “Well, as you and the other nurses know, I’m a fighter. I fought in ‘Nam. It’s in my blood. And I think you should know… I don’t plan on staying here.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“For the past few days, I’ve been planning my escape. Silly as it may sound.”

Dana laughed softly. “Of course. Escape. I’m sorry, Dad, but you’re too far gone.” He swiveled to face his father. “How and why?”

“Oh, how’s not your concern,” he chortled. “As for why… well, I don’t think there’s any harm in telling at this point.

“You see, as hard as it may be to believe, I can understand the severity of my condition.” His smile vanished into a solemn contortion. “This isn’t something you attack with therapy and stabilize with pills. It’s an incurable, debilitating disease, and it’s going with me to my grave. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this clinic.” He waved his hand around the pale grey walls in a sweeping gesture. “I’ve found somewhere where I’ll truly have a chance at a normal life. And it certainly isn’t this dump.” A brief flicker of a smile appeared on his face, then disappeared. “You know, the sad thing is, all my life I knew this would happen. My father got it, and his father, and probably his father before him. Just an unstoppable cycle of self-destruction. And my son, too. Daniel, I think his name was.”

Dana smiled. “Close enough,” he uttered.

“You know, after all this time, I find myself looking back and wondering what happened to him. I left for ‘Nam about the time he was heading off to college, and that was that. You know, deep down, I wanted to just run up to him and tell him everything I’m telling you now. But something inside me never could. I think, maybe, I just wanted him to live the life I never could, free from that knowledge.

He sighed, breaking into a small coughing fit before settling down again. “Anyway, some things can’t be changed. Thank you for listening, by the way. I know you orderlies tend to tire of the stories we tell.”

“It’s no problem,” Dana smiled. He turned and began the walk to the door.

“Oh, and would you leave the door open for me? My son’s family is going to be visiting soon, and I don’t want them to get lost on the way.”

Tears dripped from Dana’s eyes as he stood upright and headed towards the door.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and stepped into the corridor.

Dana’s focus was transfixed on the Stairway, his eyes beginning to water as he blankly translated the reminiscence, coupled with his sudden revelation. As he returned to reality, he caught the corpse’s gaze and stared briefly into the eerie blue irises examining him. He then returned his attention to the envelope, removing it from his pocket and flipping it over to read the scrawlings on the front.

“What’s that?” the Gatekeeper questioned.

“It’s a letter I got a week after he disappeared,” Dana replied. “It was sent from this address- that’s how I found it.” He paused.

“You know, we never did find out what happened to him.” He returned his attention to the paper. “‘Open only when Chaos shows its weary face,’” he read aloud. “This was his handwriting. The first time I read this, I had some idea of what it might mean. Leave it to my father to be so cryptic.” He chuckled halfheartedly, wiping his eyes. “He knew I would start to forget eventually. I wasn’t ready to see what was in here because I still had some sense of memory left.” He tore open the envelope. “There’s only one way to know for sure.”

The Gatekeeper nodded. “Take as much time as you need.”

"“‘Dana," "“‘Luck has never been in the Morris’ favor. My recent actions have proved that. But I just want to take the time now to say something I wish I could have so many years ago.""“‘As you know, my mind has become fragile. It’s taking all my energy to keep a consistent train of thought to write this. I’m sorry I’ve been unable to contact you, but let me explain.""“‘Recently, I came across a friend of a friend who told me about a place that could grant wishes. This place can’t be found by accident; you have to be searching for something deep within in order to reveal what protects the exterior.""“I seem to recall telling you on our last meeting that I would escape. In a way, I have. But I’m afraid I can’t run forever." “‘What I’m about to do is something unforgivable. By the time you read this, I will be long gone. “You’ve likely followed my trail to this place, and are reading this as you are about to make the same decision I have. I’m asking you, if you truly trust me, not to follow further where I venture. I’m telling you this because I want you to know that this disease doesn’t have to control you. "“If you truly want to, you can make your own destiny.""“You have two beautiful boys that have yet to realize how brief the bright star of youth shines. If they find that, one day, their memories have begun to fade, they will need their father to guide them through it.""“I wish I had been there to guide you.""“‘I love you, son. I always have. And I’m sorry if I was never able to show it.""“‘Now, wake up, Dana. You have a life to live, places to go, people to meet. You can still choose your destiny.""“‘Don’t let Chaos decide for you.""“‘With all my heart,""“‘Herman Morris.’”"As tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes, Dana let the letter fall from his grasp. He held the envelope to the glimmering ceiling and shakily removed the remaining contents.

