”Stance and posture!” Claire instructed. ”Anchor your feet and hook the string with the first joint of your index, middle, and ring finger.”

I’ve loved coming to archery class. I promised myself I’d join a club once we started coming out of covid, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve made. I thought about a cooking class, or martial arts, or team sports, but I finally settled on archery. I’ve always loved the aesthetics of it. The twang of the string, the sharp arrow piercing the air. It’s just cool.

“Would you mind a demonstration?” Claire asked, gesturing at me.

“Not at all.”

I followed the steps, assumed the position, and pulled the bow up to my cheek. My hand was steady and the string rested comfortably in the joints of my fingers. I felt powerful.

I released the arrow. 50 feet passed by in the blink of an eye, slamming into the target on the open field.

Applause.

​

I was no longer just a member of the club, I was an assistant teacher. While Claire was the instructor, she needed a helping hand every now and then. Someone to correct stances and show some grip technique. Someone to help clean, check the equipment, and close up shop on days where she was out of town. As a thanks, I didn’t have to pay any membership fees, and I got free access to the club area. Got my own set of keys and everything.

But one particular class, there was this one face in the crowd that I didn’t recognize. A bald gaunt-looking man in his early twenties. He had dark, sunken eyes with a blue tint and a thousand-yard stare. Prominent cheek bones, and a crooked nose. Odd looking fellow. He hadn’t said a word, and it’d started to bother the other students. He just kept staring at me.

I walked up to him with a big smile.

“Hey there,” I said. “First time?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries. Want me to show you the ropes?”

“Okie-dokie,” he smiled. “Thank you. I’m Milo.”

​

I spent the better part of two hours with Milo, showing him the basics. He was by far the strangest student I’d ever met at the club. He barely understood the concept of a bow, and when I asked him what interested him about archery in the first place he just smiled and nodded. I got the impression that he just, sort of… wandered in off the street.

By the end of the lesson, Claire asked Milo to show her the progress he’d made.

“Okie-dokie,” he nodded.

But then he did nothing. He just stood there, as if not understanding what was being asked of him. Claire tried to explain, he’d acknowledge it, and then nothing would happen. He’d just stand there, gawking; mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Claire just thought he was nervous.

We called it a night, and I helped Claire pack up; but I knew we’d be seeing Milo again.

​

That night, as I closed up, I decided to send one more arrow down the lane. So I walked up to the line, readied an arrow, and just froze.

My mind completely blanked.

For the life of me I couldn’t remember what to do next. I shrugged it off and called it a night. I thought it was just stress.

​

I don’t live the most glamorous life. I live in the small town of Juniper (WV) with my two cats (Jazz and Blues) in a small apartment. Technically three separate rooms, but they’re really small. I work as a line cook at a roadside bistro. Most of my time is spent with my head down, losing myself in my work. It’s not a very exciting life; I work, I get home, watch a movie, and go to sleep. That’s pretty much every day.

But the archery club? That’s the one place where I get to be someone. I matter.

I’m good.

​

The next class, I felt off my game. My scores were down, and I fumbled the string a couple of times. I couldn’t get the stance right, or the release, or the breathing. Meanwhile, Milo was standing right behind me, looking over my shoulder that entire time. It was uncomfortable, but I didn’t say anything. After messing up two more shots, I got frustrated. I turned to Milo, who just kept smiling.

“I’m having an off day,” I groaned. “Gimme a minute.”

“Okie-dokie!”

I just couldn’t get it right. Finally, I snagged my fingertips on a bad release, getting a nasty cut on my index finger. Milo just stood there with a big grin on his face. Claire rushed over.

“That’s enough of that,” said Claire, pulling me out of line. “Get that fixed.”

I walked off to bandage my finger. By the time I got back, Milo was gone.

​

After class, I was frustrated. Not only did I keep messing up, but this creepy newbie was throwing me off my game. Archery class was my thing, and it felt like I was losing something important. I just couldn’t get it right, like my body had forgotten hundreds of hours of practice.

