Danny’s eyes peeled open to the sound of muffled screams. The dull red glow of his alarm clock maliciously beckoned him to check the time, which he obliged with a groan—4:32 a.m., an hour and twenty-eight minutes before it was set to go off. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the cloying cries of Rachel McIntyre’s children in the unit below. Sadly, the saboteur inside his skull had decided that, regardless of how badly he needed it, sleep would elude him this morning.

An hour-long wave of irritation swept over him as he got up and performed the usual morning rituals—the three S’s his father used to say: a shave, a shower, and the toilet. Each task chipped away at his flinty morning exterior, slowly cooling his bubbling anger. He had to get up, sure, but Rachel had to do the same and tend to the unintelligible and myriad needs of howling mini humans. Besides, an early start meant more time to stave off his impending homelessness.

He pulled open the drapes, letting the sunrise bathe his living room in a warm amber glow. The east-facing view wouldn’t be a perk for much longer. A line of condo towers was quickly being erected in the abutting neighbourhood. The proliferating monoliths encircled his small mid-rise like jail cell bars, threatening to lock him away until the relentless machine of gentrification could finally take him.

He gloomily mused about moving into one of the shiny new towers—double the rent for half the space. Sure, you couldn’t hop out of bed without hitting a wall, but hey, free gym access. The thought spurred him to redouble his efforts. He needed a new job, fast.

Entertainment was supposed to be an evergreen industry; wars, recessions, or famine—none of that would stop someone from wanting to see the latest rom-com; in fact, those probably helped. Turns out, the line for the hitherto untouchable TV and film biz was drawn at plague. Throw some very bad germs into the mix, and suddenly nobody wants to sit next to a hundred strangers in a dark room. So Danny cracked open his laptop like he had every morning for the past eight weeks and looked for work.

Spam. Spam. Bill. Oh look, someone took the time to email a rejection, nice of them. Bill.

Of the dozens of applications he sent out each day, maybe one would lead to an interview, which in turn led to a rejection. These came in the usual flavours: more suitable candidate was found, overqualified, underqualified, position no longer available, go fuck yourself. When he had reached his daily limit for being crushed by the Sisyphusian boulder of job hunting, he switched to a more fruitful means of avoiding eviction: liquidating his shit.

The shotgun minimalism of his apartment had paid last month’s rent, but he was quickly running out of AV equipment to sell. Moreover, there were some pieces he was loath to part with. What was a painter without his easel and brushes, after all? This led Danny to a side hustle he had never considered in all his twenty-six years of life: vintage resale. He snapped the laptop shut, grabbed a jacket, a backpack, and his emaciated wallet, then hit the street.

The neighbourhood was a hodgepodge of old bungalows, five-story apartments, and million-dollar carbon-copy new builds. The sheer number of luxury homes popping up induced as much confusion as it did despair. Was there a glut of millionaires piling into the city? If not, how were people affording this? And what would happen to all the people being wiped out of the area like an offensive stain?

“Hey, you’re Joanne’s kid, right?”

Danny blinked, suddenly shaken from his brooding. A man about ten years older than him stood in a driveway amid an assortment of glassware, dining sets, and other things rendered obsolete by IKEA. The man’s amicable face looked familiar, but Danny couldn’t quite place him. Shadows danced across the property as wind rustled the leaves of the sugar maple on the lawn. Danny’s eyes were drawn to a little heart carved into the bark—E plus H.

“Eric? Margaret Evans’ son?”

Danny had been invited over to swim in the Evans’ pool a few times when he was a gangly preteen. He didn’t recall much about Eric other than being punched in the gut by him. Deservedly so, as Danny had been openly hitting on his girlfriend, Heather.

“That’s me. Been a long time. How have you been?”

Oh, you know, same old, same old. Struggling to make ends meet, about to be evicted. “Pretty good, how about you?”

“Not bad,” Eric said, turning to look back at his mother’s house. “I mean, not great, but getting better. Mom disappeared ten months ago. Police couldn’t find her.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, thanks. I still don’t know how to feel about it. She’s gone, but her bills and real estate are still here. So I’ve gotta deal with it.” He swept an arm towards the assembly of his vanished mother’s belongings. “I’m trying to unload some of it before the house goes up for sale.”