A photo slide came into view, in the same 35-millimeter format as the one around his keys. But this one was clearly much older. Inside, instead of a family, there were only two figures: a young boy and an old man, full of vitality and hope.

Father and Son.

Dana turned to the Stairway. Its allure was undeniable; its rewards immeasurable. But he knew now what he had to do.

“I can’t do it.”

The Gatekeeper looked astonished. “What?”

Dana smiled, drying tears from his eyes.

“Gatekeeper, I think… I don’t know how to say this.

“My father may not have been a fortunate man. His life was a constant downward spiral he couldn’t possibly ascend, and he knew it. He didn’t want me to suffer the same fate he’d fallen into. I wish I knew that then. But I know now that I can’t let that same spiral stop me. I have a family that needs me, a world that needs me. And if I lose myself along the way, I’m going to make sure I’m there for them.

“I don’t need to do this. It’s tempting, but it’s not worth the risk.”

The asylum was quiet for a moment. Dana’s final words echoed throughout the chamber.

“I’m afraid,” The Gatekeeper sighed, “It’s a little too late for that.”

Dana blinked.

“Wake up, Dana. Look where you’re standing.”

Even though he knew what he would see, he turned his gaze downwards.

The whorled stone of the first step seemed to distort around Dana’s feet as he stood, paralyzed.

The Gatekeeper got up from his position and took the first slow step towards the terrified man.

“You couldn’t deal with forgetting. You needed to have some control over your mind.” He quickened his pace. “So you talked yourself through it. You took your memories and learned from them. You didn’t even need the Stairway for that. You reconnected with your father, all these years after he chose to ascend. But then, I’m afraid, something happened that was out of your control.

“You forgot. Your mind blanked, and you came to in front of the first step-- you just started climbing, without hesitation. Your memories of everything that happened after you walked up to that first step disappeared.”

Dana stammered. “A memory… But I… I thought…”

“Yes. The Stairway revives your most painful memories. And it seems the most painful of all was one you forgot. You finally gained control over your uncertain future, reconciling with your father… and then had that control ripped away by the same affliction that drove him to climb up these same steps all those years ago.”

“Why…” Dana stammered, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because that’s not how the Stairway works, friend,” the corpse stated, passing Dana as he ascended the steps. “The challenger needs to overcome their own memories. When I saw you go blank… I knew the pain you would feel once I had to bring you back to reality. I’ve seen it so, so many times before. Believe me, I wanted to help. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

With that, he sat down on the third step, watching over the broken man.

Dana pulled his keys out of his pocket and held the felt-framed photo slide to the light of the Stairway.

Before, he had seen a reason to continue on in the man in the film. But now, he could only see the naive smile of a husband and father who had kissed his family gently and lovingly on the cheeks and taken keys in hand, driving off into the pouring rain in search of the welcoming arms of a lost, distant memory without saying goodbye.

As tears streamed from his eyes, he let the slides fall from his grasp, clattering as the keychains hit the floor.

“I’m not ready,” Dana whispered.

The Gatekeeper rose from his perch. “Fate is cruel, Dana. If it’s any consolation, you were one of the good ones.” He descended to the second step.

“I’m not ready!” he repeated to himself. Visions of his family flashed before his eyes. His sons, running blissfully through the yard. His beautiful wife, smiling at him from the bedside. And his poor father, blinded by rage at the unfairness of life, leaving him for the last time as he joined the thousands of others who failed to climb the Stairway of Chaos.

After trying to remember for so long, all he wished he could do now was forget.

“It’s time, Dana,” said the Gatekeeper.

“I’m not READY!”

As the man collapsed to his knees, the Gatekeeper sighed and thrust a bony hand in front of his mouth. A rush of air escaped his lungs, and with it, a small, swirling cloud of white dust, which seemed to dance in the air as it made its way into the corpse’s palm.

As Dana Morris collapsed to the ground, a swift breeze began to blow through the hall. The Gatekeeper watched as the fabric of the man’s life was taken up by the gust, performing a series of intricate upward spiraling motions before scattering into the cold evening air.

