Yog-sothoth-s Yard Direct

It hung in the air between two posts, a shimmer like heat haze but cold, cold as the space between heartbeats. No handle. No keyhole. Just a suggestion of a rectangle, and beyond it, a glimpse of something that made his hindbrain scream. Not a graveyard. Not earth or stone. A vast, spiraling elsewhere —a yard that contained not bodies but possibilities . Unborn moments. Choices he had never made. Alternate versions of himself standing in alternate yards, all of them turning to look at him with the same slack-jawed horror.

Ezekiel fretted anyway. He was a practical man, a retired surveyor who believed in boundary lines and right angles. The yard, however, refused to obey either. His GPS spun wildly whenever he crossed the fence line. His measuring tape, stretched between two oaks, came back with different lengths each time—twelve feet, then thirty, then a length that seemed to fold into itself like a swallowed sob.

Ezekiel looked down at his hands. They were already paling, elongating, the fingers fusing into something smooth and wooden-grained. He could feel roots trying to push from his heels. The fog curled around his ankles, patient as a gardener.