To the teachers and librarians

  who made a difference in my life,

  from Hertha Paustian to Deanna Fleischer,

  Judith Shapiro to Laurie Aguera-Arcas,

  Gilbert Weatherby to Randy Perazzini,

  and dozens of others.

  You are seen,

  you are remembered,

  you are loved,

  and you’ve changed not just one world,

  but thousands!

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was fourteen, during the single unstructured hour we had at summer camp called “free play,” I would race down to the waterfront, get a canoe before they were all checked out, and paddle out to the middle of Anawana Lake with a copy of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, where I would read until the scratchy recording of a bugle sounding “Recall” blew from the camp’s loudspeakers.

  I loved those stories! They inspired me to write stories of my own, which I would then submit to Isaac Asimov’s, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and, dream of dreams, Omni.

  Never sold a story. I did get some nice rejections, but rejections were all I received.

  It wasn’t until after I was a published novelist that I began to get asked to contribute short fiction to various anthologies, and was even allowed to write some story collections of my own. My first story collections were the two volumes of Darkness Creeping, which have since been combined into a single collection and is still in print with Penguin Random House. And then there were four collections I did with Tor Books: MindQuakes, MindStorms, MindTwisters, and MindBenders.

  This compendium includes most of the stories from those four collections, along with hard-to-find stories that appeared in multiauthor anthologies, as well as some stories that are brand-new—including two visits to the world of Scythe.

  There are, of course, some stories I left out…. “Pacific Rim” comes to mind. I love the story—it’s about the largest cruise ship in the world falling off the edge of the earth. Fun stuff—but I decided that I didn’t want to further feed the ridiculous fires of flat-earthers. Then there’s “He Opens a Window,” which became the basis for the first piece in my Holocaust-themed graphic novel, Courage to Dream. As it had a new life of its own, it didn’t feel right to include it here. And then there are some stories that I won’t mention because—ugh! Really? Did I actually write that? Well, just like Madame Thornhill in “Perpetual Pest,” some things are best left buried….

  Not all the stories here were solo ventures. A number of them that were written for other anthologies I cowrote with my son Brendan. And a couple I cowrote with my friend, award-winning TV writer Terry Black.

  I have revised all these stories to some extent. Not just to keep them relevant and technologically current, but also to reflect social changes. We as a society have evolved over the years, and there definitely were some cringeworthy moments in some of my earliest stories that I was more than happy to change.

  In reading through and reworking the stories, I found that they fell into seven distinct categories: Fate and destiny. Strange and terrifying beings. Nature out of control. The dead and undead. Doorways, windows, and walls. Personal transformations. Just deserts. But each story, regardless of where it falls, is eerie, or surreal, or mind-melting, or darkly absurd, or all of the above. A reminder that the abyss is always staring back at you. Although sometimes, it winks.

  I hope you enjoy this little cabinet of shadows. And if these stories happen to keep you up at night, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

  Neal Shusterman

  November 2025

  FORCES OF NATURE

  There are some places that draw you to them.

  They grab you so deep in your soul that you find yourself drifting toward them, even in your dreams.

  —from “The Living Place”

  A Unity of [Purpose]

  I long to sit at the Resolute desk. To bring a firm fist down upon the well-worn oak, and feel it resonate like a drum. That desk! Which has witnessed declarations of war, and countless State of the Union addresses. Oh, to preside over the machinations of government from the Oval Office. Preside! President! Presidential! How I wish my mouth could speak those words! But, alas, I must be satisfied with translation.

  “Good morning, B. Are you ready for today? It’s a full schedule.”

  Georgina! My campaign manager. My handler. My everything. She is beautiful inside and out by anyone’s standards. I vigorously nod my approval, and she smiles.

  “Then let’s get you ready!”

  Ah, but first a morning swim!

  I am escorted to the brackish waters of the Hudson. It is brisk this early in the spring, and less buoyant than the sea, but it makes for an invigorating workout, and gives me time to get my head in the game.

  Yes, the Resolute desk is well within my reach! But, alas, I will never actually sit behind it. Because I lack the ability to sit. Nor do I have a fist to bring down upon its smooth lacquered surface. But these are mere technicalities. At times it may weigh on me—but not today! Half an hour in the mighty Hudson, and I can take on the world!

  With the help of a slinged winch, I am loaded back into my travel tank, and we roll!

  * * *

  My travel tank is a modified tanker truck. State of the art. Eleven thousand gallons kept at a constant sixty-seven degrees. Waterproof screens for communication with the team, and various floating diversions to ease the stress of overland travel. A morning rally in New York, afternoon in Philadelphia, and an evening fundraiser outside Pittsburgh are on the day’s agenda.

  The team confirms that the venues are all set. “The oratory tanks are in place,” the event coordinator tells me, in his own little Zoom window, which looks like its own little tank. “Clear polycarbonate. Completely bulletproof.”