“Nobody ever is, Dana,” the Gatekeeper stated, closing his eyes.

As the girl’s body crumbled away into dust, the man’s rose slowly from the ground, coughing violently. It brushed the fine powder off of its faded khakis and cleared its raspy throat. Looking down, it noticed the set of keys, and stooped over to pick them up with its knotted, bony hands, peering into the faint reflection of the metal.

The Gatekeeper brushed his wrinkled face, following the harsh, jagged lines of his cheek as they sagged and stretched. During all his years of waiting, he had longed for the lingering vitality of a new host-- that cruel, visceral beauty that only came with death. But here, gazing into his own azure eyes, he could only see the pale, drained visage of a walking corpse.

The Gatekeeper broke away from the image and cursed into the air. He wanted to think that Dana Morris had been a dead man walking long before he set foot inside the building. He wanted to think that his release was merciful. He wanted so badly to forget the man, like he had so many others.

But, looking down at the second slide, still on the ground, he realized that forgetting was a gift he’d taken for granted.

The Gatekeeper stared at the scene for a moment, then returned to his seat in the corner of the room, still clutching the keys. Settling himself down, he reached over and picked up a jar, which had been resting beside a pair of faded combat boots.

“Hey, Yukio. It’s me again. Sorry, I know it’s been a while.” Within the receptacle, a white wisp lit up, pressing its swirling form against the curved wall. “I finally have a new story for you. It’s a good one this time, I promise.”

“It’s a tale of a long-lost youth. Of one man on an eternal quest with no destination.

“It’s a tale of fathers and sons. Of hope and despair.

“Of life... and loss.”

Inside the jar, the wisp began to dance about, glowing bright with excitement. The Gatekeeper smiled.

“Suspense! You want me to get right to it, don’t you?” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you soon.” He stood up and pushed open the grand doors to the outside. “But first, let’s wait a little while. I want to get the details right.” He strolled over to the edge of the yard and sat down in the umbrage of one of the many tall pines that surrounded the yard. “Besides, it’s a beautiful evening.”

He tapped the glass playfully, causing the wisp to shimmy about. “Let’s savor it while we can.”

The Gatekeeper held the jar to his chest and gazed up at the sky, which was finally parting to reveal the gleaming crimson rays of the setting sun.

Chapter Six: Memorial
“Absolute power.”

The creature’s lips spoke words whose very aura astounded Mira. She could hardly believe that she was even here, standing before this mobile pile of flesh and bone. Though the home in which she stood was dusty, destroyed, and desolate, the glimmering steps before her were evidence enough. The legend was true. I never thought it possible, but here it is. The Memorial.

Decades of searching had been worth it. She had found the fabled staircase of memories, hidden away in this crumbling home. And better yet, she was assured of the prize that awaited her. The tension in her chest arrived as product of nerves and anticipation, excitement and apprehension. If the tale was true, she knew the specter did not lie.

Ability beyond human belief supposedly awaited whoever could reach the top of the quartz staircase, whose silver railings gleamed blue in the moonlight. The steps wound and wound, spiraling up the central pillar, and seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky. The structure seemed to radiate an air of chill, strength, and foreboding.

Mira turned her gaze downward, back to the monster that now addressed her. Roughly humanoid in shape, she could vaguely see how this could once have been a man. Despite the missing parts and open rot, the remnants of a skeleton stood strongest beneath the bits of flesh. The clothing that shrouded this figure were little more than rags, worn and torn by age, the exact span of which she could not imagine. Any markings they once bore were now faded away, the tatters bleached and dulled to gray. A glass jar faintly glimmered and glowed in the breast pocket of the shambler’s shirt.

“What sort of power, exactly?” The remnants of her accent still punctuated much of her speech. Life in Germany was something she would rather forget, but the mark of it still bore in her voice.

“Hmhmhmhmh,” chuckled the corpse. He retorted with mock, “the absolute sort, as I said before.” His grainy voice came through in a blend, one part roughly human, grainy, and deeply baritoned, and the other little more than a raspy whisper lacking distinct accent, mildly echoing within itself.

“I need to know specifics. I need to know if it can-”

“It can. Easily.” His words came across in a monotone, as though he was bored of her questions already.

Mira stood, shell-shocked. That’s impossible. To undo that much damage… But the staircase alone should prove the legend is true.