“You’re not keeping it?”

“Oh god, no. Only a few photo albums. Who has room for anything else these days?

Danny presently did, but he didn’t say it.

“You see something you like?”

The collection of goods laid out on the plastic tables screamed “vintage.” Margaret’s aesthetic, while ancient, was presently, lucratively, in vogue. The number of quality items on display made Danny keenly aware of the heft of his wallet, or lack thereof. He had to choose wisely and quickly before the vultures started circling Eric’s display.

He perused dresses and postcards, cross-referencing them with a mental catalogue of hot-ticket items. He picked up some barware and an equestrian painting just as a couple of silver hairs strode onto the driveway and began aggressively rummaging. The two items were likely all he could afford, and he didn’t want to get into a bidding war with someone who had a pension. As he prepared himself to haggle with an old acquaintance who had recently lost a mother, something caught his eye.

An old wooden box was nestled between a pile of vinyl records and a Zippo display. A thin line of frosted glass wrapped around the box, just below the lid. Spiralling lines were etched into the top of the cherry-stained wood, covering every bit of its surface, save for a space at the center. There, a human silhouette was encircled by a tangle of thorn-like engravings, its limbs splayed out like it was holding them at bay. Danny hadn’t seen anything quite like it before but guessed the craftsmanship alone would warrant a good price.

“No idea where that came from,” Eric said, stepping next to him. “Mom liked garage sales.”

“I think I have a spot at home for something like this,” Danny lied. “Any chance I could get these three for fifty bucks?”

Maybe it was his unshaven face or two-day-old clothing, but Eric offered Danny a piteous smile and said, “Sure. I think that might have been a music box or some kind of old-school noise machine. Hold it to your ear.”

Danny set down the other items and brought the box up to his ear. There was nothing at first; it was hard to hear over the two gabbing sixty-somethings standing a few feet away, then a soft, undulating white noise blossomed. He turned the box around, inspecting it for a little hatch that might house a crank, but found nothing. He pulled at the lid, but it didn’t budge.

“I haven’t been able to open it,” Eric said. “I thought about trying to pry it open, but didn’t want to damage it, you know?”

I’m glad you didn’t. That would mean less money for both of us. “Good call. It’s a very nice-looking piece.” Danny wrapped the other two items with packing paper and gently placed them in his bag, opting to carry the box. “It was good seeing you again, Eric.”

“Yeah, you too. How’s Joanne doing?”

“Enjoying the warm weather. She cashed out and moved away a few years ago.”

“Everyone is doing that. Well, everyone with the sense to have bought houses twenty years ago.”

“You too, soon enough.”

Eric’s expression soured a little, and he looked back at his family house, saying, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Danny, despite a crippling lack of funds and his better judgement, bought a coffee on the way home. Estelle’s was a little, hole-in-the-wall cafe that had been in the neighbourhood longer than he had. It had been struggling under the shadow of the colossus that was the nearby condo Starbucks, so Danny felt it was his duty to support the tiny cafe. May my two dollars shield you from future bankruptcy.

He popped open the lid, let the rich aroma fill his apartment, and got to business. The barware was a hot ticket item and sold in minutes; anyone with a liquor cart and thirsty friends needed a half-decent set of glasses for serving—one hundred dollars. The equestrian painting took all day to sell. The buyer showed up to Danny’s apartment in a trenchcoat and cowboy hat, which almost made up for the paltry payout—thirty-five dollars. That left the box.

Pricing the thing was a challenge. Deep dives into Marketplace and Etsy proved unsuccessful, and vintage databases were scoured in vain. The one clue he found was a set of initials carved into the bottom lip: B.B. A quick search online indicated that A) There were too many fucking things with those initials, and B) He needed to speak with an expert.

