The room is quiet. The moonlight bleeding through the dusty, cracked blinds settles on the freshly cleaned desk. The light reveals her scars, her past—stain rings from spilled whiskey, burn marks from cigarettes, and the scratches and scuffs of a careless life’s daily work.

  I don’t miss the city lights. The lights that usually peek through the blinds and ask you why you won’t come down to Joe’s Diner and spend a dime and an hour on a drink. The moonlight’s quiet, pale caress is a fair trade.

  Alright, Jack. What’s next? Following the pattern of things, I guess I just lay here and sleep until my unconscious decides what to sort out next.

  I don’t like that, though. We’re trying to take the initiative here, not just wait to get by. Waiting feels wrong. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Waiting for life to come by and put the pieces together. That’s not me. Not anymore. Never was, really. I’ve spent too long being too content wearing someone else’s hat and coat, smoking someone else’s heaters, and drinking someone else’s rye. Who were you, Jack? Who will you be now?

  Heavy eyes. They slide shut. All of them.

  I peel them back open, giving sleep a half-hearted run for his money.

  Maybe I go look around the house. Maybe see if I can find anything. I am tired, though. I’ll get some more sleep, then go look around.

  Where do I sleep, though?

  Who am I kidding? Right here on the floor is as good a place as any. I’m a ball of spaghetti; a bed’s not going to make much difference. Just close your eyes and rest, Jack. Rest is essential. You won’t solve anything without it. Beats me why a ball of spaghetti needs to sleep, though. Maybe I’m more than just that. Who knows?

  Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, then let it out in a slow breeze. Another just the same.

  The floor creaks. I jerk my eyes open.

  Crack!

  Floorboards snap. I fall.

  “Waaagh!”

  Planks. Splinters.

  Squoosh!

  I smack the ground like a glob of clay.

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” I groan as I rub my smashed and bruised tentacles. “How did the floor break under me but not the coffin?”

  Crack!

  Rotten floorboards and a massive black box plummet toward me. I roll clear.

  BLAM! Blunk!

  The box slams on the ground right where I was. Dust chokes the air and tries to take me with it.

  “Alright, alright. No more complaining,” I cough out, waving away the dusty air. “ Yeesh! This place is trying to kill me.”

  Collecting myself, I give the generous look around that the black room is begging for.

  Moonlight spills in from the hole above. It casts faint shadows. My eyes, sharp in ways I don’t question, catch a door across the room. A switch beside it.

  I shloop over and flip the thing. Yellow incandescent light flickers. A lone bulb, dangling like a hanged man, floods the room with its glow.

  Wires should’ve torn when I fell.

  Doesn’t matter. Nothing here makes sense—a haunted house in my tentacled brain in some corner of space I can’t name. And I’m asking for sanity?

  If that brave bulb wants to hang on and burn, let it. Who am I to question? Who’s Jack Wolfgang to judge?

  Clothes racks, the kind you can wheel around, form a tiny labyrinth of clutter in the room. Feels like I’m in the costume closet of a Hollywood studio. What is all this?

  A stand of armor is posed against the wall. Though dusty, the armor is still strong and clean of rust.

  What was that poem? By Tennyson.

  My good blade carves the casques of men,

  My tough lance thrusteth sure,

  My strength is of the strength of ten,

  Because my heart is pure.

  I forget the middle of it. The ending always had the most impact on me. What was it?

  The clouds are broken in the sky,

  And thro’ the mountain-walls

  A rolling organ-harmony

  Swells up, and shakes and falls.

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  Then move the trees, the copses nod,

  Wings flutter, voices hover clear:

  “O Just and faithful knight of God!

  Ride on! the prize is near.”

  So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;

  By bridge and ford, by park and pale,

  All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide,

  Until I find the Holy Grail.

  Something like. Can’t trust anything this tentacle brain comes up with.

  I start looking through the racks of dusty costumes. Soldiers’ uniforms. Been there and done that.

  Sailor smocks? No thanks. Should have bought my own boat, though. Should have sailed the open sea, a salty breeze in my hair and the warm sun on my skin. Alone? We’ve seen how well I handle being alone.

  Policeman uniforms. Been there and done that too.

  Ah! These are some nice suits here. Black. Gray. Brown. Reminds me of the kind of men who run Seattle, the ones you see walking around fine dining restaurants at night, gorgeous dames hanging from their arms. What do those dames really want, though? All those laughs they share with other men sharing their uniform: are those real? Is anything about that life even real? I’d crumble in a week from the facade.

  Look at these royal robes. The red and purple silk mantles hang from the rack like everything else. I guess the moths get all our threads when we go.

  The humble rags of some peasant on his last leg hang right behind the mantles. From king to pawn. We all go in the same box at the end of the game. Or do we?

  Shelves line the walls with dusty models and figurines. Some I recognize: there’s Ma and Dad. There’s my high school history teacher.

  Mr… Uh… Forget it. I’ll never forget the lessons you taught me, but I’ll never remember your name. I get the sense you wouldn’t mind that. Teaching’s a humble, essential profession. We need more good men like you to keep the Commies out.