I sat in my car with my hands resting on the steering wheel. I was lost in thought. I couldn’t even picture it in my mind, it was just… gone. All those little movements that usually come on their own. The tactile memory you build with experience. I had none of it.

It took me a few minutes to notice that there was a shadow across my dashboard. As soon as I noticed it, there was a knock on the window. And then, an eerie smile.

Milo.

​

“Hey,” he grinned. “You still here?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Rough day.”

“I could tell. Are you okay?”

“I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“Okie-dokie!”

The words were friendly, but there was a sinister note to it. Like a mean child holding a fragile toy. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of malice coming from him, pulsing out from behind his thinly veiled smile.

“I gotta go. Take care, Milo.”

Just silence, and a smile.

​

I turned my attention back to my car. I’d forgotten where I put my keys. When I finally found them (in my pocket), I couldn’t put them in. I kept doing it wrong and dropping them. When I finally put the keys in right, I felt lost. It took me minutes just to mentally go through the steps necessary to start the car and reverse out of the parking lot. I had to stop for a while.

I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. I felt like I was losing my mind or getting sick. The things I usually did as a reflex were just gone from my mind. Getting back home went from routine to something I had to plan out and take step by step. Once I got back in my car, I kept messing up the transmission. The car stalled several times, and what was supposed to be a 10 minute ride took over an hour.

It was ridiculous. Even Jazz and Blues were skeptical once I got back home. Jazz kept pacing around me, as if trying to tell me something. Blues just hid under the couch.

​

I started noticing these lapses more and more over the next few days. I had to stop taking the car to work. I kept forgetting to do basic things, and I was completely out of rhythm with the other line cooks. I had to concentrate hard and ask for help to be reminded of the most basic routines. I had to step out of line for the lunch serving because I kept overcooking the trout.

It felt like I was missing something. Like parts of what made me into me were absent. Little puzzle pieces in the back of my mind that I take for granted. I thought I was getting sick.

The next day, I went to the doctor. I was tested and scanned thoroughly, but I got a clean bill of health. They figured it might be a stress related problem, and my physician was adamant about me taking notes and following a breathing exercise. Whatever this was, it wasn’t physical.

That night, as I cuddled up with Jazz and Blues in my bed, I heard a noise. It was near, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I looked around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Jazz didn’t like it though. He’d definitely noticed something and curled up next to me, making angry cat noises. I got this pit in my stomach, telling me something was wrong. I tried my best to ignore it, but I slept a dreamless, restless sleep that night. A sense of dread came over me, and just wouldn’t leave.

​

I got worse. I had to stop cooking because I would forget that I put the stove on. I would start getting surprised at things in my own apartment, because I kept forgetting the decorations and placement of furniture. At times I would look up and just get this sinking feeling in my stomach, like I didn’t know where I was despite standing in my own home.

I started not to trust myself with the most basic things. Leaving the fridge open, leaving the door unlocked, feeding the cats despite their bowls were already full. I was clearly having some sort of breakdown.

And all the while, Jazz stayed at my side. He could tell something was wrong, and he wasn’t about to let me think this was normal.

​

I had to call in sick for work, and I didn’t know what to do. I could ask for a second opinion from a doctor, but at that point I was so unsure of myself that I figured I must’ve already asked for help. Surely I wouldn’t just do nothing. Maybe I had called them twelve times that day already, there was no way to tell. How would I even trust myself around medication?

And every night, I’d get that same sinking feeling; and Jazz would pace back and forth, making angry cat noises.

​

One day I got a visit from Claire. She came by with some sponge cake to see how I was doing. We had a cup of tea, and I told her all about my experience. For a brief moment, everything was perfectly clear. I didn’t forget anything, and I could keep a conversation going without repeating myself. To an outsider, I might’ve seemed lucid.

We had a talk about my condition, and she was eager to help. We talked about stress, therapy, and all kinds of treatment. She has always been a good listener, and she didn’t mind hearing me vent my many worries.

But eventually, Claire had to go. As she did, she turned back to me and sighed.