That would have to wait until tomorrow. Garage sales and getting his ass kicked by job rejections really took it out of him. Besides, it was dark and most shops were closed now. Danny leaned away from his laptop and looked out the balcony window. Bright neon light pierced the gloom of the night and saturated the apartment. The obnoxious sign was for some fancy bar spa that had even more obnoxious hours. Several complaints had been lodged against the eyesore, but for the time being, it remained. Until he could afford blackout curtains or succumbed to the temptation of taping garbage bags to the windows, the light would be an aggravating impediment to his sleep.

Above the blinding sign, a tableau of humanity filled the glass panes of the towering condo. Some leaned out into the autumn wind sweeping across their balconies. Some danced. Some were enjoying company. Some were really enjoying company. Danny briefly considered binocular resale as a new avenue for making cash before shutting the ineffectual curtains in his bedroom and going to sleep.

Danny’s eyes opened to a wholly unfamiliar sensation: silence. Daylight framed the curtains of the bedroom, signaling that he had, against all odds, overslept. Schedules weren’t exactly the hallmark of unemployment, but he kept to one for his mental health. Hauling himself out of bed every morning helped him feel like he had some control of his life.

The vacant display on the alarm clock suggested there had been a power outage—fine, but what about the always-reliable floorboard alarm? You could set your watch to the 4:30 screaming match between the McIntyre boys. Danny decided to treat the unexpected feeling of restfulness as a rare blessing and hopped out of bed with a spring in his step. Maybe this was a sign that life was about to take a positive turn. Careful, wouldn’t want myself turning into an optimist or anything—gross.

He ambled into the living room to pull back the curtains and was surprised to see a blanket of white thrown over the fall sky; there was no fog in the forecast. The streets below, usually teeming with the bustle of people getting to work, were empty. His eyes scanned upward, surveying the windows of the nearest condo tower, and found they were also bereft of activity—all but one. The dark outline of someone looked down on him from the eighth floor.

Danny raised a tentative hand at the figure and waved—no response. Maybe he didn’t see me? Kinda hard to believe since I appear to be the only thing moving in the neighbourhood. He let his hand fall, wondering if the person was a creep or actually just a mannequin placed there by a creep.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the weather app—no network connection. His annoyance was cut short when he looked back up to find that the person in the window had vanished. Suddenly feeling both uncomfortably alone and somehow terribly unsafe, he walked over to the apartment door and secured the chain lock.

As the metal slid into place, something shrieked from behind him, and he spun, expecting a shadowy figure to crash through his balcony window. The burst of adrenaline quickly faded and was replaced by profound embarrassment when he realized the shriek had been his alarm clock. He strode into his room and slapped the device off.

After the shock wore off he decided to cut himself a little slack. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound due to the McIntyre boys. Compound that with having some weirdo staring into the apartment from afar and you had a great reason to be jumpy. Danny stepped out into the living room after collecting himself and immediately dropped and scattered said collection.

The fog had lifted. Moreover, the street below had regained its usual amount of dog-walking, stroller-pushing bustle. He checked his phone—three bars. The weather app indicated a stretch of partly cloudy days on the horizon with a small chance of rain; there was no fog in today’s forecast.

Questioning whether the stress had finally cracked his psyche, he pulled up the hours for a local appraiser. There wasn’t much he could do if he was losing it; he had nothing against therapy except its impenetrable financial barrier. The best he could offer his troubles was the possibility of a payday that bridged the gap between his unemployment cheque and rent; Carousel Auctions and Appraisals opened in half an hour.

Danny grabbed his jacket and the box and left his apartment. It would take at least thirty minutes to walk to the shop, and he was possessed by a fresh, manic desire to make some cash. The morning, which had such a calming start, took yet another turn for the worse when he got to the lobby. His landlord stood at the door, casting an oppressive five-foot-three shadow over his escape.

“Hello, Mr. Borgins.”

“Your rent is due next week, Daniel.”

“Yes, it’s coming. I’ll pay on time.”

“I don’t give extensions. It’s not to be cruel; I’m running a business.”

