Anywhere Out of this World
Buffy knew before she opened her eyes that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She had been
sleepwalking again, only this time she had managed to take herself downstairs and outside into the…
Buffy sat up. She expected garden, but got dirty alley clogged with trash. She rubbed her eyes. Yep, dirty,
smelly alley. And there was something else as well.
As Buffy slowly righted herself, she understood what that something else was. The temperature was wrong. It
was winter time and cold. She remembered the ice-crusted puddles along Tower Road where she and William had
jogged Friday morning. Here, she found no ice and no cold. In fact, she could safely call it balmy.
Buffy walked slowly to the mouth of the alley. Every nerve ending felt tweaked to its highest degree. She
stepped out onto the sidewalk, onto the empty street still slick with rain. The traffic lights painted streaks of
red across the wet pavement. In the distance she saw the Cineplex, a bank, a smoothie shop...
“Oh no,” Buffy whispered. She stepped out into the quiet street.
The traffic signal turned from red to green. Buffy hugged her arms to her trembling body. She stalked down the
center line of the street, boot heels clacking on concrete. At the corner, she turned right.
“No,” she said again.
It was the Magic Box, tucked nice and safe into the corner of a rundown retail strip in beautiful downtown
Sunnydale.
Buffy stood in the intersection, shaking her head.
“No. This can’t be happening,” she told herself. She turned in circles, taking it all in. “It can’t…”
A pair of headlight beams swept over her, spurring her to action. Buffy ran up the street, past the occluded
front windows of the Magic Box, hanging a left and heading north. She knew the streets well enough, and if it
was Sunnydale, she really only had one place she could go.
Apparently, the Neighborhood Crime Watch on Revello Drive had taken a long-term hiatus. And the
Neighborhood Association went with them.
Instead of the boxy mini-lawns seeded with St. Augustine grass, Buffy saw that most of the yards now sported
cyclone fences topped with razor wire. More than one house had junked out cars rusting in driveways and
sideyards. More than a few had big red and white ‘Beware of Dog’ signs posted prominently on front gates.
There was trash and weeds and broken glass. Many of the streetlights had been busted. The few that remained
struggled feebly to shed jittery, inconstant light on the sad surroundings.
Buffy’s disbelief let her keep thinking that this was all just a dream. Had to be a dream. Couldn’t be anything
but dream. But if felt so real. Prone to graphic dream-o-rama though she was, Buffy had never tuned in such
psychic Technicolor. Somewhere distant, a siren blared. The dogs all around her launched into a chorus of
complaint. As she walked, keeping to the uneven sidewalk, she could smell someone’s dinner frying. She heard
the tinsely sound of late-night talk shows on the television.
And then, she was home.
1630 Revello. Windows boarded over like blind eyes. Bull nettle had overthrown the lawn. Mailbox long pulled out
like a rotted tooth. Buffy walked up the drive, unnecessarily alert. Glass broken out of the upstairs window –
her window. Bricks loose in the front side walk. An old newspaper, pages blanked by months of weathering,
fluttered weakly on the front porch. Doorknob stolen from the front door, but the door itself was nailed shut.
Buffy put her shoulder to the door. It sagged inward, then gave up without a fight. Buffy stepped inside.
She didn’t know what she expected, except that she expected something different. The house was an empty
shell. There was nothing left. Not a stick of furniture in the kitchen or den. No framed paintings or
photographs. No knick-knacky things on the mantle. The carpet had been ripped up in places. Black soot
clouded the wall behind the fireplace. The place smelled of uncirculated air and oldness.
Buffy’s heart ached. This was her home, once. A place she both loved and hated. She hadn’t given any thought
to whether she had missed it. It was gone from her life. And she had been glad.
Buffy had seen enough. She didn’t need to go upstairs. She didn’t want to see the garden out back. However it
was she had come to be here, here was not where she wanted to be. Buffy turned, all too eager to leave, when
she heard something.
Buffy froze. She listened, body tensed and ready to spring.
She heard the noise again. A small voice, calling from below. In the basement.
Buffy went to the basement door. She opened it, carefully. It swung soundlessly back on well-oiled hinges.
The darkness below seemed to swell and move like a heat mirage on a desert road.
“Hello?” Buffy called.
Buffy heard a scuffling sound, like someone crawling around in the basement.
Buffy took one trepid step forward.
“Hello?” she said again. This time it was a stifled whisper.
“I hear you…” a voice answered. A girl’s voice.
“Where are you?” Buffy asked. Her body had begun to shiver uncontrollably.
“I hear you,” the voice said again. “But you can’t be you.”
Buffy came further downstairs. She paused, looking over the handrail into the palpable darkness of the
basement. It was hot down there, and choked with dust.
“Dawn?” she asked. She felt tears sting her eyes. I could not be Dawn. Could not…
“You can’t be you,” the girl said again. “You jumped…”
Buffy vaulted over the rail. She landed lightly on the paper strewn concrete of the basement floor. Startled, the
girl clambered deeper into the recess beneath the stairs. Buffy saw her then. A girl cowering on her haunches,
dressed in what was once white, but was now stained and dingy. Her long hair parted in matted black curtains
around her thin face, obscuring her eyes in shadow.
