Tiger Lily shifts her gaze slightly to look at Wendy, her eyes gleaming in the dark. Wendy’s breath catches; she can almost feel the monster in the cave with them, hot breath rolling over her, claws and horns scraping the stone over their head, drawing sparks. It is too big for the space, and it makes the cave feel even smaller, the sloping stone bearing down as if to crush them. Wendy fights back a moment of panic, forcing herself to breathe as Tiger Lily goes on.

“Sometimes the story is different entirely. Sometimes the creature wasn’t a monster, but a sadness, cursed with the ability to see the future. The creature saw that one day it would do a terrible thing, an unforgiveable thing, so it tore itself in two to prevent this fate from ever happening. It buried all the dark parts of itself deep underground and hid the rest of itself in a body it stole. It hid so well, it didn’t even know itself anymore, and it forgot it had ever been anything other than what it chose to become.”

Tiger Lily shivers slightly, like a cold breeze passing over her skin. Wendy feels it too, but at the same time she still feels a strange heat on her skin, like something breathing against her, and sweat prickles her skin. The light dims in Tiger Lily’s eyes, leaving them pained. Wendy has seen the same expression in Michael’s eyes, a simultaneous longing to remember and to forget.

“I don’t remember anything else.” Tiger Lily lifts her head and meets Wendy’s gaze.

“It’s all r—” Wendy starts, and her words lodge in her throat, thorn-like and tearing. She remembers. She shouldn’t remember, can’t possibly remember, but she does. A terrible creature, separated from itself, locking away all its darkness, like a skin shed. No, not a skin—a shadow.

Wendy puts her hands to her head, digging trimmed-short nails into her scalp beneath the weight of her hair as if she could pull the information out by force. The door in her mind rattles. The wood creaks, a weight leaning on it from the other side. She listens. Something breathes, a terrible wheezing sound like bellows.

Wendy draws a ragged breath, doubling over at the waist. Her head aches, a simultaneous weight at the door, demanding to be released, and her own fear pressed heavy against it from the opposite side, holding it shut. Tiger Lily touches Wendy’s shoulder, concern in her voice lost in the roar of blood filling Wendy’s ears. Wendy shakes her head, the barest of motions, and even that sends pain spiking through her skull. There’s more pain waiting for her if she opens the door, but she can’t keep it closed.