The only “business” Jakub Borgins cared for was cashing out. Developers would pay millions for land in the city if they were able to build on it. Sadly for Mr. Borgins, selling an apartment meant the buyer took on the tenants at the same rent—a pill too bitter for most developers to swallow. While the meagre and dwindling tenant protections of this municipality were frustrating for the landlord, they hadn’t crushed his dreams of fucking off to a beach somewhere in Florida. He would get there one eviction at a time.

“You’ll get the rent,” Danny said, brandishing the statement like a crucifix before a very short vampire.

He opened the door and stepped into the fall air, leaving the disaster of a morning in search of better fortunes. The comfortable heft of the box gave him a good feeling about its value. The problem wouldn’t be the payout, which would very likely allow him to make rent and maybe even splurge on the fancy instant ramen; it would be finding a buyer in time. With any luck, the appraiser would not only have answers about the value but also connect Danny with prospective purchasers.

The gentle woosh of the wind was muffled by a barrier of trees as he cut through an empty park. In its absence, the slap of his sneakers hitting the asphalt path filled the air; only there was something else. He paused and listened, catching a sound that could have been the breeze blowing past his ears, but he felt no wind. Still unsettled by the events of the morning, he looked around the park to see if someone was there, even looking up to see if someone was flying a drone—nothing.

The more he listened, the more it sounded like the noise was behind him. Couldn’t be. It wasn’t this loud yesterday. He unslung his bag, pulled the box out, and lifted it. The white noise swelled as it approached his ear, but the volume wasn’t the only difference. The soft rise and fall had modulated into something else: a sustained burst of noise that dropped off and quickly resumed like someone pausing to take a breath.

A curious impulse tugged at his hands, daring him to try and open it. His fingers glided across the smooth exterior, finding a groove that must have been the lid, and pushed inward. The sounds abruptly stopped as he met resistance. In the ensuing silence, he set the box back down inside the bag, took one last look around, and half walked, half jogged to the store.

Brass bells jingled as he opened the door to Carousel’s. Antiques and memorabilia filled the shop like a precarious and expensive hedge maze, compelling him to take off his bag and hold it to his chest. One wrong move and his lofty dreams of enjoying a roof over his head would come crashing down with whatever he knocked over. It almost happened when a brittle voice spoke from amongst the clutter.

“How can I help you, young sir? Looking for vinyl? Record player? Vintage camera?”

An old man with a bright smile emerged from behind a bronze bust of a regal woman in a strapless dress. Danny nearly jumped out of his skin at the greeting but quickly regained his composure. Much like everything else in the room, the shopkeeper’s attire was a snapshot from ages past: brown pinstripe pants held up by suspenders, cream-coloured dress shirt, suede shoes—he was all-in on the aesthetic. Hopefully, the style was backed up with some knowledge.

“Uh, hi. No, I’m not here for any of that. I’m Daniel by the way,” he said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

The old man shook it with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Daniel. I’m Tom Mugford, an old man who likes old things. How can I help you?”

Danny set the bag down and pulled out the box. He knew to ask about the history of the box before letting on that he wanted to sell it. Pawn shops had burned him a couple of times by downplaying the value of his goods and exploiting his need for cash. Haggling wasn’t a skill he expected to need, but it was something he had to learn. Tom Mugford didn’t give off any asshole vibes, but Danny wasn’t in a position to fuck up a sale.

“Well now, there’s an interesting piece. May I inspect it?”

“Yes, please. That’s actually why I’m here, Mr. Mugford.”

“Call me Tom,” he said, gingerly taking the box. “The wood is black alder. The style and engravings are European, maybe German.”

Tom’s fingers slid around the box, gently trying to pry the lid.

“It won’t open,” Danny said. “I mean, maybe you have a method for it, but I couldn’t get the lid to budge.”

“Hmm, no, I wouldn’t want to damage the piece, but I might know someone who could do it. She’s a specialist and charges accordingly.”

Danny wasn’t in a position to afford anyone with the title of specialist, so he kept his mouth shut. The silence probably hinted at his financial situation, but he wouldn’t shoot himself in the foot by confirming it.

Tom continued, “The good news is that it’s old. Pre-1860. You can tell by the saw marks and the shellac. The engravings are very well done, too. The maker’s mark is unfamiliar to me; I don’t know anyone off-hand with the initials M.E.”