“What do I need to do?”

“Hmm. Straight to the point. Don’t you think you’re being a bit too eager?” the specter mocked again. “But, then again, at your age, there really isn’t much left for you to do with your life. Might as well go seeking the impossible, right?” He turned to gaze at Mira, as though judging the determination of this latest trial-goer. His eyes, too, gleamed in the moonlight; that same azure hue. His stare sent a shiver down Mira’s spine, her muscles tensing in response.

“Just, tell me what to do.”

He sighed in response. “Alright then.” The monster stepped up to the base of the stairs. “Let me introduce myself. I’m the gatekeeper of the Stairway of Chaos.”

“‘Stairway of Chaos’? I thought it was called the Memorial.” Mira took another look up the winding stairs.

“I have never called it that. Neither did the one who built it. No one else that’s ever been through here has called it that before, and I’m not going to change it now. So, if you don’t mind...”

“Wait, the one who built it? Someone made this thing?”

“Hmm...” The Gatekeeper rubbed at his temples with his bony fingers, dislodging extraneous bits and pieces. “Rude, interrupting like that. Why am I even bothering with a withered hag like you? I mean, really, you thought it just came out of nowhere? This damn thing took a lot of work. I should know. I was the first one to attempt the climb after it was finished. There have been plenty of others after me, but no one’s ever managed to pull it off.

“But maybe you’ll be the first,” he droned, trying to force the conversation forward, “a precedent that proves that the challenge can be overcome. And if you are indeed so strong willed and--” He sized up her aging body. “--dare I say, lucky, then you’ll claim the prize that waits at the top of the stairs. The absolute power I’ve mentioned three times now is waiting to be taken by someone worthy of using it. If you think that person is you, then you can take your first step. But be warned; the price of memory is a heavy toll, and this journey can’t be halted once it has begun. Success or failure; those are the options ahead, if you choose to begin.”

The Gatekeeper’s face contorted to a condescending smirk with his closing words. He stepped aside, gesturing to the winding expanse of steps set amongst the withered and fallen remnants of the once beautiful townhouse. Mira reflected on what he had just said. Did she truly want what he offered? What price would she need to pay? Was she strong enough to brave the challenge that stood before her?

But she then reminded herself why she came. What she had lost, what she had endured, and what she stood to gain; all questions were answered in the wake of this memory. The tattoo on her arm seemed to burn with the thought. Taking in a long breath of the frosty air around the steps, Mira strode forth toward the beginning of her journey. The Gatekeeper’s gaze followed her, the gleam in his eyes once more, and a wicked grin upon his face. She reached the base, took her first step, and began her voyage.

The grass was cool between her toes. The smell of fresh spring air pervaded her nostrils. A light breeze licked at her arms while the warm sun shone lightly on her neck. Looking down, she found that she was garbed in a yellow sundress and light pink shorts. She recognized the outfit, as well as the shortened limbs and torso that it contained, from her childhood. She couldn’t have been older than five years of age.

In her juvenile form, she found herself in what seemed an endless field. As she whirled and twirled in the April air, she caught glimpses of her brother, Hans, and sister, Ninette. Their curled, ebony locks were a perfect match for her own, grown longer and rarely cut throughout the years. The family castle also came into view, a towering structure that rose above all others. With walls of cinder block and supports as wide as trees, the family castle was a symbol of power and safety in the eyes of young Mira.

She had long forgotten about this place. It seemed a fantasy land to her adult mind. Yet, here it was, exactly as it used to be. Everything was real. She took the opportunity to frolic and spin and play just as she had when she was a child. Her brother and sister chased her as she ran around the yard, trying desperately not to be tagged.

She didn’t notice the large tree root until it was too late. Her foot caught and sent her tumbling. The pain, too, was real, and it shot up her leg to her spine. Picking herself up from the dirt, she found that the smallest toe on her left foot bore a long laceration, blood puddling out of the wound, and the digit adopting a deep purple bruise.

The pain was nothing new to Mira; she had broken far more in far worse ways. But her child body was not as accustomed to it as her adult mind. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill forth. Hans and Ninette looked on from behind, their expectant gazes rousing embarrassment to compound the pain. Her lip quivered, and her jaw dropped and locked open.

