"Please go back to your cubicle,” said the Wicked Witch. Dorothy glanced down at the trash can where she was throwing the candy wrappers from her Halloween leftovers, it was clear that the Witches goal was to get Dorothy fired.

“I like your costume,? Dorothy said in a friendly way. Dorothy had always believed in being nice.

"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too," the Witch croaked out at her. They would never get along. Dorothy moved back to her desk. Her little jar of Black Fire sitting there in the cubicle beckoned her to look at it. Suddenly the Witch was standing over her cubicle wall staring down at her.

“The boss has been watching your screen there," the Witch said pointing at Dorothy's computer monitor, "it seems you spend alot of time looking up hobbies and stuff. That's why they put the nanny-monitor on you."

“That's just not true,.” Dorothy stammered.

“Oh is it not You must ever deadline, you had last two weeks. Now the manufactures can't move on because you missed the deadlines,” the Witch said leaning down even closer to Dorothy's face. "Might want to spend more time on your work and less on your costumes."

Next thing she knew, Dorothy was having the boss standing over her. “I’m afraid you aren't fitting into the company.”

Dorothy tried to contain her anger. How could do they do this to her on costume day. Had they no mercy. What's wrong with these people, she thought to herself. Her anger grown.

Dorothy reached across her desk and picked up the jar of Black Fire, she wasn't sure she'd ever use it. She took a small dip out using the flat arm of her stapler, it blended right it. While the Witch was away on bathroom break, she quietly placed it on her desk.. The Black Fire pitch would make it adhere to the Witch's desk like super glue. Stuck...well stuck till that is till it spontaneously goes up in flames.

She imagined it. The Witch would say, "You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! melting! Oh what a world!"

Dorothy sighed, “I’m sorry it had to be like this, people." She gathered her purse realizing she suddenly felt so free. "Not even a thank you from a single one of you.' Slipping her hat on her head, she waltzed out.

I had to write this shit so i didn’t forget but i don’t think i will 🙁 So i just started a new meditation due to my postpartum depression and here is my most recent nightmare out of many nightmares or stress dreams I’ve had over the last month:

Me, my bf, my kids and my mom apparently (but she didn’t pop up until the end) are at a hotel kinda like wolf lodge but it was scary themed. They had slides and rides etc. inside but they had scare actors and we could go back to a hotel room within this building. Well towards the end of the dream we ended up leaving because i was getting stressed how scary it was. While driving all of a sudden a car (cyber truck) comes flying past us on the left side and somehow just completely flips 3 times and then crashes into us. It all seemed like slow motion in the dream including watching my mom fly into the cab of the car (ends up in a sitting position don’t ask me how) and i could see her head bent backwards like she’s looking up and just completely unconscious and bloody(full face visual and everything) she literally looked dead. I also see my bf who is driving go unconscious (i even saw blood start to leak from his head and he started to shake) so i grab the emergency brake because we are literally going to crash into something else and start calling 911 after we stop then im suddenly woke up. I sat straight up, gasped, and then uncontrollably cried. That shit felt so real i really thought they were gone.

Checked the time when i woke up, 2:05am

Ella stood at the edge of the museum. The painting she was staring at suddenly looked like a menacing blue horse charging at her. The air in Philadelphia Art Museum even felt heavy. She was an experimental dancer, with her own studio space where she taught students how to find themselves through dance. The FBI had pulled her from the stage and into a dark world. A serial killer. It wasn’t how she imagined her talent would serve.

They needed her to lure him and she seemed to have just the right height and bravery to be the one they needed. At a tiny 4 foot 9 inches Ella was the perfect pint size to attract perps.

Ella stared over at Tom, his hands tucked into his worn leather jacket. He was rough around the edges, a punk with a history, but Ella could tell right away that he had a spark. They had only been working together for a month, but it felt like more. They were already at the point they were seeking orchards and museums to go to together.

Their romance started while they were going over Ella's part in the sting. Ella had suddenly reached for Tom's hand. She couldn't help it. She felt scared because it was her being used as lure and suddenly she understood the danger. And it was as if their hands were meant to lock together. The connection was electric. Their faces inched closer. He leaned in.

The moment shattered.

Ella pulled away. She had to tell him the truth. "Tom, there's something I need to say."

He sensed the shift. The laughter faded.

"I’ve been diagnosed with cancer," she said, breathless.

His grip tightened, eyes wide with shock. “What? That sounds… impossible.”

Ella explained that she had taken this assignment with the FBI, that she had contacted them with her idea to catch this serial killer. That she had done it because she wanted to be brave and keep her mind off the cancer.

Silence hung. The weight of her words crushed him. “What does this mean for you?”

“Treatment is tough. I’ll fight, but it’s heavy. This... us…” Her voice faltered, yet her gaze held firm. "I didn't want to start something knowing how uncertain life is."

His mind raced. They were on the brink of something beautiful. “You think I’d walk away because of some diagnosis? You’re stronger than you know. Let's build something. Be brave.”

"Let's do it all," he said, "let's do everything you ever wanted to do," Tom said with great spark in his eyes. Ella answered without hesitation. He lit a spark in her.

“I’ll be by your side,” he said, fierce determination spreading across his face. “No matter what that thing is. No matter what it takes.”

Ella felt warmth flood her heart. She hadn’t expected this. She thought he’d hesitate or run. Instead, he stepped closer, a promise in his gaze.

“I thought it was just cancer. But the tests revealed this strange growth. It feeds off me.”

Days turned into weeks, and together they spent their evenings in the surveillance van and their days chasing love. Ella sat in the center of it the sting, an elaborate trap set just for her. She was excited like a moth drawn to the flame.

Her recent headaches made her uneasy. A tumor in her uterus, they said. It was emitting strange hormones. They thought they detected a heartbeat. The doctors were vague, as always. She didn’t have control over it. She let out a sigh as she looked in the mirror. She definitely could pass for 12, the team had done a great job with her clothes.

