Requiem of the Capgras

1

It's as if she were watching it happen all over again. And again. And again. Every night. On Friday nights and Saturday nights, she was given moments of reprieve as she could will away sleep for as long as possible and consume enough caffeine to give her the equivalent of amphetamine pills in energy. Anything to keep her mind from the nightmares that would keep her up anyway.

Awful, vivid, monstrous nightmares. No matter the amount of melatonin she took— yes, she had tried decreasing and increasing her dosage— these dreams seemed to possess her spirit more than they did her mind. She couldn't wash them away unless she were to give her soul a deep scrubbing, which, unfortunately, is impossible.

The hauntings themselves are so absurd that she could compare them to a true haunting— one of ghosts, that is— though she has never believed in any spirits. The supernatural and superstitious never grew up with her, and she has never found any other proof of these otherworldly beings. Sometimes, when her head is run truly ragged, she finds a twisted comfort in believing that it is a spirit that possesses her nightly terrors, and someday, she will find an exorcist that sees the spirit hanging over her shoulder and exorcize it as his job description says.

As she thought priorly, the nightmares make as much sense as the ridiculous notion of ghosts. They always take place in her childhood despite her remembering very little of it. The decades since then have been abysmal at best— plagued with a constant prickling of anxiety and always looking twice at the shadow over her shoulder decreases the quality of life significantly— and her life has since changed from her childhood so much that she couldn't tell you what school she even attended. Strange, indeed, that she would feature her entire dream realm after possibly her happiest days (she has experienced very few happy days that she can remember).

As a child, she typically surrounded herself with other children. However, make no mistake, she can't recall these children and feels no attachment towards their lost memories. She instead has a small album filled with some of her childhood playmates. The focus of her nightmares center mainly around a boy who features in most of the childhood photos. His smile in the earlier dates radiates that reckless, boyish charm that most boys his age do. His given name is spelled Maddox, a welsh name, she thinks. 

There's nothing that stands out about this old friend of hers except for her mother's adamant refusal to acknowledge his existence. Her mother, Marylynn, saw evil in every passing stranger, barely leaving her home for fear that her hands would fall off if she continued her desperate signing of the cross at every unfamiliar sight. Her father said that this mad-woman wasn't the woman he married. She hadn't always kept her hands clasped in silent prayer to mitigate any possible tragedies. He may not have said it, but she could guess the implications of what changed her mother. The truth is that her mother saw an indescribable evil in her daughter's childhood and it changed them both.

The daughter sees gory night terrors of Maddox. In his eyes, she sees a feeling that she can't replicate. Then, just before she can turn away from the frightening look in 'Maddox's' eyes, he seems to stretch taller, but only from the inside. As muscles are pulled impossibly tight, a disquieting symphony can be heard, the sounds being made from the snapping of ligaments, tendons, and meat. This continues for what could be a minute or decades until 'Maddox' isn't standing there anymore. The husk of the boy is on the ground, mangled into an unrecognizable shape.

There is something that has replaced him. Or there is nothing that replaced him. In the space of where Maddox was, an object that seemed to take the properties of solids, liquids, and gasses all at once just stood— sat? Hovered? Who's to say what everything and nothing can do. If asked to describe it, she could compare it to the feeling of standing up too fast in a room of nothing but static electricity holding her up. If she owned a TV, she could compare it to TV static, though she's never had any need for visual entertainment. The often times she hallucinates during her daily hours is entertaining enough, and the few moments she is alone with her thoughts are spent completing daily tasks like hygiene or entertaining her cat.

Regardless of how she spends her time, sleep rarely comes and when it does, she loses it over the same nightmare. Over and over. Again and again.

She likes Fridays and Saturdays. They give her a moment to destruct and piece herself together again.

But it is not Friday or Saturday. Not even Sunday. It is 11:00 am on a Tuesday and, though she would rather not be, she is earning her living wage to continue feeding her cat. Her workplace, a quaint cafe, stays quiet throughout the day with a few busy moments that could hardly be considered rush hours. The location being in a smaller town with a high population of older people (the kind of people that own their personal coffee machine, and the kind of people that live in fear of caffeine giving them a heart attack) they hardly get any customers. It's to the point that she wonders how the company keeps the lights on.