  It pains me that the tanks from which I present my vision for the nation must be impervious to ballistics, but these are the times we live in. There are those naysayers who would question my capabilities. Insist that I am defined by my physical limitations. Backward thinking. Besides, a great leader knows how to play to their strengths. My cool manner. My smooth movement. How I cut through liquid space like the most graceful of Olympians; the envy of any species sentient enough to comprehend so complex an emotion. And managerial skills? Please! I can balance a budget as easily as balancing a beach ball on my snout.

  “Any questions, Mr. Breacher?” asks the event coordinator.

  “Eeek eeek e-e-e-e-e-eeek!”

  Georgina translates for me.

  “As long as the tank is set to the proper temperature, I’ll be fine.”

  Next, the team discusses accusations and attacks by the opposition, who have questioned my ability to sign official documents without opposable thumbs.

  “Thumbs?” a loudmouthed pundit proclaimed on some partisan news station. “It doesn’t even have hands—why are we talking about thumbs?”

  But before I can say anything, Georgina jumps in. “That’s exactly that kind of insensitivity that we need to call out at every turn.”

  “EEEK EEK eeeeee EEEEEEK!” I say to defuse the tension. “As acerbic as it is, he has a point.” I wait for them to settle down before I continue. “I cannot ignore the truth. Fin and flipper are not suited to traditional human instruments. The solution is to bypass the question entirely. Install a six-foot touch pad in my tank, and I will be able to deliver snout-written signatures with flourishes worthy of Hancock.”

  “Which means it’s a nonissue,” adds Georgina.

  “Precisely,” I say. “You’re making an ocean out of an estuary. Now, what’s next on our agenda?”

  The team goes on to discuss how the Oval Office might be sealed and lined with a polycarbonate coating, turning it into a worthy habitat. I like that they’re thinking ahead. My mind goes once more to the Resolute desk, which will not fare well submerged. Perhaps it should be moved to my presidential museum, once one is established, for I suspect it will never be used again.

  * * *

  There is a sense of claustrophobia that must be overcome when traveling in a tanker truck, even one as well-equipped as this one. It’s not just the limited space in which to frolic, but the terrible perversion of sound. One’s primal brain panics at the slightest attempt at echolocation. The walls themselves seem to press down upon one’s soul. It is a terrible way to travel, and if I am elected, I shall mandate the creation of great canals that will traverse the continent to advance the cause of accessibility.

  But for now, it must be overland tanks that will travel deep into dry land—deeper than I’ve ever been. But I can handle it. I pride myself on my adaptability. An orca or a humpback could never handle such a rigorous campaign. They’d lose their minds after just a few minutes in the tanker truck. Lightweights, even with all that tonnage.

  * * *

  The stadium buzzes with excitement and curiosity. Chants of “Breacher! Breacher! Breacher!” build and crescendo as the curtain drops, revealing me in the oratory tank, its surface—slightly convex, like a lens—making me appear larger than life.

  Everyone in this troubled electorate hangs in anticipation of something new. I am the Hail Mary of a system that has brought nothing but vitriol and self-interest and divisiveness for years. After what this nation has suffered under human rule, no wonder they’ve sought leadership elsewhere.

  “Hello, New York!” I eek out, and Georgina delivers her translation from the diaphragm, all power and grace. “I hope Jets fans don’t mind a dolphin in the house!” Cheers all
around. It’s a good day. At least it starts that way.

  The speech goes perfectly until Georgina makes an unfortunate gaffe. I try to push through it, but it overshadows the entire event.

  Once I’m back in my travel tank, we discuss how to address the situation.

  “We need to get ahead of this,” says the image-maker. “So they’re laughing with us, instead of at us.”

  “I will not throw Georgina under the keel!” I eek out.

  “I’m not saying we have to,” he explains—I’m surprised that he understands me without translation. “But we need a response.”

  The unfortunate foible happened in the last five minutes of the speech. I was extemporizing, going off script, which is always a risk. “We, the sentient, all want the same things for ourselves and for our loved ones,” I proclaimed. “I promise you that we can achieve it! All it takes is determination, and a unity of purpose.”

  And then poor Georgina slipped in her translation and said, “A unity of porpoise.”

  She corrected herself, but the damage had been done. Nothing I said for the rest of the speech was taken seriously. It’s already trending on every media outlet.

  “I agree we need to do damage control,” my media liaison says, “because I guarantee you the other side will run with this.”

  “Let them!” I declare. “Georgina merely misspoke—but to intentionally call a dolphin the P word is so offensive, it’s bound to backfire.”

  I storm like a Caribbean squall at the very thought of it. To be compared to a porpoise! Porpoises are provincial and petty. Not only do they refuse to see the big picture, they refuse to admit there even is one. My son dated a porpoise once. Needless to say, it ended badly.

  “What if we treat Georgina’s error like it was gentle ribbing?” suggests the image-maker. “Like it was an intentional wink rather than a mistake.”

  I tell them to do whatever they need to do to make this go away. I have more important things to worry about. This afternoon’s rally in Philly. I can’t let this push me from my current.

  * * *

  But Philly is a disaster.