Tom arrived. He moved with an electric energy. Grimy jeans, a worn leather jacket. A façade of defiance. He was supposed to look like her pimp.

“Hey, you ready?” he leaned against the doorway, a smile that barely reached his eyes.

She nodded.

The dance club buzzed as they entered. Pulsing lights distorted shadows. Ella felt exposed, that the eyes of the world were on her and could they tell she was a detective. She'd never been in a strip club even. But it was her that had made this plan, she had proposed it to the FBI. She had her routine down pat.

She stepped on the stage and tore her school girl uniform open. Tom watched as the serial killer took notice of Ella. Tom knew he was going to take the bait. He clicked on the mic, the second Ella stepped off the stage.

“Wanna grab a bite?” the killer asked Ella.

“Sure,” she replied, trying not to over stare at Tom.

A diner, greasy and flickering, seemed fitting for a criminal. They chatted as if their lives didn’t hang by a thread. Ella’s mind raced. A plan was in motion, yet the FBI’s goals blurred with her own needs. She sought connection, she had done this because she wanted to have sex with a killer. Late-night moonlight cut through the diner window.

“What's wrong?” Tom asked into Ella's mic in her ear, concern etched in his face.

“Nothing,” she lied, almost convincing herself. Then the pain hit her, sharp and sudden. A reminder of the tumor nestled inside.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said to the killer and they ran off down the street and over into an alley. It was dark one, filled with dumpsters and fishbones. Then it happened. That twisted feeling again. An urge. Not just to dance, but to connect.

The killer leaned in, their lips almost touching, when she felt something shift inside her. Her breath hitched.

Then she felt a pulse, a crawling sensation. It moved inside her, something alive.

“Baby girl?” His voice was distant now, a mere echo,"what's on your mind, honey?" He ran his hand up Ella's thigh. The leech-like entity grew restless, it's need to feed controlling it. It craved man meat. She had no room for this…thing... whatever it was. It was not just a tumor.

She pulled the killer close to her, suckling his lips as she beared down and pulled his hand close to catch the living monster.

A tendril of darkness slithered from her school girl costume. Each movement slurping. A living nightmare materialized. It glopped down her thigh.

The killer staggered back, his expression shifting from confusion to horror as he realized it was in his hand. He screamed and dropped it down his open pants. The monster succubus with piranha teeth dined on its dinner. Satisfied with mad blood.

The killer stumbled as sharp teeth sank into his flesh.

Blood spattered. Ella felt the rush of warmth leave her. The feeling was intoxicating. For a moment, she experienced clarity. She was free, liberated. It was everything she could wish for ..but how will she explain this whole incident to...

Tom screamed, “What have you done, Ella?”

He looked at the gaping blood hole of the killer...watched as the fanged leech leapt out of his pants all bloody and surged at him with hunger. Ella felt both disgust and thrill.

The leech let out a noise like a siren.

Ella stood in the darkness. She was still herself, the experimental dancer....but now extra twisted. She was no longer just a dancer on Earth. She had become a vessel for something far darker. She had touched a killer and birthed a leech succubus at the same time. She was the mother of a monster.

As the FBI van pulled into the alley, agents poured out. They arrived to a scene of chaos. But the real capture happened long before. Ella had lured them in without ever meaning to.

Outside and inside, the chase had only just begun.

They’d come for her, but they would never stop the succubus leech she had unleashed.

Dale watched intently, his researcher’s eyes peeling back the layers of this self-serving man named Cedric. Dale had entered Cedric's Discord feed to study him. Each interaction Dale watched revealed Cedric’s tactics—flattery, pity, gaslighting. He charmed girls with words, the way a spider spins a web. But these weren’t ordinary flies; they were troubled souls. Each one came to him with scars, longing for attention, some even craved pain to feel alive.

Dale sipped energy drinks as he watched over Cedric's discord server. The notes would roll fast, Cedric’s manipulation endless. The book Dale was writing—Wandering Beggars: Men that Mooch Off of Women Proudly—was nearly finished. Cedric had proven the perfect subject.

Cedric posted a simple message to someone, “I’m here for you, brah.”

The girls responded quickly. Heart emojis and confessions rolled in. They spoke of loneliness, heartbreak, and the razorblade’s kiss. Cedric gently nudged them, urging them not to hurt themselves, but his presence felt more like a dark influence.

“Why do they turn to him?” Dale pondered to himself. It frightened him, the ease with which Cedric wrapped them around his finger. Was Cedric really helping? Or was he feeding off their despair?

At one point, a new girl entered the chat. Her name was Ellie. She seemed different. More vulnerable, yet tougher. Dale noted how Cedric’s tone shifted, softer this time, as if he sensed the rawness beneath her words. He wove intricate stories of his own pain, blurring boundaries as usual.

“Believe me, you’re not alone,” Cedric typed. “Let me catch you when you fall.”

Ellie began to share her darkest moments, and Cedric soaked them up like a sponge, revealing more layers of his own twisted character. He might as well be a predator in the night.

Then the twist hit.

Dale realized he couldn’t just observe. He needed to do something. He began posting, posing as someone else. A hidden voice in the chat. Dale made his warning. “Cedric is toxic. Don’t fall into his trap. You matter more than he says.”

The tension spiked. Cedric caught on quickly. “Who are you?” he responded, eyes narrowing behind the screen. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dale felt alive. This wasn’t research anymore. Dale wanted to pierce Cedric's web. “You play games with girls’ emotions. It ends now.”

He expected a retreat from Cedric—or an outright attack. But instead, Cedric laughed. The response came in an instant. “Lolz, you think you can save them? Watch this.”

Cedric typed to Ellie to join him and in voice chat he addressed her. “Look at this loser, Ellie. He doesn’t care about you. I’m the one who listens.”

A sickening sense of dread filled Dale. The influence Cedric had was palpable. Ellie's response seemed in love and confused.

