Ex Nihilo

Mathis Johnson puts out his cigarette on the expensive denim of his lover’s pants, the ones that she so skilfully wriggled out not an hour before. He’s lost interest in her anyway; she’s just a way to pass the evening, something to catch the time with. It’s slipping away from him, the time – he doesn’t find anybody who can speed this dumb life up and make things easier for him.

Even his regular, official girlfriend – his fiancé – couldn’t do it. She’s half-ghost in his mind even now and she’ll disappear like all the others did before her. Anya is only here because his mother liked her well enough.


We’ll be okay, sweetheart, it’s what Farai whispers to her daughters right after she puts them to sleep. Some days, it truly helps a lot. She’s worried, but at least she can go to sleep knowing that her children and well-taken care of. Sometimes under her watchful eyes. Other times not.

There are days that loop like broken records for her, and there are days when Farai wishes they would. When she’s not here, when she’s called back to the graveyard to help out to the best of her ability, the secondary job she had to take on. She cannot watch her children on those days, but she leaves them with another – pale-eyed and tall, epitome of fear itself that has become nothing but the face of safety for Farai and her children.

Her sleep is comfortable.


Father Raymond has to give it all he has not to roll his eyes again. He’s not surprised, not even close, because the pale shadow has been escorting him to and from rectory for a while now. It’s a journey of about minute and a half, but he’s gotten used to the company.

“Good evening to you too, Peter.” He says after his pale companion doesn’t speak. Like a wisp of fog, he’s silent and unseen unless he means trouble. Raymond has seen that too, had anticipated it almost.

His wisp of fog says nothing, instead leans his back against the church and lights a cigarette beneath the dim light. Even in the company of the demon, nothing bad will befall Raymond tonight.


A pace away from each other, three figures surface from the thick Polish fog. They’re barely standing out, dressed in pale gowns and suit, with hair so blonde it was platinum almost and eyes watery, nearly white.

“Cigarette, Petya—“ One female demands in accented Polish and the man offers her one from his lips, for lack of another. There’s another female, one attempting to light the only remaining cigarette the three of them share. They’re ghastly, monstrous even, with gnarly hands and savage eyes.

They exhale as if though one being, then grin – teeth sharp and lips sharper, blood smeared on the corners and between their teeth. They disappear in the mist in the same way they’ve come from it – arrogant and silent, confidence and power shedding off their shoulders.