"The lights are off again," says a gorgeous woman from behind the unsightly one. The woman has her pitch black hair pulled into a tight bun that the other woman could compare to a swirling black hole. Small tethers of ribbons can be seen weaving in and out of the woman's bun, their dark blue and dark purple colors furthering the effect of being sucked into the whirling black hole. The pretty woman, more of a girl, now that she thinks about it, has none of the blemishes that a girl of her age should have with acne and such. Her skin appears to be silky smooth to the point that she could dip her fingers into her forehead with no resistance.

The woman glances at the girl's name tag that reads Morrigan. The girl, Morrigan stares with her brows furrowed and eyes turned towards the flickering lights, her expression expectant as if she thinks something will happen.

The lights flicker out.

Maybe the company cannot keep the lights on.

With a frustrated grunt, Morrigan stomps outside for some reason— the older woman seems to forget that the fuse box is on the outer wall of the building and the girl, Morrigan, is likely fussing with the lights— and the woman is left alone in her head. Surprisingly, she is present at the moment. Though she got little rest, as usual, last night, her mind is pulsing with activity that normally escapes her. In her hands, she has a drink with the letters Courtn on the side of the cup. She looks up, finally noticing that a woman with dirty blonde hair is waiting with her arms crossed, eyes trained on what is probably her drink. The woman guesses that her name is Courtney and finishes writing the name on the cup. Shortly after handing over the drink, the woman takes a sip and is pleased. Intriguingly enough, the woman must have made the drink well despite not recalling even making the drink. Perhaps she's just that good.

Or, she thinks, glancing over at a calendar on the wall that says the year and month in large bold letters, she has been working here for twelve years. Yes, that's right, she has been here for a large portion of her life and just simply forgot. Happens to everyone.

Approaching the calendar, she notes that Friday's date is circled a few times with the words "Happy Birthday, Eloise". The handwriting is messy and decorated with stars and polka-dots and some smiley faces. Before processing the words and their meaning, the woman feels a faint hint of a fog creeping into her mind. She thinks she's about to pass out but she just stops thinking.

2

When she becomes aware of her surroundings again, shaking the desperate exhaustion from her mind, one of the rare customers she actually remembers is standing with a lopsided smile. She recognizes him because of his frightening quirk of only smiling with half of his face— her first encounter with him, she remembers Morrigan and herself panicked over the man's lopsided smile, taking it as a sign of a stroke. Fortunately, his smile always stayed that way and, despite her tendencies to drift into another world, he was patient and understanding as many old men she remembers are. Mr. Joseph has always been someone she could be close with.

She makes his regular drink— one of the few she can remember— and hands it off to him without a second thought. People like him made staying awake a lot easier.

Morrigan's voice startles her from drifting back into fog, "You need to stop coming to work like this. It feels like I'm working alone all the time."

The woman blinks, comprehending her associate's words with the speed of a snail, "I don't have much to say anyway." She says, barely hearing her own voice. As the words leave her mouth, she's leaning back into the fog, swaying on her feet.

"Maybe you should get some rest." Maybe. As the fog slowly crawls into her legs and arms, making them lead-heavy, she stumbles to an empty table. Her eyes droop. Maybe she should get some rest. Maybe it is that easy. Just rest.

3

When she startles awake, her breath is as even as her heart rate. She's… steady. She's aware. Instantly, a paralyzing fear edges into her skin, forming gooseflesh on every possible surface. The woman isn't tired anymore. The woman searches her surroundings for a clock to check the time. When she does find a clock, it doesn't seem to matter. She can't remember what time she fell asleep. She fell asleep. She hasn't felt this rested in decades. She hasn't slept like this since she was ten.

"Well, good morning, Elly," a voice sounds from behind her. When she turns to face it, she notices that his uniform is the same as hers. To not embarrass herself, she searches for his name tag… and he doesn't wear one.