“You mean B.B.?”

“No sir, check for yourself.”

Danny took the box and inspected the bottom edge—M.E. He was certain they had read B.B. How could he have mistaken the letters that badly? Another oddity to chalk up to stress.

“You’re probably looking for a price,” Tom said, rubbing his chin. “It’s hard to say without knowing what’s inside, but as is, I’d pay $500 for it.”

The individual lines of an internal wishlist exploded to the forefront of his mind: rent, coffee, new shoes, fresh fruit and vegetables—all items that, in a less turbulent age, would be common expenses, not wishes. He felt the breath pass his lips and realized he had dropped the disciplined haggler’s facade. Close your mouth, tighten up your jaw, and stop looking like you haven’t eaten an apple in two months. You need to get as much as you can, whenever possible.

While Danny steeled himself for a bout of bartering, Tom’s expression softened. His eyes took Danny in as if seeing him for the first time. The wrinkled clothes, the rough stubble that came from using an old razor, and more than anything, the wide-eyed desire he just let slip, painted an obvious portrait of someone down on their luck. Tom preempted the forthcoming battle and quashed any attempt at haggling.

“You know, I have a good feeling about this piece, young man. There’s a good chance I can find a buyer without needing to open it. How about $650?”

Danny had a number of tactics for obstinate buyers: the blank stare, the walkout, the “Hey man, this was my grandma’s and she would want at least twenty more.” All of the means of squeezing a few more dollars from an exchange fell apart when confronted with the unbearable rebuke of someone else’s pity. Broke as he was, Danny had been managing to struggle free from the ever-tightening economic restraints placed on him; he was proud of that defiant independence. While he told himself that there was no shame in taking charity, he couldn’t help but feel that pride crack.

“I, yes, $650 would be great. Thank you, Mr. Mugford. Tom.”

“Always happy to get hold of an interesting piece, Daniel. Thank you for bringing it.”

Any emotional baggage Danny carried away from Carousel’s was dropped after he got back to the apartment. The stout spectre of his eviction stood outside the doors, making a show of cleaning the glass while ignoring any number of other repairs the place needed. Mr. Borgins noticed Danny approach in the reflection of the glass and cleared his throat—preparing yet another “reminder” about rent. Danny didn’t give him the chance.

“Hello, Mr. Borgins!” he said cheerfully, whipping out his wallet and producing a wad of cash. “I’ll be down with an envelope in ten minutes. Thank you for your continued patience.”

The old landlord’s mouth went slack as Danny stepped past him into the apartment. Crestfallen would have been the wrong description for Jakub Borgins; if anything, he looked betrayed, like Danny had condemned him to another month of vacuuming halls and washing windows. Another month of dreaming about the beach for you, another month with a bed and a roof for me.

Danny spent the rest of the day listening to music and streaming movies; there had been enough hustle today, and he needed to decompress before another round of job applications and bargain hunting. When night came, he collapsed onto his bed with a content sigh. Tomorrow’s problems would rise with the sun, but not before he could enjoy a well-earned rest. He let his thoughts wander in search of sleep. They strolled past the normal fixations—food, sex, work—before settling on the box. His mind traced the lines of the grain, gliding over the polished wood, and he listened to the soft, indistinct noise inside.

Danny shifted onto his side and forced his eyes open. The clock didn’t provide the usual ruthless report of a dismally early hour—in fact, it provided nothing at all. He stared at the blank screen and gathered up the dizzy bits of his brain that hadn’t woken him. The power was out. Which meant no wifi. Which meant he’d have to go to a coffee shop to job hunt. He rose with a groan, spurred forward in equal parts by the need for work and the need for a dark roast.

Dawn pressed its subdued light into the apartment as he got dressed, and a wall of ash grey caught his eye through the window. An impenetrable sheet of fog had fallen over the world outside. Danny walked over to the glass, seeing his reflection grow as he approached. He searched for the outlines of the houses and condos he knew were out there but found nothing.

