Evidence & Experience
The dark season is here.
Shadows deepen, the
unknown unsettles, and the inexplicable creeps into the
psyche and fear takes hold.Thrills all October long!Current Edition, Oct. 28:
The Ninth YearDouble feature:
The Dark SeasonThe Dark Season, conclusionSpecial Double feature:
Part I: The Occupant
Part II: The Intruder
Evidence & Experience posts
Wednesday Nights, 9PM PST
a Creative Writing Lab.Word weaving and smithing.
Short-form journal entries, stories, sketches, observations, ideas, & notes in progress.Past Editions:
Last WednesdayNew Compilation:
The Impact of Energy
Content Notice: Expansive thoughts,
deep questions, adult themes, etc.
The Ninth Year
Oct. 28
The conference room of the agency was dark, illuminated by a large screen. A tall, thin woman with sharp features and bright red lipstick stood beside it. Her fitted black suit accentuated her figure. Her cold elegance commanded the attention of the counsel members.A file appeared on the screen:SUBJECT: CLASSIFIED. THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME.“For nine years, this subject has been studied and tracked by our intelligence officers. Analysis of their habits, behavior, and psychological profile has revealed an individual of exceptional strategic ability, independent judgment, and an unusual capacity for pattern recognization.“The subject is analytical, highly observant, and resistant to external influence. This individual questions established systems, anticipate consequences, and operates independently of conventional social expectations. They reveal little, trust selectively, and rarely act without first considering multiple outcomes.“Our officers have determined that this individual represents a threat to society. The subject disrupts the natural balance simply by existing. They do not require authority, wealth, or influence to present a danger. Their mere presence challenges the structures upon which social order depends.“Furthermore, we have reason to believe the subject has somehow gained access to classified information. The extent of this knowledge remains unknown, creating significant complications across multiple levels of intelligence and security.“After nine years of observation, we have yet to determine what the subject knows, how that knowledge was acquired, or how much of our operation has already been uncovered.”The woman advanced to the final page of the file.“Retrieval is authorized for October thirtieth. The subject is to be brought in alive.”To be continued…Saturday Oct. 31st.,
The story continues
The Dark Season
Oct. 21I spent the better part of the summer traveling through Europe, chasing remnants of worlds that existed long before my own.Ancient castles, forgotten crypts, and the real-life settings of my favorite novels and movies. I rode trains through Eastern Europe, wandered the hidden passages beneath Paris, and lost myself in the narrow streets of old cities where history was imbedded into every stone.My favorite ritual was visiting local bookshops. Preferably used. The older, the better.I loved the smell of aging paper, the texture of worn leather, the intricate stitching of antique bindings. Piles of forgotten tomes and discarded tales, waiting for someone to remember they existed.I never searched for anything inparticular. Recipes, folklore, local histories, vintage astrology guides. The mystical and the macabre. I simply wandered until something called to me. As though the pages would whisper, a siren’s secret call.I followed an impulse through a maze of cobbled narrow alleyways to an antique shop I couldn't recall seeing on any map. Its windows were crowded with tarnished silver, cracked porcelain, and objects whose purposes had been forgotten.Inside, the floorboards groaned beneath my feet. Rusted trinkets, broken dolls, bronze basins, and faded dresses crowded every available surface. The place smelled of dust, damp wood, and something faintly metallic.In the back, beneath a blankets of dust, sat a pile of books.One caught my attention.Small enough to fit in a coat pocket, its leather cover was cracked and dark with age. The binding had nearly given way, as though someone had carried it everywhere for years, perhaps a lifetime.I lifted it carefully.The pages were unexpectedly crisp, their edges browned to the color of honey. Handwritten passages filled the margins, accompanied by sketches of unfamiliar symbols, strange botanical forms, and landscapes I couldn't place.A journal, perhaps. A young woman's private thoughts, lost to time.What a find.There was no price tag. I called for the shopkeeper, in the local language. An old man emerged from a doorway at the back.I asked how much.He stared at the book.I offered cash. He shook his head.I offered more.Still, he refused.I kept adding bills until he finally snatched the money from my hand. His expression suggested I'd made a terrible mistake.Outside, I took a selfie with the shop sign in the background, tagged the location, and posted it to my travel feed.Back in the private suite of my hotel, I unpacked my purchase and settled onto the bed. I turned the pages carefully, my fingertips gliding over the antique script. The handwriting changed from page to page, sometimes delicate and precise, sometimes hurried, as though the writer had been racing against something.Near the middle, I found a page arranged like a poem. Or perhaps lyrics.I tried sounding out the words. The syllables were awkward, unfamiliar. I tried again, then opened my translator app and read aloud into the microphone.The app caught a few words but failed to make sense of the rest.On my third attempt, something changed. My pronunciation settled into a rhythm I hadn't intended. The words flowed together, a cadence rising and falling like a melody. A wish whispered in a language older than memory.The last word seemed to linger in the air after I had