Dale’s phone rang. It was an unknown number. Chilled, he answered.

“Dale?” A soft voice whispered. “You need to stop.”

It wasn’t Ellie.

“Who are you?” He felt perspiration bead on his forehead.

“Threats have consequences. Cedric is… protected.”

That voice sent shivers down his spine. He knew something was off and the puzzle started with who gave Dale's phone number out?

He returned to the chat. Ellie was gone. Had she fallen deeper? What did that whispering voice mean?

They continued their back and forth. Cedric called out to his followers, rallying them against Dale. “I’m not the bad guy! Look at his vile comments. Who’s really trying to hurt you here?”

Panic throbbed in Dale as he watched Cedric shift, morph in real time, spinning the narrative against Dale. Telling the audience that Dale was an ex of Ellie, chasing her and not letting her live her life freely.

Menacing messages piled in from other users. They trolled him, slandering his name and threats floated through the chat like smoke. Suddenly, Dale was the attacker, the bad guy. The line between researcher and abused, tightened until it was choking Dale.

It was then he noticed the chat was no longer just online. The whispers had escaped the digital realm. Calls were arriving to Dale's academic department claiming that Dale was a serial domestic violence abuser. Soon Dale found himself on temporary leave from his department, they didn't want another scandal.

Dale realized too late. The battle he fought against Cedric and his influence had turned into a game of survival. A twisted cycle of manipulation that he unwittingly joined. And as Cedric’s laughter echoed through the chat, resonating with the voices now looming outside, Dale understood he wasn’t just a researcher anymore; he was now part of Cedric’s web—a prey in a nightmare of his own making.

Dale’s phone rang. It was an unknown number. Chilled, he answered.

“Dale?” A soft voice whispered. “I have the ability to make this stop.”

It wasn’t Ellie.

“Who are you?” Dale asked letting out a sigh.

“I can make this stop," the voice promised, but Dale felt sure it was the same voice as before, but after much contemplation Dale wanted to keep his job so he paid the venmo.

Slamming the brakes of my ‘04 Silverado I jumped from the cab.

I sprinted toward the smashed-up 4-door van that now stood upright back on its wheels after rolling 50 yards. The closer I got, the stronger the smell of spilled gasoline.

This could go up any minute

As if reading my mind, flames started shooting from below the van's back end. Still determined I charged in faster, there was still time.

Reaching the front door, I peered inside, cupping both hands on the window. Both the passenger and driver were not moving, blood streaming from their faces; either unconscious or dead.

Soft cries came from the back seat. I shifted to the back window. Two kids about the age of my own sat dazed in confusion.

“I’m going to get you out!”

I yanked hard on the door. It didn’t budge an inch.

Feeling the growing warmth to my right, I shot a glance over at the flames. The fire had spread quickly. The back end of the van was now shooting flames 10 feet into the night air.

My gaze now turned back to the children, panic and horror filled the tiny faces. I continued to pull on the door.

“ANYONE PLEASE! HELP ME! I NEED HELP!”

The usually trafficked stretch of street is empty at this hour of night. Neighboring apartment building lights began to flick on.

The heat from the flames licked at my arm now, singeing the hair. The handle now beginning to burn my hand badly, I stepped back. The children reached out to me in desperation, but there was nothing I could do.

I watched helplessly as the flames filled the back seat. The screams which howled into the night sent shivers down my spine and instantly sobered me of my drunken state.

My god, what have I done

The ocean rocked in gentle undulations. The grandiose floating mansions bobbled along on the water, their opulence a stark contrast to the bleak horizon of endless water. A balmy mist hung heavily in the air, adorned with the soft hum of technology that whirred over the water.

Mara, a real human and the youngest heir to the Azura lineage, peered into the pool that shimmered like liquid sapphire compared to the bleak ocean all around thems. This was her world, a paradise sheltered from the real horrors lurking in the waves out there. Mara pet her giant tardigrade that floated around her pool.

Her family had taught her from infancy that the deep sea out there was full malevolent spirits, an abyss intent on swallowing her whole. As an Azura, her blood was thicker than water, and that meant she must not venture out there into the endless ocean.

She was, also, raised to believe in her inherent superiority—she was precious gem among drowning stones. Yet, something inside her churned like a growing tempest, begging her to break free of her gilded existence.

Their pool contained what her parents called their “tardigrade pets.” Before the flooding, she had thrilled over the scientific marvel that these giant creatures represented. But now, when the sun shone through the water, illuminating their gelatinous forms, the creatures felt disturbingly familiar. They bloated and floundered, their slick bodies wriggling helplessly in the water.

“Look! They love the light!” her father chortled over breakfast, pointing to the pod of tardigrades sunning on the lawn chairs around the pool. Father's laughter echoed through the walls which were adorned with iridescent sculptures of ancient sea creatures. “You’ll learn to connect with them, Mara. They’re ours to nurture and adore.”

Mara had hoped to learn to ride them like her great-aunt Zara had done. Fathers fork dropping, brought Mara back to the time when the world collapsed. They might have lost something more than land; what if freedom had perished amid the rising tides? This is all Mara could think of as her father took his OJ. The thought sank deep into her, the desire for escape from this pampered life inside their ocean pod.

But the lure of upcoming games distracted her, particularly Vile Acceleration, a brutal contest of survival her family hosted every month. In it, they placed bets on the Tardigrades ability to withstand torture. Her eyes lit up inside from the thrill of the games.

“Ready for tonight?” her older brother, Kaden, asked, donning his best attire. “You’re going to need to swim harder than ever. Uncle Torin is said to be ready to drown anyone that tries to ride him.” His eyes glinted with mischief, pitting twisted excitement. Uncle Torin was their best giant tardigrade pet.

As evening fell, darkness swallowed the mansion but thousands of beautiful candles and torches lit up the whole perimeter of the pool. Guests mingled about still excited from having taken their ocean buggies over for the celebration. Several Azura from the highest social hierarchy arrived, some boasting costumes that mimicked the humans that had once roamed free -- that is before they had been transformed into tardigrades.