To break the silence, she mumbles, "Yes, yes, morning."

"Well, not really. It's three. You've been falling asleep a lot recently. You've been asleep for… well, you fell asleep at 11. I can't think of how many hours that is," the man says, holding up his fingers to count off the hours. The woman glances around her surroundings, the dim light from the window seems into what seems like a bakery.

She ignores his desperate attempts to count— he keeps going past hour twelve into thirteen and has to start over— and speaks, "Where's the cafe?"

Dismissing his hands, the man gives her a questioning look, "This is the cafe. Well, the bakery part of it. You… you work here. You've… Well, you've worked here longer than I have," he says. With a hint of annoyance in her face, the woman notices how he says 'well' too much. Until she remembers his actual name, he'll be the Well Man.

Feeling her stomach rumble deeply, she's met with another detached realization. With constant hallucinations and inability to tell dreams from reality, she's always had to eat manually, forcing food down her throat whenever the thought crosses her mind— not often— as she always imagines Maddox sitting in the chair across from her, watching her eat as if laughing about how he can't anymore. The sight makes her nauseous and barely able to keep herself alive.

The Well Man continues to ramble on about topics she doesn't care about as she scans the area, her eyes landing on a croissant with dark speckles inside that could be raisins, blueberries, or chocolate— she would eat anything, but she'd prefer the blueberries. She picks it up, inspecting it for any mold or disease.

"I– Well, that's my lunch…" The Well Man says, immediately shrinking back from her eyes.

"Oh, I see, uh," she sets it down, trying to ignore her cramping stomach as she searches for another scrap of food.

The Well Man flushes, his ears burning a fiery red, "Well, not really… You can have it. I already had my lunch and that's just the leftovers."

"I can eat it?"

"Well, yes, if you want."

"Yes, yes, thank you," she says, picking up the bread and not even noticing his crestfallen expression geared towards his stolen lunch. With half the meal in her mouth and the other in her hand, the woman opens the door that the Well Man said would lead her to the lobby. By the time she reaches the front counter, she is licking off crumbs of the buttered bread and hardly notices Morrigan and her expression of irritance.

Morrigan grabs a wet-wipe, pushing it into the woman's hands as she speaks with a bit of a spit, "Have you ever heard of health violations? Don't eat when you're working. I'm glad you're feeling better, but only because you move so slow when you're off in La La Land. Where'd you even get that?"

"The Well Man," she says, adding a hint of humor in her voice.

"What? You know what, I don't care. I don't listen to the ramblings of the mentally insane. Just do your job."

"'Kay." With a clear head and a whirling stomach, the woman grabs a cloth and a spray bottle with 'Cleaning Solution' scrawled on the side in thick, black marker and ignores the dirty look that Morrigan gives her. Damned if she do, damned if she don't. She walks to a small table that was recently evacuated by the prior customers— if the crumbs and water rings are anything to judge by— and wets it, wiping it down shortly after. Though she continues to drift through her thoughts, the familiar fog never sweeps her back into a secondary headspace.

Maybe her mind is here to stay. For once.

4

The odd feeling only amplifies when she has to leave work for the day. She's stayed awake and aware the whole day with only what she assumes to be the regular amount of spacing off. Once she finishes rolling silverware, she walks out beside Morrigan.

As they walk together for a moment, the woman recalls something, "By the way, did you fix those lights?"

"The lights?"

"Yes, yes, when they went out today."

"..." Morrigan rolls her eyes, increasing the distance between them as if the woman is contagious with the plague.

The woman stares, "Did you? Am I missing something?"

"You're insane."

"I've been told, but I don't see what this has to do with the lights."

"I fixed the lights days ago! You're losing your mind, and I don't want to be near you when you snap," Morrigan says fearfully, starting to sprint, leaving the woman standing back a few meters. After the girl disappears from sight, the woman purses her lips. Days? The woman recalls the fuzzy memories of the calendar and can't place if that was days ago or today. Her mind sorts through fragments of memory, but the fragments seem to be made of water and her hands drift uselessly through the basin. Instead of wasting her time, the woman sighs and backtracks to the cafe. 