finished speaking.The translator app flashed.Thinking…Ellipses appeared, vanished, and appeared again. I watched the screen for another minute before losing interest. Whatever the language was, it wasn't going anywhere.I decided to take a shower.I was lathering my hair when three heavy knocks sounded at the suite door.I ignored them and continued rinsing.The knocks came again, slower this time. Three deliberate raps, followed by silence.I shut off the water and listened. A creak sounded from the other room, followed by a draft that nudged the bathroom door ajar. The windows had been closed when I'd arrived.A chill traveled over my skin despite the steam.I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped into the room.The book lay open on the desk.I was certain I'd left it several pages earlier. Now it rested near the back, open to a page marked with a symbol I'd seen in the earlier sketches: a circle divided by a crooked line, surrounded by tiny, intricate characters.Beside it lay a small, translucent, pearl-colored envelope. I hadn't noticed it before. It had been affixed to the page with a thin strip of wax.I lifted it. It appeared empty.My translator app chimed.The words I'd spoken earlier had finally resolved into English. Not a translation of the poem, but instructions.I leaned over the book. The passage began with a sequence of symbols, followed by the same lyrical words I'd struggled to pronounce. Beneath them, a short paragraph explained how to speak the incantation: where to pause, which words to repeat and how to finish the invocation.At the bottom of the page, a final line had been written in a different hand.“Speak the words. Open the door. Claim what answers.”I read it twice from the book in its original language. Which now seemed oddly familiar, as if they were my own.Another knock sounded.I dressed quickly, pulled my hair back, and returned to the desk. I wasn't about to let an unanswered door interrupt what might be the discovery of a lifetime.“Speak the words. Open the door. Claim what answers.”Following the instructions, I spoke the incantation aloud. The unfamiliar syllables flowed into a rhythm that felt strangely natural. At the final phrase, the words seemed to settle into my bones.Something opened.Not in the room, but in my mind.Knowledge flooded in: languages I'd never studied, symbols I suddenly understood, connections between things I'd never imagined were connected. The book was no longer a collection of mysterious writings. Its meaning was clear to me, as though I'd spent years studying it.I knew the invocation. I knew what it could do. And, most astonishingly, I knew there was more.The knock came a third time.I crossed the room and opened the door.An elderly woman stood in the corridor, dressed in a dark coat buttoned to the throat. Her silver hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head. Her eyes moved past me, toward the desk."You've opened it," she said.I frowned. "Opened what?"You've made a terrible mistake.""You paid a man who had no right to sell it. A false bargain doesn't make you its rightful owner." Her beady, eyes furious. “that book handed down by generations, protected by blood— you’ve stolen knowledge that doesn’t belong to you!”I scoffed and decided to keep the book. I tell the woman wrong room and shut the door.To be continued…
PART II
The Dark Season
conclusion…
Oct. 24
The reason I shut the door on the furious woman, is because I spent a lifetime allowing strangers and the uninvited inside, so to speak— a doormat, a Cinderella, a whipping boy. All the times I was kind, and nice, and kind only to be betrayed, dumped on, and betrayed . There was no way to measure or quantify all that had been taken from me.I shut the door, and my personal power began rushing back to me.Confidently, I sat at the table in front of the vintage book with the golden honey pages. What was really inside? Why did it call me? The woman still outside the room, she was chanting, slowly, and deliberately— rapping at the door.Her old words an unknown spell attempting to penetrate my mind and capture my awareness. I consciously focused on what as in front of me.Why did this relic, this mysterious journal call to me? Something had already unlocked within me. A level of understanding I can’t explain.I sat in front of this grimoire of ancient information that was holding secrets, that had been hidden in time. I just wanted a glimpse, a peek.Several minutes passed, I found stillness between the woman outside, her desperate and wicked whispers, circling, as she paced back and forth, beyond the door.Finally, I pressed my left palm against the book's tattered cover.A rush of intense energy surged from the little volume and poured into me—an untamed force taking root within my very being. I placed my right hand over my heart, grounding myself as I drew in the current of ten thousand suns.The pull. Ancient and infinite,I was swept away into a greater knowing. Suddenly, unexpectedly I was released. My hands quivered, full of an intense heat from the transfer.Then in one swift motion, I was across the room, to the room door, open, and the book in hand. The force of my presence, broke the woman's hypnotic chanting, and sent her reeling back. I inhaled softly and held her gaze. Slowly approached her, until we stood toe-to-toe, not letting her in or giving her a way out.Frozen for a brief, eternal moment. I leaned towards her ear, and in my new found language whispered,“I’d like for you to keep something safe for me.”. I slipped the dark journal into the pocket of her heavy coat and stepped back. The woman reached into the pocket. A thin smile crossed her face, she turned, and disappeared down the corridor.Back in the room, the forgotten pearl envelope that was attached to the book lay on the table. This time something appeared to be inside.I picked it up and a ring slid out.