“What’s…” Buffy began, coming toward the girl with careful deliberate steps. “What’s happened here?”
The girl sank against the wall, murmuring to herself. “You jumped. You jumped. We saw you. Can’t be you,” she
said.
Buffy knelt a few feet away. “Dawn?” she asked again. “It is you, right?”
The girls sang, "Mary Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?" She turned her face to Buffy’s. In the
scant light sprinkled through the grimy window, Buffy caught a glimmer like sunlight on a fish’s scales.
Buffy drew back. “Your eyes,” she said.
“Witch did this to me,” the girl said. Her voice was stronger now. Edged with bitterness. "And pretty maids all
in the row," she whispered. "Pretty maids all in a row."
Buffy leaned forward again, creeping closer on her knees. She reached for the girl, and the girl did not cringe
away. Not until Buffy’s fingers brushed her cheek.
Dawn retreated, all the way into the corner, wedging herself against the underside of the steps. She clapped
her hands over her eyes, hiding them.
“Witch did this. Took my eyes. Made me blind,” she said. Her voice hitched and warbled painfully in her throat.
“But you’re here now, right? You’re really here?”
“I am here, Dawnie,” Buffy said. She reached for her sister’s face again. She had to see it for herself. She took
Dawn’s head in her hands, turning it to face hers. There were thickened flaps of skin like scales over her eyes,
but pearlescent like the inside of a shell. Buffy withdrew her hands and covered her mouth.
“Oh, Dawn,” she cried.
“You came,” she said. She turned her head, buried it in the crook of her arm. “Spike comes too. He’s the only
one. Only one. N-not scared of witches. He made a promise. A promise to you. But you jumped…”
Buffy backed away then. She got slowly to her feet.
“Oh God,” she said. “I don’t belong here.”
Buffy knew before she opened her eyes that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She had been
sleepwalking again, only this time she had managed to take herself downstairs and outside into the…
Buffy sat up. She expected garden, but got dirty alley clogged with trash. She rubbed her eyes. Yep, dirty,
smelly alley. And there was something else as well.
As Buffy slowly righted herself, she understood what that something else was. The temperature was wrong. It
was winter time and cold. She remembered the ice-crusted puddles along Tower Road where she and William had
jogged Friday morning. Here, she found no ice and no cold. In fact, she could safely call it balmy.
Buffy walked slowly to the mouth of the alley. Every nerve ending felt tweaked to its highest degree. She
stepped out onto the sidewalk, onto the empty street still slick with rain. The traffic lights painted streaks of
red across the wet pavement. In the distance she saw the Cineplex, a bank, a smoothie shop...
“Oh no,” Buffy whispered. She stepped out into the quiet street.
The traffic signal turned from red to green. Buffy hugged her arms to her trembling body. She stalked down the
center line of the street, boot heels clacking on concrete. At the corner, she turned right.
“No,” she said again.
It was the Magic Box, tucked nice and safe into the corner of a rundown retail strip in beautiful downtown
Sunnydale.
Buffy stood in the intersection, shaking her head.
“No. This can’t be happening,” she told herself. She turned in circles, taking it all in. “It can’t…”
A pair of headlight beams swept over her, spurring her to action. Buffy ran up the street, past the occluded
front windows of the Magic Box, hanging a left and heading north. She knew the streets well enough, and if it
was Sunnydale, she really only had one place she could go.
Apparently, the Neighborhood Crime Watch on Revello Drive had taken a long-term hiatus. And the
Neighborhood Association went with them.
Instead of the boxy mini-lawns seeded with St. Augustine grass, Buffy saw that most of the yards now sported
cyclone fences topped with razor wire. More than one house had junked out cars rusting in driveways and
sideyards. More than a few had big red and white ‘Beware of Dog’ signs posted prominently on front gates.
There was trash and weeds and broken glass. Many of the streetlights had been busted. The few that remained
struggled feebly to shed jittery, inconstant light on the sad surroundings.
Buffy’s disbelief let her keep thinking that this was all just a dream. Had to be a dream. Couldn’t be anything
but dream. But if felt so real. Prone to graphic dream-o-rama though she was, Buffy had never tuned in such
psychic Technicolor. Somewhere distant, a siren blared. The dogs all around her launched into a chorus of
complaint. As she walked, keeping to the uneven sidewalk, she could smell someone’s dinner frying. She heard
the tinsely sound of late-night talk shows on the television.
And then, she was home.
1630 Revello. Windows boarded over like blind eyes. Bull nettle had overthrown the lawn. Mailbox long pulled out
like a rotted tooth. Buffy walked up the drive, unnecessarily alert. Glass broken out of the upstairs window –
her window. Bricks loose in the front side walk. An old newspaper, pages blanked by months of weathering,
fluttered weakly on the front porch. Doorknob stolen from the front door, but the door itself was nailed shut.
Buffy put her shoulder to the door. It sagged inward, then gave up without a fight. Buffy stepped inside.
