Lord of Perverted Ladies

I didn’t move.

Neither did my mother.

For a moment, the entire house seemed to hold its breath.

Then my father’s voice came again from downstairs.

"Adrian?"

It was unmistakably him.

Older than I remembered.

Rougher.

But his voice hadn’t changed enough for me to doubt it.

I looked at my mother.

She was staring at the hallway with tears running down her face.

"Mom."

She didn’t answer.

"Is that Dad?"

Her lips trembled.

"I don’t know."

"You know that voice."

"I haven’t heard it in six years."

That stopped me.

Six years.

My father had been missing for six years.

And now he was standing downstairs.

Apparently waiting for me.

I moved toward the door.

My mother grabbed my arm.

"Don’t."

I looked at her.

"Why?"

"Because the last time he came back..."

She stopped.

"The last time?"

She shook her head.

"He didn’t."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

Before she could answer, footsteps sounded from downstairs.

Slow.

Measured.

Coming toward us.

I reached for the black key.

Nothing happened.

No System.

No warning.

Just the cold weight of metal against my palm.

The footsteps stopped outside my old room.

The door was still open.

A man appeared in the hallway.

My father.

I hadn’t seen him in six years.

He looked older than the photograph.

His hair had gone grey around the temples.

There were deep lines around his eyes.

His clothes were simple and worn, and there was a scar running from his jaw toward his neck.

But it was him.

I knew immediately.

He stared at me.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then his eyes moved to the notebook on my desk.

His expression changed.

"You found it."

I frowned.

"You knew it was here."

"Yes."

"How?"

He looked at my mother.

She immediately turned away.

I looked back at him.

"Where have you been?"

He didn’t answer.

"Dad."

"I couldn’t come home."

"Why?"

"Because they were watching."

"Who?"

He looked toward the window.

"The people outside the Story."

My grip tightened.

"So you know."

"I know more than you think."

He stepped into the room.

My mother moved backward.

"You shouldn’t have come back," she whispered.

My father looked at her.

"I had to."

"You promised."

"I know."

"You promised you’d never bring this back here."

"I didn’t."

He looked at me.

"He did."

I frowned.

"Who?"

My father pointed at the notebook.

"Your younger self."

I stared at him.

"My younger self?"

"He left instructions."

"What instructions?"

"To wait until you returned."

"Returned from where?"

He looked at me.

"Where were you?"

"The academy."

His expression hardened.

"So it happened."

"What?"

"The Story found you."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked exhausted.

"I was hoping it wouldn’t."

"You knew it would."

"I knew it might."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because you weren’t ready."

I laughed bitterly.

"Everyone says that."

"I know."

He looked around the room.

"You’ve been asking the wrong questions."

"Then tell me the right ones."

He stared at me.

"Why did you disappear?"

I waited.

He pointed toward the notebook.

"Read the final page again."

I picked it up.

The sentence was still there.

If I don’t come back, it’s because I chose not to.

My father nodded.

"That wasn’t a warning."

"What was it?"

"A decision."

"Whose?"

"Yours."

I frowned.

"I wrote it."

"Yes."

"Then why don’t I remember?"

"Because you asked me to make sure you didn’t."

My heart stopped.

"You?"

He nodded.

"I helped you erase your memory."

The room became silent.

My mother looked at him.

"You said you wouldn’t tell him."

"He deserves to know."

"You don’t know what it will do."

"I do."

I stepped between them.

"Enough."

They both looked at me.

"I want the truth."

My father sighed.

"Then you’ll have it."

He walked to the desk and picked up the photograph.

Me.

The person from the hospital.

Him.

Standing before the Black Door.

"You found this."

"Yes."

"This was taken on August 18, 2019."

"The day before I disappeared."

"Yes."

"Who took it?"

He didn’t answer.

I already knew.

"The person from the hospital."

He nodded.

"They were there."

"Yes."

"What were we doing?"

"Preparing."

"For what?"

"Your first crossing."

I frowned.

"Crossing into what?"

"Outside."

I stared at him.

"You mean the white world?"

"No."

He shook his head.

"The white world is only the space between."

"Between what?"

"The real world..."

He paused.

"...and everything that exists beyond it."

I thought about the doors.

The possibilities.

The Witness.

The Observer.

The first Story.

"Why did I want to go there?"

My father looked at me.

"Because you were searching for your mother."

I froze.

My mother stared at him.

"What?"

He looked at her.

"Tell him."

She shook her head.

"No."

"Mom?"

She sat down.

Her hands were trembling.

"Before you disappeared..."

She looked at me.

"...you found out something about our family."

"What?"

"We weren’t originally from Alisster."

I frowned.

"Then where?"

"Somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore."

My father continued.