A group of Azura marveled at the fat tardigrade wretches tumbling about in the shallow end of pool. "Some of those humans sure are grotesque once they are covered in tardigrade skins, arent' they," one of the Azura said wrinkling their nose at the poor specimens floundering, beached in the shallow end of the pool.

"It's better for them," one of the Azura answered.

The game commenced, churning with a turbulence of dozens of tardigrades readying to fight off anyone that tried to ride them. Mara held her breath as she watched Kaden’s team rack up points. . Each successful diver into the depths of the pool brought shrieks of joy every time an Azura mounted a tardigrade.

Something snapped inside of Mara and with a euphoric scream she demanded her turn in the pool, a sense of freedom unfurled in her - Why did the game feel like a theft of life rather than a celebration? Why did she feel trapped?

Her heart raced as she studied the human-tardigrades as she walked into the pool, recognizing glimmers of familiarity—vague reflections of her own self started to emerge.

"You know you aren't really an Azura, dont' you," one of the human-tardigrades asked her. Perhaps, she pondered, the real horror lay in what it was saying to her.

Another tardigrade swam up beside her, "ya you are really a human and one of these days the Azura will let you know."

Mara had always felt different inside, not like the other Azura. "How do you know I'm not really one of them," Mara asked inquisitively as she swam with them.

She swam to the pool's edge, her reflection catching her eye along the wall—complete with her bright eyes. There was something wrong with her; a flicker of something bright flicked in her eyes. Awareness shot through her. She stumbled back, unable to align her conviction with her reality.

"We know," said one of the human-tardigrade, "because your eyes sparkle like ours."

Mara knew it too. She thought of how their Azura's eyes all seemed so dark and devoid of light compared to hers. Mara looked up into the warm, shiny eyes of the human-tardigrade standing around her. Their eyes locked together and Mara promised with her eyes she would save them.

“Something’s wrong,” she gasped to the audience watching her, her voice swallowed by their silence. “They’re not pets. They’re—”

“Enough Mara! Go ride one!! ” Kaden’s eyes burned with anger. The crowd fell silent, the laughter evaporating, replaced by sharp tension. “Thank god, we didn't bet on her winning," several of them laughed, "she always was just a human."

Mara exited the pool and screamed at them all. "Those tardigrades that you all claim you love - you ride them and then put them on plates," she wagged her finger at the audience, pleased to lecture them all.

One of the top Azura stood up and raised a glass of octopus wine. "We’re all heroes here; it's a game of evolution, of adaptation. You were chosen to become—one of us.”

Before she could protest, a searing pain shot through her body, the realization washing over her with absolute horror. The illusion shattered and she ran for the edge of the pool as hard and fast as she could. She pushed her palms against cold glass doors and kicked the edge as hard as she could, her skin ripping from the force of the ocean bursting in from the break.

“Go as fast as you can,” Mara screamed at all the human-tardigrades. smooth and horrifyingly calm.

She could feel it then - the remnants of humanity swirling within her.

As the screams erupted around her, she saw her hands, taut and rubbery from the water, mirroring the tardigrades she had once viewed with aberrant fascination before they got their skins.

The Azura turned on her like the monsters they are. She stayed in the pool. "Go ahead and stitch me into my skin," she screamed between tears.

On Halloween night in a quiet suburban town, thirteen year old Lilia Sparks was out in her gorilla costume. It was a gorilla costume that had been her mothers back in her 90's riotgrrrl phase and it was under promise of being scalped alive that her mother made her promise to bring the gorilla suit back in one piece.

Something was hanging in the Halloween air that night, the legend of Deborah Ramirez, the girl that had vanished 3 years prior. Rumors where that Deborah's uncle had taken her to Venezuela, back to her real father. He'd switched costumes around to pull off this task. It was whispered that she returns once every year to any children that switch their mask with other children to make fun of her on Halloween night.

Lilia had switched mask with one of the boys she had a crush on. She hadn't wanted to do so but he wanted her gorilla mask so she reluctantly took his Ghost Face mask.

Dusk was falling on the night when Lilia received an invitation hidden inside her candy bag—a hand-drawn map leading her to the abandoned house at the end of Black Oak Street - the one all the locals avoid. She threw it down, realizing someone was playing pranks.

Curiosity crystalized in her an hour later and made her to approach the dilapidated house on Black Oak Street. All the stories of the lawn scattered in treasures of candy left behind by past trick-or-treaters lured her It was town custom to throw one piece of your candy in the yard to appease the evil spirits that lived there. So it had to be true, she thought.

Lilia stepped down the winding path marked on the map, it seemed as if creatures lurk just beyond her vision. As she reached the decrepit house shrouded in fog, she started to turn back, but then out from the shed popped none other than Deborah Crane, who still had her hair in the same style of braids Lilia had remembered.

"Its...it's you," Lilia asked confused. "Www ww what are you doing here?"

"We are preparing for the festivities," Deborah said in whispered tones. Her accent had become British.

"Why do you sound like youre from London now," Lilia asked proud to show off her ear for international dialects.

"We need to unearth a centuries-old scarecrow buried out back," Deborah said pointing at field towards the cemetery full of antiquated headstones. "if we dont retrieve that totem we will no longer be able to ward off evil spirits."

Lilia was confused by the urgency of Deborah's speech and why Deborah seemed possessed by the same demon's she was begging her to ward off. "What evil spirits are you talking about, Deborah?"

Beneath the silver glow of a harvest moon, Deborah grabbed Lilia's hand and they walked into the enchanted field that lay on the outskirts of their town. It was Halloween night, a time when mischief collided with myth under the guise of childish glee.

"Are we really going to do this?" Lilia's voice trembled as they reached the center of the field, which was overgrown with brush and cloaked in an otherworldly mist. "I dont understand why you need me to do this," Lilia said in plea.