She didn’t know what she expected, except that she expected something different. The house was an empty
shell. There was nothing left. Not a stick of furniture in the kitchen or den. No framed paintings or
photographs. No knick-knacky things on the mantle. The carpet had been ripped up in places. Black soot
clouded the wall behind the fireplace. The place smelled of uncirculated air and oldness.
Buffy’s heart ached. This was her home, once. A place she both loved and hated. She hadn’t given any thought
to whether she had missed it. It was gone from her life. And she had been glad.
Buffy had seen enough. She didn’t need to go upstairs. She didn’t want to see the garden out back. However it
was she had come to be here, here was not where she wanted to be. Buffy turned, all too eager to leave, when
she heard something.
Buffy froze. She listened, body tensed and ready to spring.
She heard the noise again. A small voice, calling from below. In the basement.
Buffy went to the basement door. She opened it, carefully. It swung soundlessly back on well-oiled hinges.
The darkness below seemed to swell and move like a heat mirage on a desert road.
“Hello?” Buffy called.
Buffy heard a scuffling sound, like someone crawling around in the basement.
Buffy took one trepid step forward.
“Hello?” she said again. This time it was a stifled whisper.
“I hear you…” a voice answered. A girl’s voice.
“Where are you?” Buffy asked. Her body had begun to shiver uncontrollably.
“I hear you,” the voice said again. “But you can’t be you.”
Buffy came further downstairs. She paused, looking over the handrail into the palpable darkness of the
basement. It was hot down there, and choked with dust.
“Dawn?” she asked. She felt tears sting her eyes. I could not be Dawn. Could not…
“You can’t be you,” the girl said again. “You jumped…”
Buffy vaulted over the rail. She landed lightly on the paper strewn concrete of the basement floor. Startled, the
girl clambered deeper into the recess beneath the stairs. Buffy saw her then. A girl cowering on her haunches,
dressed in what was once white, but was now stained and dingy. Her long hair parted in matted black curtains
around her thin face, obscuring her eyes in shadow.
“What’s…” Buffy began, coming toward the girl with careful deliberate steps. “What’s happened here?”
The girl sank against the wall, murmuring to herself. “You jumped. You jumped. We saw you. Can’t be you,” she
said.
Buffy knelt a few feet away. “Dawn?” she asked again. “It is you, right?”
The girls sang, "Mary Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?" She turned her face to Buffy’s. In the
scant light sprinkled through the grimy window, Buffy caught a glimmer like sunlight on a fish’s scales.
Buffy drew back. “Your eyes,” she said.
“Witch did this to me,” the girl said. Her voice was stronger now. Edged with bitterness. "And pretty maids all
in the row," she whispered. "Pretty maids all in a row."
Buffy leaned forward again, creeping closer on her knees. She reached for the girl, and the girl did not cringe
away. Not until Buffy’s fingers brushed her cheek.
Dawn retreated, all the way into the corner, wedging herself against the underside of the steps. She clapped
her hands over her eyes, hiding them.
“Witch did this. Took my eyes. Made me blind,” she said. Her voice hitched and warbled painfully in her throat.
“But you’re here now, right? You’re really here?”
“I am here, Dawnie,” Buffy said. She reached for her sister’s face again. She had to see it for herself. She took
Dawn’s head in her hands, turning it to face hers. There were thickened flaps of skin like scales over her eyes,
but pearlescent like the inside of a shell. Buffy withdrew her hands and covered her mouth.
“Oh, Dawn,” she cried.
“You came,” she said. She turned her head, buried it in the crook of her arm. “Spike comes too. He’s the only
one. Only one. N-not scared of witches. He made a promise. A promise to you. But you jumped…”
Buffy backed away then. She got slowly to her feet.
“Oh God,” she said. “I don’t belong here.”
We scaled
the face of reason
to find
at least one sign
that would reveal
the true dimensions
of life...
lest we forget.
And maybe its easier to withdraw from life,
with all of its misery and wretched lies,
away from harm.
We lay
by cool, still waters
and gazed
into the sun.
And like the moth's
great imperfection,
succumbed
to her fatal charm.
And maybe its me who dreams unrequited
love,
the victim of fools who watch
and stand in line away from harm!
In our vain pursuit
of life for ones own end
will this crooked path
ever cease to end?
Anywhere Out Of The World
Dead Can Dance
the face of reason
to find
at least one sign
that would reveal
the true dimensions
of life...
lest we forget.
And maybe its easier to withdraw from life,
with all of its misery and wretched lies,
away from harm.
We lay
by cool, still waters
and gazed
into the sun.
And like the moth's
great imperfection,
succumbed
to her fatal charm.
And maybe its me who dreams unrequited
love,
the victim of fools who watch
and stand in line away from harm!
In our vain pursuit
of life for ones own end
will this crooked path
ever cease to end?
Anywhere Out Of The World
Dead Can Dance
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Mea Culpa
Things Unsaid
Home Sweet Gone
Eleventh Hour
Last Call
Time Is Running Out
Primal