Most certainly, it had found its new owner.I smiled and slipped on the enchanted heirloom.###
The Saturday Night Special
Oct. 17
I awoke suddenly on the velvet sofa, wrapped in a soft blanket. The cat was curled in his usual spot, on top of the couch cushion, one leg and paw extended. The television was still on. Its glow filled the room.There was a tight pressure behind my watery eyes.The anchor was reporting a series of break-ins in the area. I watched without much interest until they flashed an enlarged image of the suspect, captured from security footage.A woman.She looked strangely familiar, but the image quality was so bad I couldn't tell. Her face was pixelated and grainy, one side swallowed by shadow. She had my hair, or something close to it. The same narrow shoulders. She might have been a stranger. She might have been someone I'd passed on the street a hundred times.She looked like she could be my sister.I stretched out, rubbing my temples. The news continued reporting about forced entry, missing property such as clothing but nothing of value taken. A neighborhood resident who'd returned home to find her apartment disturbed but nothing valuable was taken. They advised anyone with information to contact the police.I switched off the television.The cat lifted his head at the sound of the remote, blinked at me, then gently jumped to me. I reached for him, and he stretched toward me, pressing his forehead against my chin. I scratched behind his ears. His familiar purr, like a tiny jungle cat. a low, uneven rumble— that I felt through my palm."You're all right," I murmured.I wasn't sure which of us I meant.I must have fallen asleep again, because when I woke the light had changed. My neck hurt. The blanket had slipped to the floor, and the cat was gone.I found him in the bedroom, sitting on the windowsill.Yet, something felt off with the apartment.I couldn't have said what, exactly. The place looked the same at first glance. The books were on their shelves, the dishes in the cupboard, shoes lined up by the door. But a drawer stood open in the kitchen. The hall closet was ajar. A framed photograph lay facedown on the dresser. Most likely the cat being curious.I went through the rooms, trying to catch the apartment in a lie. The bedroom looked untouched, though the sheets were rumpled on the side where I usually slept. In the bathroom, the medicine cabinet hung open. I stared at it for a long moment, trying to remember whether I'd left it that way.I couldn't.The front door was locked. The windows were secure. There were no signs of forced entry.I told myself I'd been tired. I'd been waking up in strange positions lately, losing track of small things. It was probably nothing. Maybe a walk would clear my head. I put on some sweats and a hoodie, and headed out for coffee.I checked the lock twice before leaving.On the way to cafe, There missing-cat poster was on a telephone pole halfway down the block.I almost walked past it.The photograph was small and grainy, printed in black and white. A cat with dark ears and a pale patch beneath its chin. His expression had the familiar, the annoyed and offended look he wore whenever his sleep interrupted.I stopped.I leaned closer, then stepped back, the distance did not change what I was seeing.It was my cat!Not a cat like mine. Not one with similar markings. The little notch in his left ear, the one he'd had since before I knew him. Even the black bit of chest hair that’s shaped like a strawberry.MISSING, the poster read.Beneath it was a telephone number.After standing there longer than I cared to admit, I called. A woman answered almost immediately."Hello?"I almost hung up. Then stammered,"I'm calling about the missing cat."A pause. Then the woman said his name.I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten."Can you tell me what he looks like?" I asked.She gave me his markings. His size. The notch in his ear."Oh, he has a strawberry patch," she said “thats what i call the little spot if hair on his chest which is about the same size and shape as the berry.”I couldn't speak."Hello? Did you find him!?" she asked. Her voice oddly familiar. I was frozen. She continued,"Um, let’s see, he makes this little sound when he's hungry, almost like he's trying to talk—“I ended the call.For a while, I stood on the sidewalk with the phone in my hand. Traffic moved past me. Someone laughed across the street. A dog barked from behind a fence.The world continued, perfectly ordinary.I went home and found the cat asleep on top of the velvety cushion.I watched him for a long time before touching him. He stirred, stretched, and pressed his forehead against my hand.He’s the only thing that felt normal recently.That evening, my phone rang from an unfamiliar number."Hey," a woman said. "How are you feeling?"I didn't answer."It's me. Are you still foggy? They said it might take a while after the hospital."I gripped the phone tighter. The voice on the other end sounded put on or restrained. I asked, “Who is this?”There was a silence, followed by a small, weary laugh."Very funny. Hey, sis? You still there?"Sis?I tried to picture a face. A childhood bedroom. Someone sitting beside me in the back seat of a car. Nothing settled into place."Yeah," I said. "I'm here. I'm just tired.""You sound tired. Have you been sleeping?""Some.""And the cat? Did he come back? I saw the posters."I looked toward the sofa.The cat watching me intensely. "Yes," I said. "He’s back.""Good." The woman sounded relieved. "That's good."We spoke for another minute, perhaps two. I don't remember what we said. When the call ended, I sat in the dark with the phone against my ear.I couldn't remember having a sister.But I couldn't remember not having one, either.#