He looked at his laptop sitting on the end table, then looked back outside. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of leaving the building and he quickly began finding reasons to remain: Maybe the power was out for the whole neighbourhood. Maybe the phenomenon would simply go away—it did the last time. As he latched onto the hope that the fog would lift and willed it to be an irrefutable fact in his head, a sudden bang sounded from his bedroom.

Danny grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen and cautiously crept towards his room. He peered around the doorway, expecting someone to have broken through the window, and found the room empty and undisturbed. Holding the knife out in front of him, he stepped into the bedroom and approached the closet. With one swift motion, he thrust the door open and brandished the knife—nothing was there. He thought about the bed and a pang of fear caused him to spin around, expecting someone to have crawled out from underneath. Seeing no assailant, he ducked down and confirmed the only thing below his bed was a box of broken AV equipment.

Bang! He jumped up with a yelp, swinging the knife in front of him. The sound came from the wall. The neighbouring unit was occupied by a reclusive man in his sixties. He might have been younger than that; the reek of rye on the man—on the rare instances he was seen outside—suggested he had likely pickled a few years off his lifespan. Beyond the periodically unpleasant odour, the man had all the characteristics of a perfect neighbour: he was quiet and kept to himself. Danny tentatively thumped the wall with a fist, but there was no response.

Fuck, what if he’s hurt? Looks like I’m making a house call.

Tucking the knife into the waist of his pants and feeling foolish for it, Danny turned the handle of the door and stepped out into the empty hallway. He paused in front of the old man’s unit, trying to summon an explanation for when he answered. Hi, sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t dropped dead of liver cirrhosis or whatever. He knocked softly, then harder when there was no response. Maybe he is dead. That was a landlord’s responsibility, right? Checking apartments to make sure someone hadn’t keeled over?

Danny approached the stairwell, eager to pawn off the wellness check on Mr. Borgins, when he heard a noise from down the hall. It was something he had heard before. Curiosity overcame the growing impulse to run and find another human to commiserate with over the bizarre morning. He followed the sound to a unit at the end of the hall and pressed his ear to the door. A soft and familiar white noise escaped the barrier, ebbing and swelling like a heaving breath. Swallowing, he turned the handle.

Inside was a unit much like his own, empty save for a few pieces of dated furniture. There were no photos of family, no bills on the fridge—nothing to identify the person who lived here. Danny inhaled, ready to let out an obligatory, “Is anyone in here?” when the window caught his eye. The fog still permeated the neighbourhood, but it had lifted enough to reveal something. A house sat just a few dozen metres away, somehow parallel to the unit despite Danny being on the third floor.

The white noise fell away as he tried to make sense of what was in front of him. The fog covered the ground in a thick blanket, blotting out everything except the bungalow. He leaned into the glass and looked out, trying to discern what he could about the building in front of him. The possibility that he might be dreaming crossed his mind, but he had never had such a vivid dream in his life.

The white noise whelmed in his ears as a figure emerged beyond the bay window of the house. It twisted from side to side, as if examining the room, then threw its arms at the glass. Bang! It was the same sound he had heard in his bedroom. The figure pounded at the glass, each impact sounding like it was right next to Danny. The white noise modulated into a sharp staccato, rising and falling with the actions of the person in the house, then stopped abruptly. The figure’s arms fell to its sides and it turned around. From behind it, something loomed into existence, thin and twice its height.

A sharp blast of sound wracked Danny’s skull, causing him to buckle over and clutch his ears. The pain was so intense that his eyes filled with tears and his vision blurred. Just when the agony brought him to the verge of unconsciousness, the sound disappeared. He stared at the parquet floor, shuddering as he felt the phantom reverberations in his head. After a few shell-shocked seconds, he wiped his eyes and looked up.

The house was gone. Mist had consumed the entirety of the outdoors, concealing whatever horrible event Danny had witnessed. Whoever was in that house was trying to escape something inside it, something that filled them with dread—filled him with dread. As he looked out into the white haze, something began to take shape. For a moment, he thought the person had managed to flee and was coming to him, then the outline came into focus. Nine feet tall, with too-long limbs, a head as thin as its arms.