"Only if you believe in magic," Deborah whispered, her eyes gleaming like black obsidian. She held the Ouija board she had snatched from the rickety attic of her Grandmother's house. “They say this scarecrow is haunted. We should try to communicate with the dead instead.”

“Would you please tell me, did you not get taken by your uncle,” Lilia asked.

But Deborah seemed bothered that Lilia had broken the spell she had started and she glanced at the cemetery pointing at it as where she wanted them to go.

Once they arrived shadows danced behind the weathered gravestones, an unsettling sigh rustling through the air as if the spirits within were just as curious about their presence.

"We could invite something here that we can't control," Deborah suggested, her eyes gleaming like a happy child's.

Before they could consider turning back, Deborah set the board on the ground.. The wind howled as if warning them. Each girl placed a hand on the planchette, breaths mingling with the cool night air.

They always had been good friends. Here they were back together. 'Ill just get her to tell me where she's been later, when we get out of this,' Lilia thought to her self and ignored her inner intuition.

Both girls shivered, chilled by the mist swirling around them. “Is anyone there?” Lilia asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The planchette jerked, sliding ominously toward "Y-E-S." Before either of them could process the movement, a chilling gust blew through the field, sending the planchette upwards.

Lilia's violet eyes turned even paler. "Maybe we should stop. This isn't a joke anymore."

“Afraid are you, Lilia, just like always, huh?” Deborah shot back, tongue still sharp as the blade Lilia remembered. “Come on, don’t you want to unearth some real phantoms? Prove that you aren’t scared?”

In a moment of defiance, Lilia leaned into the board. “What do you want?”

To their horror, the board’s response was swift; in frantic motions, it spelled out: "Y-O-U"

A silence engulfed both their voices, so thick it felt suffocating.

“Oh my God…” Deborah said grabbing Lilia's hand. “What have we done?”

“We need to leave,” Lilia urged her, picking up the ouija board, but the ground began to tremble below them.

“Let's reverse it, let’s focus and reverse it!” Deborah shouted. “we can make this stop - my uncle taught me!”

With shaky hands, Lilia reluctantly returned the board to the ground. “What must we do?” she stammered to the board.

The planchette flew across the board, slashing letters like an arrow. “S-A-C-R-I-F-I-C-E.”

“What does that even mean?” Lilia cried. “We’re not sacrificing anything!”

But Lilia could feel the bones now, slithering, grasping at her ankles, urging her down into the hungry earth.

“Get off me!” she screamed as she struggled, clawing at the bones, but their skeleton hands only tightened.

Deborah lunged to help her, but one by one, both were now ensnared. The relentless thrust of the roots twisted them deeper into the soil.

“Please! Do something!” Lilia's voice grew faint as she got pulled into the earth.

“What do we have to give?” Deborah hollered at the board, desperate and placed her hands on the planchette.

“Y-O-U.”

The word hung heavy in the air. In that moment, realization washed over her. They had not just awakened the spirits; they had walked into it with a vengeance. The ground trembled, announcing it's intention.

“Leave us alone!” Deborah begged of them.

The magic field stood silent again. The board lay discarded. Across the mist was coming two candles glowing.

"What are you girls doing out here," Deborah's grandmother and uncle's face came into the light. "We came to check on you after the earthquake."

"We were just doing girl stuff," Deborah offered them.

"I thought we asked you not to see any of the kids. We were here only for a few hours to collect some business from Grandma's house. You were supposed to stay put in your bed," her uncle said to her, looking as if he understood her needs.

"It's Lilia...I just needed to see her, please forgive me, she won't tell anyone..will you," Deborah asked Lilia, gesturing her to answer what she wanted.

It was at that time that Lilia woke up face first by the shed of the haunted house of Black Oak Street and realized nobody was there. She picked up a couple pieces of candy from the ground and walked the perimeter of the old wrought iron fence that held in the haunted house. It didn't seem like anyone had been there in days.

Lilia could barely recall if she really saw Deborah, it all felt like a dream. She checked the shed one more time for her and saw the root in the yard that she had tripped on. She must passed out when she fell. She looked down and saw a small rip in the knee of her mom's gorilla costume. She ran her hand over it.

"I better be going," she said quaintly to any lingering spirits. She'd have to figure out how to tell her mom about trading her mask, the knee, and the map.

The map

Where was the map?

The museum spun its magic in me, for starters it was helping me escape the chill of autumn air that was cutting me to the bone. I had never been one for art, but there were whispers all around the city that insisted that the new exhibit—The Brain Kaleidoscope—was something beyond conventional imagination.

The billboards around town promised the exhibit mixed neuroscience with art in unconventional ways. In ways that had never been done before.

I like neuroscience so I had looked forward to going on my first day off.

Fluorescent lights flashed as soon as you entered, a hard flashed the flickered insistently in the eyes-blinding me a moment. Inside, I clung to the corner some, not sure what to expect and waiting on my eyes to come to after the flashing incident. I glanced around, searching for familiar faces, but like me, the few curiosity seekers all just seemed dazed.

Part of the fun of it was that you - the viewer - had to find the Brain Kaleidoscope. After a dreadful hour of pretending to admire sculptures that mirrored the grotesque, I finally found it: the centerpiece, a small, swirling kaleidoscope mounted on a raised platform. Its colors danced, feeding on the ambient light until it looked as if it were breathing.

I approached the Brain Kaleidoscope with trepidation. My curiosity warred with my desire to touch it. A little blurb beside it explained that this strange creation allowed viewers to relive memories, “through warped reflections,” it added. A tiny flicker of unease spread through my stomach. I leaned my face in. It whirred to life.

It was then that he appeared—David, the boy who had briefly roamed the hallways of my middle school, the one who had crushed that innocent pigeon. His empty eyes glimmered as they fell upon me through the kaleidoscope.