Double feature:
PART I
THE OCCUPANT
Double feature:
PART II
THE INTRUDER
Oct. 17
I woke to the sound of a lock turning.For one wild moment, I thought I was home.Then the door opened, and a woman in burgundy scrubs stepped into the room. She looked at me with the flat, practiced expression of someone who'd already decided what I was going to say."You're awake," she said.I sat up. My head felt packed with cotton. There was a narrow bed beneath me, a chair bolted to the floor, and a small window set high in the wall. The door had no handle on my side."Where am I?She looked at the chart in her hand, ignoring the question."How are you feeling this morning?""Where's my apartment?"She didn't answer.I tried to remember arriving at this facility. There was a corridor. Bright flashing light. Movement. Someone holding my arm. The list goes on, there was nothing I could trust."How long have I been here?"The nurse continued to ignore me, I going to take your vitals."I want to go home."She took my pulse and made a note on the chart. Then took a small vial, inserted a needle to draw the clear liquid into the syringe.My cat was the clearest thing I could remember.The nurse took my arm forcefully, “Don’t struggle, it will only be a quick sting.” She pressed the needle into my vein.The room began to fade…I knew the weight of my cat’s body against my chest. The small pressure of his forehead against my hand. The way he curled into the hollow of my neck, as though he’d been made to fit there.I couldn't remember the color of my own front door or apartment number.But I remembered the cat.How did I get to wherever this was?I remember a corridor, an alarm, the sound of running feet. I remember being outside and the cold air hurting my lungs. After that, I walked.I had to get home. I was wearing burgundy scrubs that were two sizes too big and yellow hospital socks with the rubber non slip treads on the sole. Then instinct began to kick in. I found my way to a familiar neighborhood.I tried three apartments the first night. The first had the wrong smell. The second had the wrong windows. The third was close enough that I stood inside for several minutes, unable to understand why I felt so certain and so wrong at the same time. There was no cat.Then I found my building the next night.I knew the leasing sign beside the main entrance. I knew the stair that creaked. I knew the hallway light that flickered.My hands were shaking by the time I reached the door. It was locked.I don't remember deciding to break in. I only remember the click when the window lock gave way, and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that I was home.Everything was where it belonged.The books. The dishes. The shoes by the door. The photograph on the console table.I picked it up and turned it over in my hands.I remembered the day it was taken. I could almost remember the person standing beside me, though her face kept slipping away.I went into the livingroom. My heart dropped.A woman was sleeping in my velvet sofa.For several seconds, I couldn't move.She had my hair. My shoulders. My face.I stood in the doorway and watched her breathe.I wanted to wake her. I wanted to grab her by the arms and demand to know who she was, how she'd gotten inside, and why she was wearing my life!Instead, I began to search.The mail in the hall drawer had my name. The wallet in the handbag contained an driver’s license with my face on it. The bank card had my name, too.I stared at the photograph on the identification until my eyes began to ache.Then I found the old phone, a credit card, and some cash in the shoebox at the back of the bedroom closet. I knew it was there before I opened the box.That frightened me more than the woman in my apartment.I took the phone, some clothes, and a small bag. I left the wallet. I didn't know what else to do.In the hallway, I stopped and listened. A small thud and my cat appeared and sat down. My heart warmed. He let out a small meow, welcoming me.I took a single step towards him, the floor creaked, I paused.“Psst, Psst,” I heard a sleepy sound from the soft sofa,” the mystery woman was awake, “psst, psst. Do you need food, baby?” The cat glanced towards the voice.I'd come back. I crept to window, leaving the way I came.In the early morning hours, sitting in the outdated business center, of a cheap hotel made the posters. Using a photograph I found on the phone, one that showed the cat looking directly at the camera, his ears tilted forward.I wrote MISSING in large letters.I knew the woman on my sofa would see it. I knew she'd call.I waited.The call came sooner than expected, from a number I recognized immediately. My own.I answered, but I didn't speak.The woman on the other end began to talk.It was my voice.Not similar. Not close. Mine. Same tone. Same inflections.She asked about the cat. I answered carefully, giving her the details she expected to hear.When I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room and looked at my hands. The small tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. The delicately inked cursive lines felt out of place.