It's barely 100 yards away, so she reaches it within seconds. As she walks in, she bumps into the Well Man who speaks to her, "Hey! Did you forget something?"

"Yes, yes, I've forgotten the day."

"Really? Well, it's the day before your birthday! I circled it in the calendar, remember?" he says. Ah, she thinks, so she really has lost it. At least, that's what she would think if it didn't happen constantly. Did Morrigan never notice? Maybe this is just the first time the woman has mentioned it to the girl.

Satisfied, the woman starts to walk away, waving Well Man goodbye as he walks in the opposite direction. Through the streets she walks, noticing but not admiring the falling leaves turning their autumn colors. As she walks, she does her best to crunch the turning leaves, disliking how the green and brown mixture in some of them seem to stare at her with the same unblinking stare as Maddox tends to do in her head with his gorgeous hazel eyes. With her mind only partially focused on the leaves, the noise that protrudes from a small space between two office buildings captures her attention instantly. The noise she hears is only a dull thud, but it's followed by a strangled gasp of fear.

Drawn to the darkened alleyway, she knows she's being stupid, but there's a new feeling creeping into her blood, a coldness— though this ice running through her veins feels like a cold surface on a fevered body, a welcome chill— that she can't ignore. If she thought she was conscious before, she's brimming with energy now.

Creeping closer, she gives her eyes a moment to adjust. Checking her wristwatch, she notes the time is lumbering towards sunset hours and she shouldn't be out this late for fear of her mother having a fit. But her mother won't know. And she needs to go closer.

At first she thinks she is witnessing a mugging, then a murder, then she can't tell. Her first instinct is to help the mugged man, to find a weapon of her own and bash the robber's head in. As her eyes further adjust, she sees that the mugged man is already falling— no doubt dead. Once her eyes fully adapt to the dark of the alley she can't really understand what's going on.

There's just a man— one she recognizes from some place, some time (The man being Joseph, though she is still adjusting her eyesight) and quite well— but he has company. This company doesn't seem to touch the man at all other than small strands of darklight matter sticking to him like burdocks, attaching to his skin on what seems like a molecular level until the man stops moving. Now she can make out a vague shape of static opening the limp man's jaw. If the shape had feet they would be stepping through the man's oral cavity, pulling the body over its shape like a pair of extra small skinny jeans. It's such a ridiculous sight that the woman feels her diaphragm spasm though she is unsure if it is done in laughter or anguish.

Once the spastic noise leaves her chest, her hand clasps over her mouth. In her new-found state of non-nebulosity, she recognizes her mistake instantly and wills her body to respond to the emergency. The body of the man— Joseph— snaps up as if his entire corpse has eyes and it trains every single one on her. When the woman stumbles over her own feet, she refuses to waste another second glancing over her shoulder, sprinting through the maw of the alley. Barely a moment after she's gone, her vision starts to spot, her hasty retreat not supported by her low-iron, and she's almost immediately sprawled on the ground, her wrist throbbing from the unexpected tumble and her nose starting to drip a bubbling crimson. Gasping for her stolen breath, she flips onto her back, drawing back her leg when she sees the creature practically on top of her. 

As her leg makes contact, a mind-splitting headache squeezes the air out of her lungs as if they are balloons. To add to her headache, a white, blinding light appears like someone just threw a flash-grenade.

The woman sputters a weak breath as the man— the creature— towers over her, using its rapidly cooling flesh to press down on her bottom jaw, opening it to full length and attempting to pry it even farther like a reverse bear trap.

When the ringing of a bullet pierces the noise, the woman is finally able to suck in a breath, inflating her wrinkled lungs. Also like a balloon, the body of Joseph— which she can see clearly now— collapses on top of her in a way similar to how a blanket would. Gasping for her stolen air, her vision only just begins to clear. Choking on her own snot and tears, the woman kicks the body off of her, finally noticing a figure standing in front of her. The figure is a woman— a human woman, thank god— with a weapon that looks like a shotgun, though she can't be sure as she's never handled a gun in her life. The other woman has hair that only goes to her shoulders unlike her own hair that reaches her mid-back. As the other woman stands over her, she can't help but compare her to something of an angel of death with her black hair that seems to disappear into the evening shadows and the domineering stance and expression that her face holds.

