Twisted Connection
By Timothy A. Fenner


A mass of black suits glided in tight formation through the dimly lit corridors, swooping from one door to the next as the dozen men maneuvered through the hospital. Leading the group, Dr. Gordon Mastiff offered little details about the residents within the locked rooms. Instead, he kept trucking his way to the only door that mattered, a silver clipboard in one hand and a rusty coffee can in the other.

“We’re passing over quite a few doors,” agent Ronald Clay from behind. “Are there no other prospects within your ward, Doctor?” 

“None worth stopping for,” Mastiff replied, quickening his long-legged stride until the tails of his white lab coat billowed and flapped with each step. If the others wanted to waste their time looking at dead ends, far be it from him to convince them otherwise. Hell, they could get lost for all he cared. He had a place to be and had they not surprised him with an unscheduled inspection, he’d have been there by now.

“Can we not slow down?” Clay asked, winded and panting.

“I’m afraid not,” Mastiff replied, quickening his pace even more. “But feel free to stop if you need to.” They’d already put him dangerously behind by dragging their feet. If they wanted to inspect his progress, they’d just have to keep up.

But as he entered the final wing of the facility, his near jog slowed to a stop.

Eloise, he thought, clutching the can close to his stomach.

Twenty-three years had passed since his wife, Eloise, had been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. Twenty since he switched his studies from theoretical physics to psychological disorders to find a way to help her. And just eight since Eloise lost her battle with the disease.

And after years of grueling research, endless trial and error, Mastiff would finally confirmed the linkage between wormholes and the disease, that at least some split personalities were the result of mental bonds created through space-time, between those in the present and those in the past. Now, with his life’s work and the echo of his wife’s voice beaconing from down the empty hallway, he found himself paralyzed by the prospect of crossing some sort of line, one not meant to be crossed by Man. What would be the penalty of infringing upon realms meant for gods?

“Is there a problem, Doctor?” Clay asked as the officer’s demonic shadows crept up around his feet. 

Mastiff glanced down to the can and shook his head. “No,” he said, then forged ahead once more, returning to a near trot before the others even got started. After coursing through several bleach-scented passages, Mastiff took the final steps up to his destiny.