Hard to say when I should let you in. I mean, I can't start at the beginning, of course—not really. I don't know what you'd call the beginning anyhow. Who am I to decide when things started being important or... ya know, relevant to the story? Who am I to say what the story even is?

I guess if I want you to understand what I'm gonna tell you—and that must be what I want, must be what I'm aiming for with all this torturing myself tryna pick out all the right symbols to scribble onto this piece of paper, tryna match what's in my head like they ain't made up of totally different stuff—I guess if I hope to give some sorta particular impression or impart some sorta profane wisdom...

I guess, in short, if I want to convince you that I ain't crazy, then there are certain things I gotta tell you.

Ya know... when you think about it, I control you. Completely. You're letting me control you, even asking me to. Why should you trust someone like me? I mean it! What in the hell makes you think someone like me would ever be a goddamn reliable narrator? Hell, you don't even know the story yet. All you know is the aftermath. Everyone thinks they know the story because of the papers and the magazines and the TV news. But let me tell ya... all the scraps you got from the media? Hah! Just enough detail to keep people like you watching and reading what they were printing and broadcasting. Nothing more, and certainly nothing like the whole story. And that's just the bits that weren't total bullshit. All you've ever seen really only amounts to some muddy footprints the story left on the carpet. That ain't the same thing. You wouldn't know the story if it were giving you a goddamn blowjob.

I know what happened. I know I'm not crazy. But you? You're getting someone else—someone you don't even know but for some headlines written by folks that ain't ever met me neither—tell you what happened. If you ask me, that's a helluva lot crazier than what I did.

I suppose I ought to start by telling you about the faces. I reckon it's as good a place to start as any.

The first time I remember it happening, I was lying in bed, trying to get to sleep. I was young at the time. Maybe 13. I thought of this friend I'd grown up with, John. Don't ask me why. Folks always ask me when I tell the story—at this part of the story, they ask me, "Why John?" And that always makes me kinda... I dunno. Kinda disgusted, in a way. It makes me feel a little bit disgusted with them for asking me that on account of it's such a dumbass question, and I ain't one to spend my precious time telling my story to a dumbass. Sometimes a person just thinks of somebody, and they can't always tell you the reason for it. And anyhow, it don't matter. That's something you'll understand later.

So I'm lying in bed, 13 years old, and I was thinking of John for I don't know why, and I was imagining him older. I imagined his face heavier, his legs longer. He was a professional type, wearing a suit. Then I—wait. Then. That ain't really the proper word to use, 'cos really both thoughts happened at the same moment. It was sorta like overlapping, where the picture in my mind with John as a professional was kinda... it was like it was the one on top, if you can think of it that way. So on another layer, like in another place but at the same time, I imagined older John was real haggard and worn. I imagined him with too much stubble, with bags under his eyes. I remember thinking it was a little odd, sure, and it made my scalp feel kinda funny, but it didn't bother me so much as to keep me from going to sleep.

I know what you're thinking. At least, I know what I'd be thinking if I were you: "What is this? This ain't a story. Ain't nothing at all remarkable about a boy imagining his friend growing old." I know. Maybe I started at the wrong place, after all. But that was the earliest instance of anything happening to me in the way of the more unusual events that came later. I figure I ought to tell you everything I can, within reason. I ought to paint a clear picture, as they say—or try to get all my piss in the toilet, as they don't say but probably should— if I want y'all to see what it is that I'm seeing and maybe look at it—I don't know—through your own eyes, on account of your eyes have seen all those things you've seen. 'Cos those things are different than the things I've seen. So maybe having seen all the things I haven't could make it so your eyes can see something in this mess that I can't quite make out, no matter how long I been staring it down.

The next time I remember it, it was years later. I was in high school... I was in Sociology class at the time. I looked across the room and saw Paul standing there, and he was the same as he'd always been. I'd known him for... what? For five years, easily. Probably longer. He looked just like Paul, just like he was supposed to look. But also, laid just over him was this quality about him I'd never seen before.