  Ah, what do I care? It’s all gone now. Who knows if I’ll ever see any of it again? Who knows who I’ll be if I even do? All I have left from that world are memories and prayers. Maybe those will help on my strange, new road.

  There’s my old squad from the war. Even the ones that didn’t make it. It’s good to see you again, boys. You were all so young. I was old compared to you kids. I wish I could have done more to protect some of you. But what? What could I have done? I hope you don’t blame me for not knowing.

  A few criminals I arrested when I was a cop. That one looks like Ricky the Stumblebum. Old drunk. He was a good guy. Too bad he didn’t know how to lay off the sauce. I think I still owe him a drink. Don’t hold that against me, Ricky.

  Who’s that wolf dame supposed to be? Reminds me of Sgt. Sigrid, but she’s in plain clothes. Plain enough for space. She should put on a longer skirt; that thing doesn’t even reach her knees. Shameful. Could button her blouse a notch or two also.

  Is that Mr. Lakeman? My old landlord. I should be a landlord. Nah. Too much work. Can’t trust people to keep a place these days. Never know when you’ll get a Ricky Stumblebum you have to go kick out. Boy, I’d hate to do that.

  Speaking of hating to do that, why’s this girl in black so sad-looking? Looks like someone ran over her dog. Is she praying? Maybe she’s some kind of space nun. Not very modest for a nun, though. What’s with these ladies? And why’s she look like a vampire? She’ll never get a job or a man like that. Maybe that’s why she’s sad: doesn’t know how to wear clothes.

  Is that a clown? Pink hair. Red nose. What’s she holding? A microphone? Looks like she’s singing. Dancing even. Boy, she could teach the sad girl a thing or two. Pretty goofy dressing as a clown, but I guess maybe that’s what the kids are into these days: singing clowns. Could be worse. That bouffant dress is something else. Who am I to judge what a clown wears? They know their job better than I do.

  Hey! That one’s gotta be Phil. Howard Phillip Marlowe, imagine seeing you here. Still got that fancy detective job? Boy, I’d still love to have a drink with you. “Soda water and lime. I don’t drink.” What a stiff. I love you for it. You’re a good man. I wish I’d been as straight-laced as you.

  Is this dame wearing armor over a ball gown? What kind of dance is she planning to do? That’s a nice shade of blue. If I recall correctly, that was always Phil’s favorite color. A real blue sky guy, as serious as the sun is hot.

  Speaking of blue sky: why’s this dame the color of it? Looks kind of Chinese with those buns and in that … do they call it a dress? And are those guns? Horns? A tail? Never seen anything like this. Oh, right. This is probably some space dame.

  I wonder if these are all aliens I could have met had I stayed on Earth. You always heard weird stories from soldiers about what the Jerries and the Japs were doing.

  I don’t figure they really got much help from aliens. They lost after all. I guess. But who knows?

  How long would it have taken us all to meet? Would our people have been friends, or would each of us have tried to conquer the other?

  History tells the tale well enough.

  Instead of World War, we’d have had a War of Worlds. I might want to conquer Earth, too, if I saw it for the first time. God made a real gem with that one. Shame how we’ve tarnished it. Is what it is, I suppose.

  Some of those space knights are on the shelf, too, like Sigrid and her team, but they’re not all red. I guess the colors represent what unit they’re part of. That’s pretty nifty. Are those vampires? A werewolf? Giant war robots? Oh, hey, that little one there looks like Roger.

  What the heck are all these? I don’t want to know. It’s weird.

  I could look at these all day, but I don’t have all day. I have to figure out what I’m supposed to do here.

  Diverting from the shelves, I peruse the room and start looking at the model buildings displayed on different tables. Castles. Skyscrapers. A space casino. Hotels. Hovels.

  Lot of stuff here. Lot of possibilities. Is that what all this is? I wonder…

  There it is in the corner, the café I’d always thought about opening, the thing I couldn’t stop dreaming about while I was lost in space. It’s exactly as I pictured it: a humble little haunt of midcentury style dashed with art deco, though never too decadent. The cozy kind of diner where you sip your whiskey and listen to slow jazz in the company of friends, old and new. Maybe you meet a sweetheart there or an old buddy from a hard past where things weren’t so easy. A place for the weary to enjoy their well-earned rest and relaxation.

  Why not this? Why not offer a drink and a warm meal? A soft seat and a few dulcet tunes?

  Take it, Jack. Beats anything else you’ve ever done with your life. This’ll be the blueprint. I’ll get Roger to help me put the thing together. We’ll run the place. He’ll make a good register; he basically already is one.

  “Alright. This is my dream now. Why it speaks to me: who knows? God knows. It’s He Who sends dreams. Lord of Muses, the true artist, creator Whom we all imitate in piety or mockery.

  “Lord, let this depraved, faithless man or tentacle monster — whatever I am — honor You with the dream You have sent. I have nothing else but this and a contrite, broken heart.

  “I’m sick of being an open door to Hell. Christ, let me be an open door to You. A door to light. Help me, God. I’ve got nothing left