Marigold took a generous swig of her coffee. The strong, bitter taste made her gag, but she needed caffeine after waking up at 5 am. She placed the thermos in the car’s cup holder and turned on the engine. Sounds akin to a dying animal assaulted her ears; it was almost as bad as the permanent day-old burger smell embedded in her car; no matter how many times she exhausted herself cleaning the damn thing, the smell never went away.

Swallowing a groan, Marigold put her foot to the pedal and drove towards the axis road. Part of her regretted not calling in sick for work. She’d only been a teacher for a year, and the job had already overstayed its welcome. Marigold used to think she liked kids – that was before she had to be in a room with the little parasites for six hours for five days straight. With how many times they threw tantrums over nothing, tried eating toy trains, shat themselves on the stools, and their parents defended their bad behavior by blaming it on Marigold, she could make a bingo card.

Fantasies of her resignation kept her going. Sweet, wonderful, unreachable fantasies. Her parents insisted she stay a teacher. “It’ll give you experience for being a mom!” they told her, and she refrained from spouting that she didn’t want kids. She already had enough arguments on the topic with her husband.

Marigold’s husband, Zackery, always lit up at the mention of children. Easy for him to think, Marigold would silently complain, he’s never had to deal with the little shits. An argument would persist for a while, until Zackery found her Achilles’ heel.

“You’re your parents’ only child,” he said. “Don’t you want them to have grandkids?”

With that, Marigold fell silent. They agreed on trying to conceive a child that night when Marigold got home from work. Marigold didn’t know what about children excited Zackery so much, or how he’d maintain an erection halfway through sex – something neither of them had done since they started dating.

Driving down the axis road, Marigold flipped through the positives of having a child. She could raise them to be better than the brats she worked with all day; she could enroll them in the school she worked at so she could always keep an eye on them; and she would encourage them to grow up to be whatever they wanted to be.

A knot formed in her abdomen. Turning her mind to the weather at hand – an unusually humid day for spring – Marigold flipped on the radio. ‘80s music played at just the right volume to keep certain thoughts at bay.

She passed a sign that read, Speed Limit 25. She blinked, slowing the car down to the speed limit. This axis road was a 50 miles per hour zone. She never saw a speed limit sign in this area telling her to go so slow.

Did I take a wrong turn? No, she’d been going in a straight line since leaving the apartment, heading towards the school. Maybe they’re doing construction – who knows?

The further down the lane she went, the road changed. Trees surrounded the area – trees that hadn’t existed yesterday – and the road shifted into a spiral. Marigold’s heart beat a second faster as her eyes darted back and forth. How could she have gotten lost going in a straight line? She didn’t have time to get lost; she was going to be late.

Glancing down at the clock, Marigold’s blood ran cold. 7:00 am – the time she left the apartment. That couldn’t be right; she’d been on the road for at least twenty minutes.

Fog settled over, enveloping the car like a fish in the ocean. Marigold brought the car to a halt and put it in park; she needed time to catch her breath. The weather forecast didn’t predict fog.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Slow, gentle knocks on the driver’s door made Marigold tense. She turned her head, breath held, palms damp, as the knocking continued.

Something inched around the corner of the car – an image Marigold would forever maintain. It was as if a moth had enveloped a human head, its circular patterns mimicking a human face. Pale, empty, and wide eyes stared into the woman’s soul, while a thin, snow-white hand knocked on the window.

Face blue, Marigold jerked the car out of park and swerved backwards. She didn’t have time to do a three-point-turn correctly or safely – she swirled backwards and almost immediately put the car into drive and floored it. She’d never gone 80 miles per hour before.

As the creature drifted out of sight in the rear-view mirror, Marigold slowed the car down to 30 miles per hour. She took deep breaths in a vain attempt to recollect her thoughts. Probably some influencer’s idea of a prank, or something, was the only logical thought her irrational brain could conjure.

Heading back in the direction she came, expecting to see the regular axis road, Marigold came across a different sight, something that elicited a twist in her abdomen: her childhood home – her parents’ house. That couldn’t be right; they were several thousand miles away.

Marigold slowed the car down and parked in the driveway. Tightly clinging to the mace in her pocket, she stepped out of the car. She knocked on the door; a sense of dread enveloped her at its wooden touch. It slid open at her slight push, welcoming her into her old house.

With a delayed step, Marigold entered, earning a familiar creak from the old floorboards. She glanced around at the old furniture, water color paintings of cats, and floral wallpaper, exactly as she remembered. The nostalgic scent of her parents’ over-creamed coffee flooded her senses, wrinkling her nose. Were they home?

“Hello?” she called, voice hoarse. “Ma?”

Marigold didn’t know why she stepped inside. What was she supposed to say? That she took a wrong turn on her way into work and somehow ended up in an entirely different city?

“Ma? Pa?” she called again.

“Ma!” A familiar, youthful voice chilled her to the bone.

A child dashed across the floor, a familiar black dress flowing behind her like a cape – a black dress with stars and planets on it, Marigold’s favorite dress as a child.

Light on the balls of her feet, still clinging to the mace, Marigold followed the child into the kitchen. Her parents sat at the table – ten years younger and color still in their hair. The child skidded to a halt in front of them, a flier in her hands.