  There is an air of derision in the crowd that’s palpable. Applause, yes, but not as hearty as I would like. And the occasional shout of “porpoise” from opposition infiltrators. But what bothers me more are the shouts of “shark killer,” which I’ve been hearing more and more often, rising like a bottom-feeder’s murky cloud.

  * * *

  On the drive to the Pittsburgh fundraiser, the team asks for another meeting. I’m tired, and just want to lap my tank, preparing myself for the social niceties required for the evening’s event. All those heavy gowns and tight tuxedos. I do not envy those who must cover their natural selves in vestments.

  The meeting was called by the specialist in opposition research. The team assembles. A grid of faces on my screen.

  “I have some sobering news,” he begins.

  “I am always sober,” I inform him. Which is true. Alcohol is not a vice of my species. Of course, there’s puffer-fish toxin abuse, but that’s a discussion for another day. “Tell me—no need to mince words. I’m a dolphin, not some fragile seal crushed by heavy tidings.”

  He sighs. “The other party has put forth a new candidate.”

  I can tell from Georgina’s expression that she’s already heard this. And that it’s bad. I take a moment to do a quick lap of the tank to prepare myself. Perhaps I’m more seal-like than I care to admit.

  “They’re putting their full weight behind Ling-o.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this ‘Ling-o.’ ”

  “Yes, you are,” Georgina says. “You must have seen the video—it’s been viral for weeks. A little boy falls into the panda exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. A panda nuzzles him and protects him from the other bears. Then she flips him onto her back and brings him to a zookeeper.”

  “Ling-o is a zookeeper?”

  “No. Ling-o is the panda.”

  The rest of the staff seems to melt before my eyes, and everyone starts talking at once.

  “This is a disaster.”

  “How do we fight this?”

  “Can we play up the association between pandas and China?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Aren’t we avoiding the elephant in the room?”

  “Wait, now there’s an elephant?” someone says. I think they might actually be serious.

  “Pandas are a nonverbal, non-sentient species.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” says the opposition researcher. “Ling-o was verifiably born in this country, making her eligible. When it comes to being nonverbal, low-information voters don’t really care what a candidate says, it’s all about appearance and presentation—and every poll gives pandas a much higher adorability rating than dolphins. The cuteness quotient is off the charts.”

  “And then there’s your smile,” says the image-maker, blindsiding me like a swordfish.

  “What’s wrong with my smile?”

  “Focus groups seem to feel your smile is sarcastic.”

  “Not just you, Breacher, but dolphins in general,” says Georgina, dripping with sympathy.

  “We’re born this way! People can’t make judgments based on that!”

  “And yet they do.”

  “That being the case,” says the opposition researcher. “You may want to consider a running mate with higher social approval….”

  * * *

  The tank is strategically set in the center of a ballroom that will soon be filled with political power brokers—each one angling to make sure their interests will be met before they commit to a campaign donation.

  “I much prefer the rallies,” I tell Georgina before the doors open.

  “Of course you do,” she replies. “They have a much greater scope.”

  “Yes,” I tease. “A single word reaches thousands in a rally.”

  I had meant it as a playful barb, but she reddens, and I immediately regret it.

  “Breacher, I’m sorry about earlier today. It was unforgivable.”

  “It’s already forgotten,” I assure her. But we both know that’s not true—because as much as I might want to forget it, the world outside my tank won’t allow me to. We both let it go, but the tension remains.

  “A word of warning,” Georgina tells me as they begin letting people in. “The barrier reef incident is looming large. If you’re asked about it, don’t engage.”

  * * *

  Throughout the evening, people are mostly polite and deferential. Some are content to sip champagne and talk amongst themselves, but there are plenty who get in line to talk with me.

  “Can I speak directly to him,” one woman asks Georgina, “or will you need to translate?”

  “He’ll understand anything you say,” Georgina assures her, “but I’ll have to translate his response.”

  Most are the expected questions; policy inquiries and details of the platform I’m running on. However, some questions are of a more personal nature.

  “How can you claim to know what we need when you’ve never walked in a human’s shoes?” one man asks, smoking a cigar that he’s not allowed to smoke indoors.

  “Empathy and understanding are the hallmarks of my kind,” I tell him. “I don’t need to wear shoes to know how sore your feet get.”

  My favorite is a question from a child, who’s so adorable it makes me wish I could sport my own little red bow tie.

  “Can you teach me to echolocate?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “But it takes a lifetime of study. Are you ready to commit?”

  He nods enthusiastically, then leans in close and whispers something that is an omen of things to come.

  “I know you’re not a porpoise,” he says. “And I know you’re not a shark killer either.”

  It’s toward the end of the gala, when my guard is down, that I am approached by a man with a large hat and a fair amount of walrus blubber. He’s been eyeing me for most of the evening—circling, even, like an ocean predator—so I already know what the subject of his conversation will be.

  “So, I hear a bunch of your buddies did some killing off the Great Barrier Reef,” he says. “Do you think it’s really the right time to be supporting a dolphin?”