I couldn't decide which possibility was more terrifying: that demons and magic were real, or that I had gone insane.

"You're insane," I told myself, pulling to the side of the road a few blocks from my dad's house. "You're delusional, and psychotic. It can happen to anyone. Tomorrow, you'll go to the urgent care, and get a brain scan, or something, and they'll give you some drugs, and you'll be fine."

That was something I could deal with; something, however frightening, that was in my control.

"It makes sense," I went on, continuing my little pep-talk. "You lose your job, find out your boyfriend was never your boyfriend to begin with, and get overwhelmed by traumatic memories. Of course you break a little and see sexy cat-men who tell you you're something special."

Well, okay, the cat-man had actually told me I'm not special, and that if he had any choice in the matter, he'd ditch me, too.

I caught my own eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Can't even be deluded properly, can you? Loser."

Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I heaved a sigh.

Ro had certainly seemed real; but then I wouldn't be deluded if I didn't believe my delusions were real, right?

I was almost tempted to turn around and go back to my father's house, just to prove he didn't exist, except that then I'd lose the bet I'd made...

"With a delusion," I said, and laughed aloud. I was certainly acting the part.

My eyes came to rest on my father's ivy ring where it adorned my hand, and I wondered why I'd never gotten rid of it. Probably because it was pretty, and it looked good on me. My hands were among the few things I liked about myself.

I had long, thin fingers and I took care of my nails. At the moment they were painted a shiny shamrock green for spring, which I'd thought went well with the Ivy motif. I even had a thin vine of ivy tattooed on my right forearm. Obviously, I'd internalized the imagery as the last—and only—gift my father had given me. Of course it would come into play in my delusions.

"Heir to the Ivy Throne. Right." I shook my head at myself. "They're gonna love that in the psych ward, which is where you're going. Especially if you keep talking to yourself. Dumbass."

I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. I was sweaty and exhausted, and I needed a place to crash. Unfortunately, like the social misfit I was, I had few friends, and none of them were very close. Certainly not close enough that I could ask them to take care of me in the middle of a mental health crisis, or whatever it was I was having.

There was only Jamie, and he'd been plenty. Obviously the feeling wasn't mutual.

I didn't love him—I had to admit that, now. I liked him a lot, though, and it hurt to know he hadn't taken our 'relationship' seriously. But the fact was, he was right: our arrangement was one of convenience, for both of us. For him, because I was 'there,' apparently; and why not, since I was willing? For me, it was because I preferred familiar, stable, and safe to new and exciting. I could hardly blame him for wanting something better.

"That's reality for you, bud," I told myself. "Time to face it."

Pulling onto the road, I drove slowly and carefully back across town, to the plain apartment building where Jamie and I shared a unit.

Parking in the resident lot, I sat for a moment longer, contemplating what I would say. A dozen different scenarios played out in my mind—from Jamie apologizing and begging my forgiveness, to Jamie laughing in my face (which seemed more likely, since that's sort of what he'd done already).

Finally, I decided that I wouldn't give him the chance to talk at all. I'd go inside, shower, crash on the couch, and move out in the morning. Quick, clean, and painless.

As I got out of my car, I caught a strange scent on the air—clean, like a thunderstorm. Ozone, I recalled, giving it a name. Weird.

Inside, I took the abysmally slow elevator to the third floor, and stepped out into the familiar, beige-toned hall. At the door of room 312, I hesitated.

What if Mr. Knots had come back? What if Jamie was still angry at me for interrupting him?

"What if you grew a pair and stopped sniveling, Ellie?" I asked myself under my breath. "Seriously."

Unlocking the door, I entered and found something none of my imagined scenarios had prepared me for.

The place was ransacked.

Immobilized with shock, I took in the scene. Drawers were emptied, furniture overturned, curtains and cushions slashed, dishes broken, and appliances smashed. At first, I thought Jamie must have wrecked the place in a rage, but then I saw his vinyls spilled on the floor; he'd never risk those, no matter how mad he was. Then I thought we'd been burglarized; but the most expensive thing we owned was Jamie's XBOX, and it was still there.

Then I saw the blood.

It started in a large, dark stain on the carpet behind the couch, then led in a smeared trail through the half-open bedroom door, as if a body had been dragged in there.

I stood, shaking with adrenaline as my heart and mind raced at full speed towards some terrible, predestined finish line. With the evidence of violence all around me, the stillness was eerie.

"Jamie?" I called in a whisper. "Jamie? Are you...?"

I swallowed. My throat was so dry it hurt. I knew I should leave—get out and call 911—but I had to check for him.

"Jamie?"

Careful not to step in the blood, I crept to the bedroom door and pushed it open. I don't know what I expected to find, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted me.

Jamie lay on the bed. His face was turned towards me, and his eyes were open, blue and empty—whatever had made him 'Jamie' now mercifully departed. The rest of him was a mangled, bloody mess, as if he'd been mauled by some vicious, wild beast. In the colors of a gruesome valentine, he was laid open, all white and pink and blackish red.