“You take care now, okay?” she sighed. “Bye now. And bye Milo.”

​

The door closed. The dread crept back up my spine; the same thing I felt at night. Jazz yowled and hissed.

And hand came up from behind me, leaning past me. A gaunt, shaking hand. It turned the door lock and disappeared back behind me. I heard a careful footstep come closer, with a leg that shook so violently that it tapped against the floor.

“It’ll be okie-dokie,” a wet whisper spoke. “I’ll make you forget about this, too.”

​

I turned around, and there was nothing there.

Or maybe something had been there, but I had forgotten it. Or maybe it’d moved, and I didn’t remember it. Or maybe I was looking straight at it but didn’t know what it looked like.

My focus turned into a pin as my heart started racing. I wasn’t alone. There was someone there, and they were doing something. What was happening to me?

​

“Milo,” I mumbled to myself. “He’s here?”

I tried to focus on my memory of him. The gaunt face. The dark eyes. I focused on the details in my mind, closed my eyes, and looked closely.

He was standing right in front of me.

He lunged at me, but I pushed him away. We both fell backwards, but the moment I hit the floor he was gone. I’d forgotten him, and what he looked like. For a moment, I could barely remember my own name.

“Get out!” I cried out. “What do you want?!”

I blinked, and furniture had moved. Time had passed. Not much, but some. I got up and hurried into the kitchen.

​

Jazz was standing on the couch, yowling. When he suddenly hissed, I backed away.

Suddenly, there was a burn across my right arm. A gash, and warm blood. The pain came seconds later. For a moment, I forgot about it, but it immediately came back with the next heartbeat. I was in a fight, and I couldn’t even register it. It was happening; right now.

I tried to remember what he looked like. I focused on his face, but all I caught was brief flashes. Furniture would move, and I would suddenly be inside a different room.

I was running, and I kept forgetting about it, over, and over, and over.

The bedroom. The living room. The kitchen. I was fumbling my way through the apartment, trying to get away, and I couldn’t even understand what was happening.

​

If I was running, something was chasing me. Something was coming for me. I got more cuts across my arm, and one across my back. A stray thought entered and left my mind in an instant. There was something in my hand. Car keys?

I was bleeding. Whatever I was doing, it wasn’t working. I had to try something. I couldn’t focus long enough to understand what I was holding in my hand, but I had to use it. So I pushed forward, dead set on finding and using a weapon. Bits and pieces of a hallway, an open sky, and excited panting coming up behind me.

Little flashes in my mind. Find a weapon. Find a weapon. Find a weapon.

I concentrated on the joints of my index, middle, and ring finger.

​

Suddenly, Milo appeared in front of me - with an arrow sticking out of his stomach.

I had unknowingly gotten my bow from my car and shot him with it. He stopped, and the fog lifted from my mind. His face looked more elongated; his jaw swinging from side to side. His skin a sickly pallor. I already had a second arrow ready. I blinked, and he was gone; leaving a blood trail that lead into the woods. A flock of red birds took flight as something spooked them.

I just stood there, panting. My mind was clear, and my hand wasn’t shaking.

I got this. This is what I do.

​

Tracing my steps back, it had been an awful fight. We’d been going room to room. There was broken and sliced furniture, smashed vases, paintings had dropped from the walls. Piece by piece, it all started coming back to me.

Milo didn’t come back, however. I haven’t heard Jazz yowling and warning me like that again. But knowing that something can just… be here, with me, and me not even knowing it? That’s uncomfortable. It still gives me the shakes.

Hadn’t it been for Claire, I don’t know what Milo would have done. Thinking back on it, it felt like he was draining me; eating my identity and memories. Like he was trying to become me and take my place. Claire had just said “Bye Milo” in the heat of the moment, without putting any kind of weight or thought behind it. She’d just said what she saw, and if she hadn’t, the thought of looking for him wouldn’t have crossed my mind.

​

But it’s over. He’s gone. I’m safe. I’m still skittish whenever I forget something, but I’m getting better.

I’m not usually the forgetful type.