"Your grandfather was part of an organization."

"What organization?"

"The Scriptorium."

I stared.

The name hit me like a punch.

"The Scriptorium."

"Yes."

"The same one from the Archive."

"Not the one you knew."

He shook his head.

"The original."

I sat down.

"What did they do?"

"They studied stories."

"Why?"

"Because they believed stories weren’t fiction."

I remembered the Archive.

The shelves.

The impossible books.

The worlds.

My father continued.

"They believed every story was a record of a possibility."

"Then the Scriptorium was..."

"An organization that catalogued those possibilities."

"The Archive."

"Yes."

I looked at the photograph.

"And the Black Door?"

"Your grandfather found it."

"What was behind it?"

My father looked toward the ceiling.

"The first world."

I felt a chill.

"The world before the Story."

He nodded.

"He entered."

"And came back?"

"No."

My stomach tightened.

"He never returned."

"Then how did you know?"

"Because he left records."

My father reached into his coat.

He pulled out a small notebook.

The cover was badly damaged.

He handed it to me.

I opened it.

The first page contained a single sentence.

The world outside reality is not empty.

The next page.

Something lives there.

Another.

It does not create.

Another.

It does not observe.

Another.

It remembers.

I looked at my father.

"The Witness."

He shook his head.

"No."

"What then?"

He turned another page.

There was a drawing.

A person.

No face.

No eyes.

Just a human outline.

Underneath it was written:

THE KEEPER.

I stared.

"Who is the Keeper?"

My father looked toward the bedroom door.

"That’s what your grandfather spent his life trying to discover."

"And you?"

"I spent mine trying to make sure you never did."

I turned another page.

The handwriting changed.

My own.

The Keeper isn’t outside the Story.

I froze.

Another line.

It’s inside us.

I looked up.

My father was watching me.

"What does that mean?"

"It means the Keeper isn’t a person."

"Then what?"

He shook his head.

"You’ll have to remember."

I hated those words.

"How?"

He looked at the black key.

"That’s why you have it."

I held it up.

"This?"

"Yes."

"It opens the door."

"Which door?"

"The one beneath Alisster."

I stared at him.

"There’s something beneath the city?"

"Not beneath the city."

He shook his head.

"Under the old hospital."

My heart stopped.

"The hospital."

"Yes."

"The same one from the photograph."

"The same one where your phone was found."

I looked toward the window.

Everything was beginning to connect.

The hospital wasn’t where my story ended.

It was where my story began.

"What happened to you after I disappeared?"

My father looked down.

"I went looking for you."

"I know."

"No."

He shook his head.

"I didn’t go looking for you because you were missing."

"I went because I knew where you had gone."

"Where?"

"Under the hospital."

I stared at him.

"What did you find?"

"Your body."

My mother gasped.

I froze.

"My body?"

"Yes."

"But I’m alive."

"I know."

"Then what did you find?"

My father looked directly at me.

"Another Adrian."

The room went completely silent.

"What?"

He nodded.

"Your body was there."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Then who am I?"

"I don’t know."

The answer was terrifyingly honest.

My father continued.

"I found your body three days after you disappeared."

"Same face."

"Same fingerprints."

"Same DNA."

"Everything matched."

"Then..."

He looked at me.

"...I buried you."

My mother began crying.

I couldn’t speak.

"Six years ago, I attended your funeral."

He looked down.

"And then, three months later..."

He swallowed.

"...you came back."

My blood ran cold.

"What?"

"You appeared at our door."

"Alive."

"Exactly as you are now."

"What did I say?"

My father stared at me.

"You said..."

He hesitated.

Then repeated the words.

"’Don’t let Adrian know he’s dead.’"

The room went silent.

I couldn’t breathe.

My mother looked at me.

My father looked at me.

Nobody moved.

Then the black key in my hand became hot.

A thin crack appeared in its surface.

Something began leaking from it.

White light.

The same white I’d seen outside the academy.

My father immediately stepped backward.

"No."

"What?"

He stared at the key.

"It found you."

"What found me?"

He looked terrified.

"The first Adrian."

The lights in the house went out.

The windows turned white.

The same voice from the white world whispered from somewhere outside.

"You finally came home."

My father’s face went pale.

Then another voice answered.

My voice.

"But this isn’t your home anymore."

I turned toward the hallway.

Someone was standing there.

A man.

My face.

My body.

My eyes.

Exactly like me.

Except he was wearing the clothes from the photograph.

The clothes I had been wearing seven years ago.

He smiled.

"Hello, Adrian."

I couldn’t move.

He looked at my father.

Then my mother.

Then back at me.

"I’ve been waiting seven years to meet you."

He raised his hand.

The black key in my palm cracked completely.

And the house disappeared.

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