“Don’t,” I began, but my voice seemed swallowed by the air. A smirk playing upon his lips, he spoke, “You want to judge me for hitting that pigeon with a rock? That’s what this is isn't it?”

“Just… yes, I guess,” I muttered, the memory of the pigeon's body thumping to the ground. I could still see how it struggled, feebly seeking an escape from his merciless grip.

David spoke to me from the kaleidoscope, tilting his head. The surface came alive this time with hues colliding chaotically. He plunged his hand into the rippling, liquid colors, forcefully yanking it back as if electrocuted. An infant’s wail filled the air, dragging me into a flash of his twisted past.

“I was” David cried, collapsing to his knees. “I was starving!”

I stumbled back, my heart racing. I suddenly saw through his eyes, his cupboards were bare. The house was empty, no furniture, just a bare wood floor. Condiments were the only thing in the fridge. I twisted as i saw the conditions of the house.

David choked, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I just was hungry and some boys were threatening to beat me up if I came in the lunch room.”

“What did you do?” I asked him. "Did you eat it?"

“I did and I hated everyone!” His fists clenched. “But then… really it wasn't too bad. I read later some other countries enjoy eating pigeon and find it prosper food for holidays.”

Suddenly, the kaleidoscope glimmered, and the air around us shifted. The colors began to distort our surroundings, and he was gone. Hot vines twisted around my ankles. I was pulled back, reliving my own past—my own fears—the unforgotten times where I was pushed, shoved, and mocked.

“What is this?” I gasped as I slipped into memories of my own, seeing my classmates laughing at me the day I peed my pants in first grade.

“You see it?” David’s voice was low, almost reverent. “You can live it, feel it. But you have to die now!” His words spun around me.

Suddenly, the memories vanished. The kaleidoscope pulsed violently, thrumming through the air, warping. I looked down realizing I had peed my self right here at the exhibit. I looked one more time into the Brain Kaleidoscope. David lunged at me, eyes wild. “We can kill them first! We can end this now! We can be free!”

Then the world around us shattered into pieces of color—like a prism of rainbows. I stumbled back. My timer was up. The Brain Kaleidoscope lost all its color. I turned, running blindly from the kaleidoscope, my heart hammering wildly.

I was free, but not entirely. David wasn’t just a boy anymore; he was a memory, intertwined with mine, haunting the corners of my mind.

From that night on, the Brain Kaleidoscope became our bond, our shared darkness. I’d never admit it, but as time wore on, I began to wonder where he was, and why had we intertwined like that? I started most of all to wonder if what I saw was actually true.

Quaint mom-and-pop establishment. I was a third-shift manager, I prided myself on keeping the peace- at least that was what I told myself. That was until the fateful Valentine's Weekend of 1979

At the small hotel sat nestled on the outskirts of town, it was a slow night, save for the occasional couple checking in for a romp. The overhead lights were humming in my ears and the heater was clanking away in the lobby. The clock ticked like it was going backwards. There had been an Aerosmith concert earlier in the night, so there was some light action from that but nothing else.

The door swung open, and in walked a man in bellbottoms, suave and smooth-talking, a charming grin painted over his face. He checked in with a whimsical story about a Valentine surprise for his girlfriend. The way he spoke, with fervor and a hint of mania, left me unsettled. He pivoted almost immediately into a bizarre religious spiel about honoring your partner—but there was something laced with something dark and deviant. I forced a smile and handed him the key to Room 12, trying to shake the chill creeping down my spine.

A few hours later, I heard the back door creak open. felt the hairs on my arms stand on end. For a fleeting moment, I dismissed it as the wind, but then came the whimpering—a sound completely out of place in the small hotel. A puppy, I thought. It was well-known that the establishment was a pet-free zone, but I allowed myself a fleeting moment of false hope, convincing myself that maybe another guest had made an exception.

Moments later, a thud echoed down the hall, followed by whimpering that spun into desperate cries. I knocked on the door to Room 12 but was met by silence. Sensing something terribly amiss, I knocked again. The door swung open with the knock, revealing the thin man in bellbottoms, now veiled in the shadows of the door, standing sinister over something bloody.

Before I could react, a figure bolted from the room. It was his girlfriend, her appearance like something from a nightmare—bloody, screaming, and trembling. She flung herself behind me as if I were a shield against the monster she had just escaped. The man snarled, eyes burning with madness as he slammed the door and barricaded it shut.

“What happened?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice. The woman clutched my arm, her sobs spilling over like a broken dam.

“He... he got me,” she gasped grabbing her gut, her voice cracking. “Please, you have to help me!”

I turned to use the lobby phone on in the back lobby, it was the only phone we had back then. I dialed emergency service for her but when I turned back around to describe her injuries to them -- she was gone. Moments later, police arrived. They coaxed the man out with calm authority, and as he stepped through the doorway, my pulse quickened. His eyes scanned the room and locked onto mine, an instant recognition flashing between us.

The ensuing chaos blurred into a haze of red and blue lights, I stood from a distance while they discussed that the girl had disappeared. The bell-bottomed man claimed she was on acid and ran out of the room in a screaming fit. There was no knife in the room, no blood, no weapon. Hours later, I found myself being questioned about why I had gone in Room 12 with a man I didn't know and was I okay?

I explained to them that it wasn't me. Another woman had run from the room but she had disappeared when I turned my back, running off into the fog. There were no video cameras back then so I had nothing to show them who went in the room. The police released the strange man and he was suddenly gone to me. The police were gone too.

Everyone left.

And I was alone in the aftermath, the eerie silence settled over the hotel like a thick fog and my mind felt feverish. I locked up the lobby and fetched cleaning supplies and headed to Room 12, my hands trembling on the doorknob.

Inside, the aftermath of violence painted the walls—splatters of blood, remnants of a horror that had unspooled just hours prior. I scrubbed feverishly, each stroke dragging me deeper into a pit of despair as memories replayed like a horrifying film reel looping in my mind. The girl’s cries echoed, and I wondered how I could have let this happen under my watch.