I knew straight away the change wasn't in the way I was looking at him. It was in him. I didn't look away from him, didn't even blink. He was standing and talking like I'd seen him do so many times before, but this time with this difference, this angle about him. It was probably only 30 seconds before it went away, replaced by a distinct tingling sensation along the surface of my scalp.

The whole thing is difficult to describe now, you know. I can't even really recall it properly, or else I imagine it wouldn't have gone away. It was like I was looking at Paul for the very first time, like all those other times my gaze had fallen on him, I'd simply forgotten to be looking, forgotten to register the stimulus.

Now, if you'd have asked me before all that what Paul looked like or whether or not I'd ever seen him, I'd have told you that of course I had. Paul was about this tall and with this color hair, handsome in a kinda boring way. But after that, I couldn't really tell you with any kinda certainty that I'd really seen anyone, anything at all. I know it sounds like I'm exaggerating, but I gotta get you to see how this incident hit me. Just keep in mind that if you'd have been me, you may have had that same reaction.

For a long time, this... affliction... lay mostly dormant inside of me. True, I could never really look at Paul again, and now and then this same sort of thing would happen to a lesser degree with strangers on the street.

And now, that was confusing in a real different way. I mean, how could I know if someone I'd never seen before looked different than he usually did? It was perplexing. Disconcerting. One thing that was always the same though, was that tingling on my scalp that came after.

Mostly, anyway, I was a normal, well-adjusted young man. I was never in too much trouble; I made decent grades and graduated, got a steady job with shit pay—an all-around average guy.

I was working as a janitor at the university—I'm sure you heard which one—when things started to go so wrong that I couldn't set them back to right. I've heard it said since then—by psychologists and clever men like that—that it may have been the stress of the financial trouble I'd been in that sent me over that edge. Sounds like bullshit to me though. The way I remember it, that was the happiest I'd ever been. I was feeling peaceful and relaxed as can be. No, the problem definitely was not with me.

Matter of fact, I was in love. Her name was Lisa, and she had blonde hair. She was about my age, a student at the university where I was working. Smartest girl I ever met. Real sweet, too, and patient. She taught me a lot, a whole lot. Lots of big words and big ideas I never thought of before. She even said I was smart enough to go to university, and I was starting to think maybe she was right. She was helping me out with my writing and teaching me to talk smarter. Anyway, I guess there's no sense in saying too much more about her or what she was like.

One night at the start of spring, Lisa and I were listening to old records in my apartment, sharing a bottle or three of wine between us. We were both tipsy, blonde Lisa and me. I used to wonder if maybe that had something to do with what happened. On her end of things, I mean. But I figure there's no real way of knowing, so I quit wondering.

At any rate, we were dancing around my apartment, silly and tipsy and in love, when suddenly Lisa spun around. Even drunk, she moved like a swan, smooth and graceful. She was spinning, smiling and laughing and sloshing only a tiny bit of wine out of her glass. It was so fast, ya see... she was the same old Lisa that she'd always been when her knees made that little bend to start her spin.

But at some point while she had her back to me, she went bad.

It may be important to say—and so I might as well say it, in case you with your eyes think that it is—that, unlike any of the other times I had seen people shift like this, Lisa's switch left her looking undeniably more... well, there's no other way to say it. She looked evil.

In fact, all the others that had these transformations I'd seen had struck me as sorta... inconsequential, I guess you'd say. Paul's change, the changes of the strangers at corner stores and hailing taxis—they had all been changes in physical quality alone; there had been no obvious change of demeanor or intent or personality.

But Lisa? With her, it made me shiver to see the brand new, inescapable sinister look of her. Most days she gave off this innocence and joy, even when she wasn't feeling joyful. Now, right before my eyes, all that had been replaced by this ominous feeling that just crushed my soul. There was such a big difference between Lisa's normal appearance and the one she'd taken on, that I knew right away, before I could even have the thought.

I was sure instantly that it was no longer Lisa standing in front of me.