The smell hit me at the same time as the horror, and I covered my mouth and fell back with a stifled cry, knocking against the wall in my clumsy retreat. I made it three steps from the bedroom door before I collapsed to my hands and knees, helpless sobs stealing my breath.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Jamie couldn't be dead. Jamie couldn't...

I had to call 911. The police would know if it was real, and I'd either be questioned as a murder suspect or taken away in a straightjacket.

Pulling myself to my feet, I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking so badly I barely managed to unlock it. The rasp of my ragged breath was the only sound, and I could hardly see the green 'call' icon through my tears. I tapped it, dialed 911, and waited as it rang. It picked up, and a calm female voice spoke on the line.

"911. What is your emergency?"

At the same time, I heard a soft thump in the hallway outside, and froze.

"Hello? What is your emergency?" the operator prompted again.

Panicking, I ended the call without daring to speak, staring at the door with a sudden and intense dread. It was probably just the neighbor, coming home drunk again, or building maintenance, or something. It was probably—

My phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin with fright. The screen said '911' and then I remembered: if you call and hang up, they'll try to call you back to make sure you're not just fucking around.

I silenced it and held my breath. The door rattled as someone tried the knob, and my heart nearly stopped with the absolute certainty that it was not the drunk neighbor, confused about where he lived again.

With sheer terror shooting through my veins, I stood rooted to the spot. Fight was not an option, and there was nowhere to hide. Then I remembered the fire-escape.

I took two steps and stopped. The fire-escape was outside the bedroom window, and to get to the window, I'd have to get past Jamie.

Something scraped in the outer lock, and—feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare—I forced myself to move. Keeping my eyes on the floor and holding my breath against the smell, I slipped through the bedroom door and bolted to the opposite wall. The window had a funny latch that stuck sometimes, and I struggled with it in mindless panic as I heard the hallway door unlock and open. I got it, slid the window up, crawled through, and closed it after me.

Then, with adrenaline just about the only thing in my veins, I practically fell down the three flights of metal ladders to the ground below. Not wasting a second, I darted through the shadows at the base of the wall, slipped around the side of the building, and stumbled for the lot where I'd left my car.

The strange scent, that ozone sting, was still there and stronger than before. I felt grateful for it, as it helped clear the remnants of other smells from my brain.

About halfway to my car, my steps slowed and I stopped. There were two, twin apartment blocks, separated by a narrow alley, that shared the parking lot. The space between the buildings was lit by a single, inefficient light. The darkness looked deserted, but I sensed it was not.

Something lurked in the shadows there. Something unnatural, and dangerous.

The stink of death wafted my way, a chill touched me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I blinked, and then I saw it at the far end of the alleyway, like a shape half solid and half made of smoke: a huge animal with mottled fur, a low hanging head, and jaws for crushing bones.

I blinked again and it vanished. Fear filled my mind, and I blinked once more. The creature was there again, a little closer this time. It didn't seem to be focusing on me, but rather to be sniffing something on the ground, following a scent.

My scent, I was sure.

My car wasn't far. I could make it in ten seconds at a sprint. But how fast could the giant hyena-thing move?

Before I had a chance to find out, its ugly head snapped up and turned my way, its mean little eyes fixed in my direction. Still, something told me it didn't exactly see me—maybe in the same way I couldn't quite see it. I could see it well enough to know when it started towards me, though.

In a purely instinctual act, triggered by absolute terror, I raised my hands and shouted.

Well, okay, it was more of a wordless, strangled squeak than a shout, but it didn't seem to matter. In an instant, my mind and the whole universe snapped into crystal clarity, the scent of ozone burned my nose, and then the air in front of my hands exploded outward as if with the pressure of a concentrated, hurricane force. It smashed down the alleyway like an invisible semi, shattering windows on either side. Car alarms went off left and right, and lights flicked on in the buildings above.

I stared into the darkness, chest heaving as I gasped for air and my limbs shaking so badly I could barely stand, but the creature was gone.

Still, I wasn't about to hang around until it came back, and I was pretty sure the hyena-thing hadn't been what I'd heard in hall upstairs.

Barely conscious of what I did, I walked to my car, got in, and drove to my dad's house for the second time that night.

I parked with one wheel on the curb, got out, and stumbled up the path to the front door. As I fumbled for the key, the door opened on its own.

Ro stood on the other side, wearing an apron over his black suit, his long hair gathered in a tall pony-tail, and a dish-towel in one hand—none of which helped convince me he wasn't a delusion. What did convince me was everything else I'd seen.

It was real. Or as real as real could be.

"Told you you'd be back," Ro said smugly. "I win."

Then he looked me up and down, sniffed at me, and frowned.

"Oh, dear. What's happened to you, now?"

A sob caught in my throat, and I burst into tears.

To my astonishment, Ro's smug smile vanished. He got me inside, shut the door after me, and then he held me while I cried.