As I scrubbed, time distorted; minutes stretched into hours. The weight of the night pressed down like the oppressive air before a storm. I was trapped in a moment I couldn’t escape, and the feeling gnawed at me, a visceral dread that something unseen was still lurking in that desolate hotel.

Then I suddenly collapsed on the bed, realizing I was tripping on lsd. The thin man in the bell-bottom had passed me acid on the candy. I curled up in a ball wondering why he would do that. I did long breathing in and out. I was glad I had signed up for that yoga class at the local YMCA.

Part of me thought maybe none of it was real. I started to look up schizophrenia, thinking maybe that could explain what happened.

But days turned into weeks and the incident slipped into whispers within the town. The rumors were that the woman admitted she was on acid with a strange man to the police and had flown out of the room thinking an octopus monster was after her.

I actually ran into the man months later at the grocery store in the town next to the hotel. He stood casually, with a devil-may-care look on his face. Our eyes met, and that recognition struck again, but this time, his expression felt something far more sinister—a predatory gleam.

I hurried past him, my heart pounding all the way into my ears, the supermarket becoming a dizzying blur of smells and sounds. But then it hit me, he had dosed me that night at the hotel.

I marched back to ask him. I came up so close I could see the green on his cowboy boots sticking out of his faded denim bell-bottoms. I looked up at him, "did they ever find your special Valentine friend?"

But he changed the subject, "did you like the peppermint? I made it myself for my special Valentine friend."

And with that, I had my answers so I smiled at him. The puzzle was solved. I wasn't going crazy. And I realized exactly what had happened the night of Room 12. It had been hard to discern if I was going insane. I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew now

I realized I was the girl he had in Room 12. It was me that came running out. I had realized I was, but it really made no sense. Everyone in town had described her as looking exactly like me, wearing the exact outfit I was wearing.

The next morning after my cinnamon rolls and coffee, I went to the sheriff's office to find out all I could about that night, to make a report that I think I was actually the woman that ran from the room because the man had possibly drugged me.

No sooner did I tell them that they made several phone calls to that man's home. There was no answer. They called his employer but the employer said there was no man by that name.

Police said there was nothing in the system for the name he had given. Nobody had any IDs on them so the whole situation was just marked down as a drug incident.

So I asked my very last question, "Can you please tell me what name he gave you? I think he tried to sexually harrass me."

Sexually harrassment wasn't a big deal back then like it is now, so Im not sure they really cared. But I gave them my best puppy dog eyes.

The rounder faced officer stood up, "He said his name was Jack Straw from WItchita."

I left, knowing that was just a lyrics to a song I know. He'd told them song lyrics and they believed him. I spent years hoping to bump into him again. I was going to give him citizen's arrest, or maybe teach him a lesson. I wasn't sure. But fate never helped me.

I have never seen that man again. The Mystery of Room 12 Goes Unresolved

TRIGGER WARNING This story talks about the following: Murder, rape(not descriptive, marked with '()' in story), and mental illness. The word pedophilia is mentioned but not dicussed.

viewer discression advised.

Thriller/mystery

The Mystery that was 113th Ashwood road was something that wasn’t often talked about. However, this Stretch of neighborhood tended to attract the worst people. Pedophiles, rapists, murderers, psychopaths, you name it. However you wouldn’t be able to tell from the outside. They all pretend they are normal neighbors. All of them believe the others don’t know their secret. However the pedophile doesn’t know the parents hold their children a little tighter in their presents. The rapist doesn't know the girls around him refuse to be alone with him.

“Evil knows evil,” My grandmother used to say to me in her late night visits before she died. The evil truth she never mentioned to me, was the evil in my own mind. Why were we here? We didn’t have any mental cases in my family. From my point of view, we are the only normal ones here. Surrounded by the scum of humanity. However, if that was true then how can i tell. How do I know everyone else's secrets? As my grandma stated, “Evil knows evil.” So what was my evil?

Although I guess the real question should be, why are only bad people attracted here. What or who was it that brought all of us together? As the generation of evil gains another branch, we find ourselves questioning. What is the reason we are all here? Is it all coincidence? Or is there a bigger picture that none of us are seeing.

These last few weeks have slowly spawned an invisible tension. Conversations died down as friends stopped talking, everyone stopped caring. A storm was coming, no one knows what will happen, but they know something will. 

Perhaps it's the new generation finally growing up. Perhaps their evil has recognised everyone else's. Maybe they can not handle their own evil and are fighting their inner demons to not end up like the rest of us. Or perhaps they have accepted it. And are just waiting. What if everybody is waiting for a chance to strike their neighbors.

Curfews begin between parents and children. However futile they believe their efforts to be, they try. They know that police stopped coming in this neighborhood for a while. They know their doors wouldn’t stand a chance if a family tried breaching their house. Noone in this neighborhood was allowed guns. But they had never stopped them, not a single one.

It didn’t take long, for a night of despair to strike the first house. The cold air rang with a piercing scream as a mother walked into the room of her child. Beaten and murdered in a gruesome and almost unidentifiable way. Teeth and nails gone. Eyes shoved deep into his skull. And his skin hung over the back of the door like a jacket.

No cops arrived that night. No neighbors checked on them. As if something in the air had told them. Their child was gone. There was school the next day however. And it had come and gone like any other. Except for the empty seat in homeroom 16. Speculations arose in everyone’s mind in who the child murderer was. Perhaps it was one of the families of murderers. Perhaps it was a pedophile family’s attack. Perhaps that child had offended one of the psychopath families. Whoever it was. Odds are, they were an unconfirmed suspect in somebody's mind. Or perhaps confirmed.

Tiny whisper’s had begun spreading two days after. That someone had seen the suspect that attacked the first child. And that person was the second victim. There was an apparent second victim that night. A quiet kill with no audible approval of death from the family. However this one was different. This was a quick slit of the throat. Something most here call a “mercy killing,”. As if death could ever be merciful.