The Angel of death squints at her for a moment before pulling a small device out of her pocket, speaking into it just loud enough for the other to hear, "The victim is unaffected. I think it's another one. It must have been stunned by the bullet." The Angel reloads and cocks her gun once more, aiming it squarely at the woman's temple.

"It's a shame, really. Waste of a good body." The woman, still on her back, shudders, staring down the barrel of the gun. With a frightening realization, she realizes that the Angel is going to shoot her. Feeling her clarity ebb away slowly, she springs into action, tossing her body to the side right as the gun goes off. She hears the Angel's hushed curse as she reloads once again. The woman won't give her the chance. She scours the ground for a second, her eyes landing on a decently sized rock that she hurls right into the Angel's face.

The woman doesn't even give the Angel a moment to recover as she's halfway down the street. The farther she runs, the more her mind starts to cloud, and when she finally makes it to her own apartment, her mind becomes nebulous all over. This fog seems worse than ever. Now that she's gotten a taste of clarity, she feels a kind of grief having lost it.

As she lies down on her bed and her cat curls up on her chest, the fog makes it impossible to question the events of the day. The only things she can remember decide to appear in her dream that night. This nightmare resembles the ones she has every night, but instead of the usual visions of Maddox and his empty eyes, she sees Joseph. They both share the same expression, one devoid of any light or life. There is no anger, no joy, no sadness, nothing. A wall could be more expressive than the two of them. Alongside Joseph, the Angel Woman lurks in her periphery, always with her lips drawn back in a disgusted grimace and hands on her gun, always pointing at her.

What does it mean, the woman thinks hopelessly, tossing and turning through the night, thoroughly upsetting her cat who decides to spend the night on the couch rather than be crushed. 

When morning comes, it's as if she hasn't slept at all. She can't even remember waking up.

5

Clarity is starting to make the woman nervous. As she walks into the cafe, the fog dissipates, even if only slightly. Casting a backwards glance towards the street, she feels only a little better at the lack of any visible life, though her stomach never fully unclenches. Small memories of last night seem to cross her vision but cleanly scamper away just as she tries to get a clearer view of the fragment.

Attempting to push away the lingering fear, she walks past Morrigan to place her bag on the employee table, taking a wide circle around the girl. After their encounter yesterday, Morrigan seems hesitant to turn her back, always keeping a few feet between them, and the woman has no qualms with that.

Only two hours into the slower shift the woman's mind snaps into focus— it's a Friday shift, the woman realizes suddenly, a calendar popping up in her head with this Friday circled. What is important about today? As if to answer her question, the bakery door swings open, a warm and fulfilling scent wafting into the lobby in what seems like little waves of smoke. The Well Man carefully eases his way through the door, holding what appears to be a large cake.

Morrigan opens her eyes in surprise, speaking in awe at the dainty but beautiful cake, "Wow, I forget that you're a baker sometimes."

"How? I work in a bakery."

"You're such a klutz that it's hard to remember that you actually have any skills," she says, more focus directed onto the cake and less on the words coming out of her mouth.

The Well Man looks like he's sinking into the floor, his face a little hurt, "Harsh, Lia. Well, it doesn't matter, I guess. It's for you, Elly!" The woman— previously very interested in a crack on the ceiling— suddenly snaps her head up, giving a 'huh' sound.

"For me?" she questions, peering to look onto the cake, "Did I do online order or something?"

"What? Well, no… It's your birthday," The Well Man says, his face flushing a deep red that only increases in vibrancy as time passes, "It is, isn't it? Was I wrong? Well, I thought you would have corrected me since I've made you a cake every year on this day!"

