Something dead approaches. In its hollowed-out insides, there is an event horizon that swallows light, sound, and all knowing. Why do we find missing items, where we already looked, only after we’ve accused our loved ones? Is there a silhouette on the other side of the shower curtain? We can’t leap out of the shower at every imagined sight. What hides behind that acceptance? Ignore the writing on the fogged mirror. Why are we running, in the streets, from a feeling? This is silly. Cold hands pull us down. We scream. No one helps. They just walk by. What in the Twilight Zone fuck is going on?

The Mekhet are often quiet, often invisible, and yet they see everything. Spies and prophets, they go where they will and learn what they want to. No secret is safe from the Mekhet. “We are the Y incision cut into this dark, dark world,” whispers a voice. “Shall we loosen our stitches?”

They are the Shadows. It is difficult to know where they are standing right now and harder still to know where they’ve been. Decaying pages and sandstone glyphs nervously mutter hints. Stories echo down, out of ancient Egypt, of secret cults and walking cadavers with dissected souls. The Cherokee named the silence ka’lanu ahkyeli’ski, the Raven Mockers, who cut out the hearts of the sick and devoured their remaining years, unseen even as the victim’s fellows sat in the same room. In Eastern Europe, men called dhampir claimed to be half-vampire, traveling from village to village hunting the hungry dead. They gazed through their coat sleeves, like a telescope, then wrestled fiends only they could see. Some called them con artists.

Time passes, first in sighs and then in riddles. The Shadows remain. They flock to mysteries and murk like anti-moths. In the age of information, the Mekhet curse creeps along whole new vectors.

Let the other clans tromp through their Requiems like drunk elephants. The Mekhet will… well, no one will know exactly what it is they’re doing. What was that? It was only in your head. Yes. They are inside your head.