But though the cry seemed imminent, Mira knew better. She knew how inconsequential the pain of a stubbed toe was, and even a broken toe wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The watchful eyes of her brother and sister meant little to the adult observer, as they would find many more ways to embarrass her when they were older. She forced her gaping mouth to close, clenching her teeth against the ache. The tears remained stationary, held fast within her eyes. Not a single drop fell as she stood up, brushed herself off, and turned to continue the chase once more.

“What just happened?” She asked the gatekeeper, finding herself once more upon the steps.

“Well, I’d say you remembered something.” the keeper replied in a tone that implied that his answer was obvious. “That’s what the Staircase does.”

“I was a little girl again. I tripped on a tree root and broke a toe.”

“Did you think the memories would be good ones? This is a trial, after all. You’re supposed to be challenged. Though, from what I saw, that was about as pleasant a memory as one could ask for, given the circumstances.

“But I wouldn’t linger on it for too long. You have a lot more steps to go, and patience isn’t in my job description.” He turned away, his gaze falling further up the winding staircase. “They’re only going to get worse, you know.” he said with his back to Mira. “The Staircase is kind at first, but the greatest challenge is waiting at the top.” His voice low, and somber, the keeper stepped up, leading her toward that final task.

Mira followed, and with each step she found herself somewhere in her past. With each, another memory of trauma enveloped her. The early steps mostly reminded her of physical pain; broken bones, cuts and scrapes. Then the psychological torture started. Her first rejection by a boy she liked, her first birthday without her parents or siblings, and the time a stranger broke into her home; these were the memories that she tried to bury, but were dug up with ease by the Staircase of Chaos.

Then, on a step somewhere in the hundreds, she caught sight of the end of the staircase. She noticed something resting on the top step; something tiny, glimmering, and green. “What is that?” she asked the gatekeeper.

“The end.” he said bluntly. “And maybe the beginning of something very interesting.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know, you ask a lot of questions.” he replied, turning to face her from the step above. “Ignorance doesn’t suit you very well. It makes you look incompetent.”

“You could just answer me, you know. It’d save us both a lot of time.” Mira crossed her arms and shot a nasty look at the corpse.

“You may be in a rush to see this through before you die, but I’ve got all the time in the world. Besides, I have a job to do, and making things easy for you isn’t part of it.”

“Some help you are.”

“Hey, ask pointless questions, get pointless answers. I’m not going to repeat myself. I’ve already told you what’s waiting at the top.”

Mira understood what he meant. The power she sought; that must be it. She hadn’t realized that it was a physical object, instead thinking it was some intangible thing she would be able to use herself. In any case, the end was in sight, and that knowledge spurned her on to take the next step.

The memory that started her on this journey was brought forth, consuming her for a second time.

She felt more comfortable in her body this time; a side effect of her increased age, no doubt. She was fifteen years old, once again in the front yard of her childhood home. Now, though, it was a pittance, pathetic compared to what it was when she was a toddler. The day was overcast, dulling the world to near gray. The grass had dried in response to the drought, and lay all but dead in bunches about the yard.

“Mira! Get inside, quickly!” a voice called to her in a frantic whisper.

She turned to find her mother standing in the doorway of the family house. Though identical in structure to the castle of her youth, the building before her held none of the splendor and gave no impression of strength. The cinder blocks that formed the foundation of the mighty palace were reduced to mere bricks. The trees that held the castle together were little more than decoration, accentuating the miserable stone.

Mira followed her mother’s instructions. The wind was light, but made just enough noise to disguise the marching footsteps in the distance. She, her parents, and her siblings all crowded into the basement, which her father barred from their side. The room was cold and damp, and darkness took residence as there were no windows or candles.

“Mother,” Ninette whispered, “what are we doing?”

“We are hiding. The men we’ve been worried about are coming.”

“What are they going to do to us?” Hans implored, tears escaping his eyes to roll silently down his face.

Mira’s father spoke up. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure nothing happens.” He armed himself with a poker normally used to adjust coal in the furnace. “Just be silent for now.”

The children heeded their father, curling into the corner of the room. As he took up post just beyond, and out of sight of, the doorway, Mira and her siblings sat quivering, fear a greater factor than the chill of the basement. Everything was utterly silent for nearly an hour. Were her father less certain in his choice, Mira would have left to play long ago. But seeing him in such a state frightened her most of all. What could possibly terrify him like this?

