By Gurney Poe

So there’s this guy. I noticed him at the circus in Derry. 1935. He was scuttling around in the backyard. Lurking. He was a lurking scuttler.

It takes a lot to make you look twice when you’re hanging out behind a circus – everyone’s got their thing, you know? But this guy got my attention.

He was writing. Scribbling in a little notebook, eyes darting about. Is it possible to write furtively? Because he was writing furtively.

Which is fine. Mildly creepy, but it’s fine. 

But I saw him again. At the Jabberwock in 1967.

32 years later.

He hadn’t aged a day. Same guy. Same lumpy frame. Same superspy notebook action.

I went to confront him. Ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, who sent him, whether he’d considered minding his own damn business.

But I couldn’t.

Let that soak in. I couldn’t cross the room to talk to him.

Every time I tried, it’s like I got deleted and rewritten. Next thing I knew, I was standing outside on the sidewalk.

I think I was edited.

Which is ridiculous. I’m fifth-dimensional. I navigate timelines. I command the multiverse. Well, some of it. But I do not get edited.

Except apparently I do.

Maybe it’s nothing. Probably nothing. Hope it’s nothing.

Nope. It’s definitely something.

—GP