“Ma! Pa!” the child cheered. “My school’s having a science fair; can I go?”

Her mother laughed. “Why would you be interested in that?”

“Professor Martin is hosting it, and I really love his class–”

“Sweety, it looks like it’ll be too hard for you.”

“I can learn.”

“If you go, you’re going to regret it.”

“But–”

“No.”

“Oh!” Marigold’s father sat up straight. “I almost forgot, darling; I got you something.” He reached into the bag on his right, holding up an eerily realistic baby doll. “Ta-da!”

The child frowned. “A baby?”

“Isn’t it cute?”

The child wasn’t amused. She recognized the baby doll from commercials; it was a realistic baby doll that ate food and shat it out.

“That baby poops, doesn’t it?”

“Say ‘thank you,’ Marigold,” her mother snapped.

Biting the inside of her cheek, the child took the baby doll with a smile. “Thank you, Pa.”

Marigold watched the scene unfold with bated breath. She wasn’t sure if she was dreaming, if the brownie she had that morning was actually a pot brownie, or if stress from work was finally getting to her.

With small, hesitant steps, Marigold followed the child to her room upstairs. It was a familiar scene – one she didn’t fully remember, one she thought she knew well.

She remembered being disappointed by the baby doll’s poor technology; it didn’t even properly shit – the fake food would simply pass through a simple hole from the mouth to the ass and come out completely unchanged. What an excuse for technology.

Marigold had forgotten she didn’t go to the science fair; she remembered going, laughing until she lost her voice, and being the brightest one there. Staring into the baby doll’s lifeless eyes, watching her younger reflection flip it upside down, a different part of her youth came back: her imagination. It was almost impressive; she convinced herself she went to the science fair; perhaps that was better than admitting she spent the day making her dolls fight to the death.

Marigold watched the child sulk and stare at her room’s floorboards. As she watched the child carelessly move the baby doll’s arms, something popped into her field of vision.

The creature with the moth-like face stepped towards her, long silk flowing on the ground behind her – whether a dress or a part of the creature’s skin, Marigold couldn’t discern. The creature bent down and picked up one of Marigold’s dolls. She held the doll up to Marigold, shaking it ever so slightly.

“C… co…” Her voice, rasp and shrill, sounded pained coming from her throat. “Come…”

Marigold bolted from the scene. In her haste, she flew down two steps at once, and tripped onto the ground. The creature stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at Marigold with empty eyes. Shrieking, Marigold stumbled to her feet and nearly crashed into the door. She swung it open and darted out without closing it. She pulled her keys out as she slammed into the car. She unlocked the door, slammed it shut, turned the car on, and floored it.

As the old house slid behind the horizon, the creature with the moth-like face far behind, Marigold slowed the car down, and her breath returned. A glance at the car clock. 7:00 am.

Marigold laughed – a dry, humorless, desperate cackle. She pulled out her phone – a dangerous decision she would never make in any other situation – and dialed Zackery. The phone rang three times.

“Hello, this is Zackery. I’m currently away right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Beep.

“Zack–”Marigold swallowed and took a deep breath in a vain attempt to keep her voice from cracking“–I… I think I’m lost.”

She dropped her phone without hanging up, wide eyes captivated by a familiar building – her university’s library. Her car rolled past her university’s registrar office and main building, leading her to the old parking lot. Trash no one picked up for four years littered the streets, while the scent of the bakery’s cheese quesadillas filled the air. Two years since she’d stepped on her university’s grounds, and nothing had changed.

Two familiar people stomped up to Marigold’s car in a heated argument – Marigold’s mother, and a rather young adult, just turned eighteen.

Marigold rolled the window down, a held breath straining her lungs.

“I just wish you’d’ve asked me first!” the young adult spat. “Why’d you roll me in the English program without asking?”

“Don’t you want to be a teacher?” her mother asked. “You’ve always been great with kids.”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’ll give you practice for your own kids. Come on, what were you planning on doing with a chemistry degree, anyway?”

“I was planning on being a scientist.”

“Really, Marigold, that’d be way too hard for you.”

“I’ve always been good with science.”

“You’ll thank me one day.”

As the twosome stormed away, seemingly blind to the car parked in the middle of the parking lot, Marigold leaned back in the driver’s seat. She used to think about changing her major, but never did. She didn’t enjoy her English classes; the literature was always dry and disinteresting, her teachers hated it when she held a different interpretation of the subject matter, and while the history classes were informative, they were depressing. Perhaps her mother was right; she already struggled enough in the English department, she’d probably struggle more in the science department.

The roads before her changed once more. The parking lot branched out into numerous different directions with numerous different paths. Each path looked like it went on forever, ascending and curving past Marigold’s view.

Thump.

Marigold jumped.

The creature with the moth-like face stood in front of the opened window, gently and rhythmically knocking on the door. She pulled her dry lips back, revealing her yellow teeth – a makeshift imitation of a smile. She reached into the car and grabbed Marigold’s shoulder, her touch colder than death.

Marigold performed another reckless and sloppy three-point-turn and bolted from the scene.