”The Cat’s Meow.”I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt certain of anything.But I knew the cat, I was certain.Later that night, I returned to the apartment. From the street the windows looked dark. It was almost midnight.I used the spare key I'd found in the shoebox. The lock turned easily.Only the tv on with the sound muted. I listened. The apartment was quiet. I crept down the hall. Suddenly on the other side of the room she appeared.My mysterious twin. She stood barefoot, bewildered, and speechless with the cat pressed against her chest. She gasped.(Doppelgänger.)Frozen in time for a moment, neither of us moved.I looked at her face. My face. Practically a mirror image of each other.(Clone. Imposter. Fake.)The cat’s meow broke the deafening silence. I saw the thinly inked cursive lines, on the inside of her wrist as she reached for the cat, that had wriggled free, from her arms.He dropped to the floor, and ran toward me. I knelt down and put my hand out, he pressed his head into my palm. I scooped him up. He pushed his forehead against my chin. I checked his markings. The strawberry patch.I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.The woman made a sound I couldn't identify.When I opened my eyes again, she was staring at me as though I'd just taken something from her.I suppose I had.But I didn't know what.Still holding the cat, I turned on my heels and slipped into the night.###
The Shadowy Air
Oct. 14
October descends beneath a shroud of shadowy air, the veil between worlds grows thin. The night whispers secrets through the crooked branches, restless spirits stir in forgotten corners, and strange things exist where reason escapes.‘Tis the season when the macabre beckons, the uncanny enthralls, and the darkness holds a spectacular beauty.For the remainder of this haunted month, we shall wander through short stories and sinister thrillers, where dread creeps softly and madness lingers.So draw the curtains…and I’ll tell you more…Saturday for a Special double feature#
Moonlight
Sept. 30
The moon was full and high, shimmering across the water. I felt the pull of the tides, a subtle drop in pressure. The energy of the seasons passed through me. Cyclical in nature. Shifting beneath the surface to some degree.#
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Write this way…
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The Impact of Energy
Collection Release
A new compilation of poems and short form musings compiled from the latest work and original illustrations.A small archive of movement, thought, feeling, and image, now brought together in one collection.Now Available:
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[Wednesday, Oct. 14(#labs)
5/10: The Crime(s)
that never happened
~Triggering content:*~ This work contains material that may upset some readers, including mental health themes and implied sexual assault.
About the Project & Note from the Author5/10: The Crime(s) that Never Happened is the first project from the Evidence & Experience blog. It originally started in May, as weekly posts, on my Substack.I’m still writing and editing.However—-In light of the current events at Cornell University. I’m releasing the first four parts of the story, compiled as a first draft.Maybe this will be enough.The crimes described are not new. What has changed is the visibility of the issues. The combination of media coverage, camera phones, and the proliferation of illegal instructional websites and crime footage. which has made the scale of the issue harder to overlook.The larger observation is what goes unnoticed, unspoken, or overlooked. The crimes that never become crimes are often connected to the things we have learned to accept: neglected mental health, loneliness, distorted ideas about sexuality and relationships, how women are treated, weakness in men, and the distance people develop from themselves and one another.Things can be harmful without being unusual, and culturally accepted without being healthy.Facts5/10 is a work of fiction inspired by real and current events, CNN crime reports and the film
Blink Twice (2024).Written as a diary-style narrative and told in six parts, the story follows a narrator who recalls a series of events and suspected crimes that initially went unrecognized.The tone is restrained, stylized, and indirect, with emotion presented without conventional dramatic emphasis, much like a Wes Anderson film. The narrator records events without explaining what they mean or how the reader should feel about them.A crime may have been committed. The narrator may have witnessed it, been involved in it, or been the victim. The circumstances remain uncertain, leaving the reader to decide what happened.
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Evidence & ExperienceClaire is an independent writer and illustrator based on the West Coast. A range of freelance creative services available: Inquiries
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