Above them, on the main floor of the house, came a sudden slam of a door that made them jump. Ninette let out a short, fearful gasp, but her mother pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound. Slow footsteps from heavy boots released a creaking from the floorboards above, and tapped toward the staircase leading to the second floor. Meanwhile, another set of footfalls approached the door to the basement. The knob turned slowly, silently, and the door pressed open, halted only by the wooden bar. An eye peeked through, and locked on Mira.

CRACK!

The beam splintered apart under the force of the battering ram. The door burst open, slamming and bouncing off of the wall. Three men dressed in thick, dark clothes filed down the stairs, guns pointed in all directions. Instinctively, Mira and her siblings pressed themselves further into the corner, while her mother sat between them and the invaders.

As the first reached the bottom of the stairs, he was caught off guard by the fire poker colliding with his head. Blood sprayed from the wound as Mira’s father dislodged his makeshift weapon. He took a second swing at the man on the ground, the poker finding it’s way between the body armor and helmet. More blood and chunks of face were ripped away as he pulled with all his might.

He had no chance to react to the gunshot. The bullet ripped through his lung and tore a hole in his heart. His body recoiled from the impact, and his face locked in a painful expression. With his final breath, he managed only a small, wheezing gasp. He collapsed to the stone floor, his blood pooling out and mixing with that of his fallen foe. Mira could only look on in horror as he passed away just feet from her.

“Father!”

Hans jumped up from the corner, sprinting past Mira and Ninette. Their mother reached out to grab him by the hand, but he slipped out of her grasp. He ran to his father, bitter tears streaming down his face. Rolling the fresh corpse onto its back, the blood of his father drenched his hands, staining them red. Hans stared at his crimson appendages, horrified. He could not find words to speak. But his body found action to take. His fear was swallowed whole by rage. He shouted in fury, taking hold of the poker that had already taken one life, and cost him his father.

The gunmen were prepared. They fired mercilessly, executing the thirteen year old boy with one round apiece. The first punctured his collar, lodging in his left shoulder blade. The second was fatal, a bullet to the head. Hans’ body fell backward, the poker clattering toward the remaining family members. He lie motionless, his death quick, but painful.

The soldiers turned to face Mira, Ninette, and their mother. All three cowered in horror, tears pouring out uncontrollably. One of the men stepped closer, shouting for them to stand up. Mira never feared the nuances of the German language before, being that it was her native tongue, but in that instance, it seemed to carry the rage and power-madness of an entire people. At that age, she didn’t fully understand what was happening, but her adult mind knew perfectly well. Not again. I won’t go back there.

As the women stood and the soldiers turned to march them out, Mira took hold of the discarded fire poker. The scraping of metal across the stone floor seemed to echo around the room as she plunged the spike into the leg of her captor. The spray of blood caught her off guard, splashing her face, and forcing her to clear it from her eyes. Wiping away the crimson blood, Mira found herself staring directly into the barrel of the final soldier’s gun.

Mira’s screaming filled the staircase, resounding through the remnants of the townhouse. Without realizing, she had broken into a cold sweat, and tears streamed down her face. Realizing where she was, she turned quickly, searching for the gatekeeper. His footsteps echoed off of the shimmering steps as he approached from above. Her vision tracked up his legs, past his torso, and finally rested on his eyes. Wispy, azure mist trailed from them, and as he approached, the room seemed to chill.

He rested a hand on her head, gazing into her eyes. “The price of memory is a heavy toll. It’s time for you to pay yours.” He thrust his bony, rotting hand into her gaping mouth as she choked and gagged. The azure fog burned more brightly than ever. Mira desperately clawed at the withered appendage, trying in vain to pry it free of her throat. From within, the gatekeeper plucked a mote of light and, raising it to his tattered lips, extinguished it with a gentle breath. Mira’s struggling ceased. Hand still resting upon her head, the rotted corpse crumbled away, leaving behind a pile of ash and dust.

Coming to her senses once more, Mira took a moment to wipe away her sweat and tears. She pulled herself up from the cold stone steps, taking hold of the silver railing. As she worked her way back down the winding staircase, something on her arm caught her eye. A tattoo in forest green ink.

6-38602

“Well now. I suppose that’s not too bad a thing to want to wish away.” she said to herself, with an azure gleam in her eyes.