"Yes, I mean, you're right, yes," the woman says, a bit shocked at this news. Glancing over the man's shoulder, she spots the calendar with 'Eloise's Birthday' circled on today's date. She thinks for only a minute longer, slightly recalling many similar birthday cakes on this day, though only dimly.

Morrigan huffs, "You almost gave the man a heart attack, Eloise. Stop being a tease and say thanks." The Well Man shoots her a look that the woman can't decipher, though she can tell he's embarrassed.

"Well, you don't have to say thanks! I really like making cakes, so it's more for me than for you. Well, it's for you obviously, I only meant that—!" The Well Man looks like he's about to melt from how much sweat is on his forehead.

The woman hurries to grab the cake, speaking with what she prays is a sincere tone, "Thank you, uh, I think I like cake, yes, yes. I like the pink frosting, mhm. As many people like pink," the woman says, now on the receiving end of a bemused look from Morrigan. Though the girl isn't impressed, The Well Man lets out a sigh of relief, fidgeting with his now empty hands.

Setting the cake down aside her bag on the employee table, The Well Man pats his pockets, "I forgot my lighter, can I borrow yours, Eloise?" he says, holding a hand out expectantly. The woman isn't sure she owns a lighter. Or even a candle.

"I don't have one," she says, earning a surprised look from both employees.

Morrigan says, "You're not a smoker?"

"No, no, I've never smoked. What makes you say that?"

Marlo immediately averts eye-contact, face flushed. Morrigan speaks instead, "Most smokers I know look like you."

"Like me?"

"Like a bag of bones," she says matter-of-factly. The Well Man whacks her arm lightly.

He shrugs, "That's not it at all. It's, well, just that… I'm going to grab the lighter from the back." Awkward silence suffocates the two females left in the lobby.

The girl rolls her eyes, "You're like a skeleton. He won't say it because he's too nice, but I couldn't care less. If you don't smoke, why do you look like that?"

"You're a bratty little girl," the woman says.

Morrigan huffs, her face scrunching as she immaturely sticks her tongue out. "You're just a gross old lady."

"I'll have you know I'm only turning thirty-four," the woman says, instantly put on edge after the words leave her mouth. It's happening again. This creeping clarity that only appears once in a while. Any remaining fog has seeped away so slowly that she couldn't have noticed it. The woman tenses up, darting her eyes towards the front door of the building, peering through the glass with a paralyzing fear.

Nothing. There's no one there. The woman lets out a shaky breath, guiding her gaze back to Morrigan. Letting her eyes wander to the window, a muffled yelp sounds from her throat. In the window behind the girl, Joseph's body peers through the window. Morrigan spins around, seeing the 'man' with his lopsided smile.

"What a weird guy," she says pointing to the glass door with a hint of a smile on her face, "entrance is over there, Mr. Williams." As soon as her back is turned, Joseph William's body seems to deflate against the window, captivating her attention as a loosely fitted hand rises to the body's mouth, pulling the other side of the smile upwards.

The woman feels tears brimming in her eyes as she whispers, "I'm gonna throw up." Morrigan steps back with her face tinged with repulsion as the woman stumbles into the back room where the bathrooms are.

When she steps through the door, she runs right into the Well Man's fat, stumbling back and hitting her head on the wood of the door. Almost immediately, the Well Man is guiding her towards a chair, hand gently bracing the back of her head as he apologizes like it's his fault.

"I'm so sorry. I just, well, I didn't even see you coming," he says like she's a child, "Please don't cry, because if you start crying, I'm gonna start crying."

The woman brushes his hand away, feeling her stomach settle at being farther away from that thing. "No, no, I'm fine. It sounded worse than it was." She lets her chest deflate as he sits beside her. In a fraction of a second, her mind is practically splitting itself with clarity as she hears a voice through the thin wood.

"Just a coffee," 'Joseph' says, his voice seeming to crinkle in the chill air. The woman shudders at the voice, her stomach forcing her to retch. The Well Man makes a noise that she could describe as terror. Tumbling over her own feet, the woman rushes to the nearest trash can and vomits into the plastic bag.

As she does so, she can hear the Well Man panicking, "Oh my God, you have a concussion, I need to take you to the hospital. Why did you say it wasn't bad?!" With her piercing headache, it takes all of her willpower not to throw something at him. When Joseph finally leaves and her nausea episode passes, the Well Man is scrounging for his keys.

"Stop, stop, you're going to pass out. It's not a concussion. I just haven't been feeling well," she says, taking the keys out of his hand and placing them back in his bag.

He chuckles dryly, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping to his chubby cheeks, "Well, then you shouldn't have come to work at all. Jesus, Eloise, you scared me."

"If you're scared of a little vomit, you should try not being a baby," the woman says, opening her water bottle from the work fridge and swishes it in her mouth, spitting the tinted water into a sink.

He pauses, "Well, I'm not scared of vomit. I was, well, you know, just worried that I hurt you," he says, his face turning that reddish hue again.

"Okay, I'm not though," she says, features tinged with annoyance. Wiping off her mouth with her sleeve, the woman looks at the man, noting his face that always seems to be tinted red. With some of her clarity, she can take the time to really see what the Well Man looks like. To her, it's like she and this man have just met. It's odd that she's never really remembered him. He seems to know her enough to remember her birthday.

She won't sugarcoat it, he's a large man but incredibly short. Of course, she would never trust a skinny baker, so maybe it's for the best. His height, however, is slightly more baffling. He can't be taller than 5'6 and it gives him an almost comical appearance. Though it's not by much, she's certain that she's at least an inch or two taller.

His hair takes an extremely light brown with a hint of red hue, the curls long enough to cover his eyes if not for the little metal snap barrettes holding the strands back. It's clear that he needs a haircut, but the length doesn't look bad.

Moving her gaze to his eyes, a little gasp almost escapes her mouth when she sees the shade of his eyes. The most beautiful hazel she's ever seen stare right back. God, they look just like Maddox's.

She feels a little dizzy.

Looking away, the woman says, "You still have that lighter? I wouldn't want the cake to get too warm."

"Uh, yeah, of course," he replies, fumbling for the lighter he had set down in his haste. Walking out of the back, the man and woman gasp synchronously as they see Morrigan clutching the counter, her knuckles turning white.

She spots them and gasps out, "Oh my God, it's like he was rotting," she says, pressing her hands into her eyes, "I get it, Eloise, that was disgusting."

"Who?" The man asks, coming up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her back, rubbing it in circles to calm her.

"Joseph. Joseph Williams. I think he's dying or I just saw a ghost." The older woman feels her hands shake. The body was already rotting. The midday sun was already melting the body that it took. For the first time, the woman thinks about what 'it' is. She isn't sure how, but it's like it has met her before. Like they share something.

The Well Man's eyes flick to her and she swallows audibly. It's like she can see something that they can't. She doesn't understand it, and if she's being honest, she doesn't want to. She would rather pretend this is all a nightmare and hope that it disappears again.

Even if that means that she's always stuck in fog and clouded with confusion. It's better to ignore it all.

It's really hard to ignore sirens this loud though. Sirens? All three workers peek their heads out the windows, noticing a single cop car pull up. Very soon, there are three more cars pulling up with yellow crime-scene tape. Morrigan moves to walk outside, but an officer spots her and holds his hand out, speaking into his radio as he does so.

Morrigan leans back against the counter, whispering softly as if they can hear her, "What do you think happened?"

"Well, maybe someone died," the Well Man says. The girl hits him.

"Don't say that. That's not even realistic."

"Bad news, someone died, yes, yes," the older woman says, peering out the side window and seeing a collapsed body. With her hands and face pressed against the glass, the woman can only see blurred colors, but she can guess exactly who it is on the ground.

'It' abandoned Maddox's body when he started to rot.

The girl almost faints at her words. The man covers his mouth, gasping quietly, "Well, who, Eloise, who?" The woman gives him a nervous glance, sneaking a peak at Morrigan and her distraught expression.

"Joseph," the girl guesses, "It's that old man, isn't it, Eloise." The woman nods, face paper white.