After a week from the first death, the coroner finally came for the two bodies and it was confirmed. The two families who experienced losses, Were neighbors. After that day, tensions rose even higher. No one, not even teachers had talked that day. Everyone shot accusing looks while they held quiet study.

And almost as if a switch was flipped, the next day, no one was at school. The roads were desolite and there was no sign of life.

That night, doors slammed open. Out came children dressed in costumes. And as they met, the most gruesome trick or treat had begun. Knifes, bats, and homemade weapons were swung about, hitting friend and neighbor alike. Screams and grunts were heard from miles around. Bodies of schoolmates piled in the floor. Blood poured into the cracks of pavement as the victors moved onto the next kill. Hours of running, hunting, and hiding had passed. The roads again felt desolate as the better hiders and hunters begun their horrid game of hide and seek. The gruesome sight of blood, guts, and gore littered the street. Family members watched as they drank or ate their food. Their faces showing their disappointment or glee from seeing how their child was doing.

After another few hours, the last two children were facing off. One dawned a clown mask and a matching clown suit and was covered in a nauseating amount of blood. The other was wearing a masquerade mask, fairy wings, and a pink dress. However, despite her outfit, she too had bits and splatters of blood on her. 

In a flash, they Bolted for each other. However, the man in a clown mask was too slow. The fairy costume child had won. The clown masked child looked up at the winner,

“Jen?” He said as his final words. I rested my blade into his neck, as a way to top him from talking. I had won. I turned over and saw bright blue and red flashes as two police yelled for me to hold my hands in the air and walk slowly to them.

As I was loaded into the cop car, I yelled for them to get my parents. Only they never listened. They loaded me into the car and drove off. I thought to myself, why were they here? They were never here before. They never come to this side of the neighborhood. Were we all set up. Was this a trick to find out which family was worse? My mind raced with questions I wanted to know the answers to. However, they weren’t in a listening mood. 

I spend the night in a holding cell before being sent to questioning. I was asked why i did it as they threw crime scene photos on the table in front of me. I glared at them as the thought of them framing me was still crossing my mind before looking at the pictures.

I looked over at the picture of the houses, where the parents watched. Only none of their lights were on anymore. Not even my own. In their places, Doors were opened and their bodies laid limp on the ground, drowning in their own blood. I also noticed the bodies of my classmates not as I left them. Their weapons were gone, and all of the blood on their costumes appeared to have been from their own wounds.

I frowned as my brain started to hurt. My memories from last night being distorted as I began remembering two different scenarios. Old memories of my grandmother began playing in my head. “Evil recognises evil.” I remembered the conversations of me telling my mom about grandma’s visits and the look of terror on her face. What was once a memory of my mom joking about my grandma's passing before my birth, began to seem like a serious conversation.

Once blocked out memories of doctors visits and medical treatment, and then the day it happened. The start of it all. My eyes widened as I looked up at the cops quickly, their hands flinching to their holsters. In their eyes, I was a threat even with my handcuffs locking me to the side of the table.

“My Parents. Where are they?” I asked in an emotionless tone. The cops paused as if being taken off guard at my question. Either the absurdity of the question, or the way I phrased it, I will never know.

One of the cops took another photo out of their folder and lightly tossed it in front of me. There laid my parents, handcuffed to their bed and deceased. Their bodies in a state of decomposition. I began having flashbacks of that night. 

(I was laying in my bed when I heard muffled screams in my parent’s bedroom. I quietly got up and walked to their room, there I saw a man raping my mother, telling her that if she didnt stop resisting, he was going to kill my father. However, she let out a cry in response, and the man took out his knife and stabbed my dad in the throat, I saw as he began coughing up blood before he stopped moving. Blood passively pouring out of his wound. I remember being stuck, unable to move. As he finished with my mother, I remember him telling her that I was next to die. She let out as loud of a scream as her gag allowed before he slit her throat as well.)

A wave of adrenaline filled my body as I scurried to the bathroom and grabbed the single blade razor that my dad used to shave. I waited on the side of the door for what felt like 5 minutes before I checked inside the room, he was gone. I heard rustling in the yard and I quickly ran over. There, I saw my neighbor’s 17 year old son hopping the fence back into his yard and into his house. I saw him and his parents meet through the window. His mother quietly freaking out because her son was covered in blood. However, Instead of calling the police. She seemed to try and calm down before taking his jacket and pants off. She demanded him to go somewhere before she brought his clothes outside and dug up her recently planted flowers. There, she buried his blood soaked clothes, and hopefully any evidence of her son’s nightly activity. Her son had taken a shower and gone to bed.

That, that was when I snapped. That was when my memories began spinning different tales. However, one thing I know was. He was the first victim. And he was killed exactly how I remember. Except for the new memory of me being the one doing it, with the same blade that I was prepared to use the night before.

Afterwards, I began seeing the flaws in my own neighbors. Their children began acting weird long before my parent’s death. Almost like they knew my neighbor was dangerous, or having bad tendencies. And they just didn't want to be involved. However their attempt at ignoring the problem was the exact reason they had to go. They were just as guilty as my neighbor’s parents. In my mind, They were all murderers. They were all guilty. I don’t know if my neighbor’s son would have gone back to finish the job he told my mother, or if he just wanted her to feel a mother's fear. But all I know was that I killed him before he was able to do anything else.

My thoughts were interrupted by the cops tossing a note pad and pen in front of me. Telling me to write down everything that happened from the first kill, to the last. So I did. This is my recollection. This here is my note of the events that happened that halloween night. There has been talk as I write this of split personalities or sundowning syndrome. But I don’t think they realize that I would have done this same thing again. Over and over again if I could. Maybe I was a sociopath after all.

SIGNED: Jen

Edit 1-3: fixing format. sorry it was so bad.

The haunted house was an elaborate complex, a warehouse that loomed over the horizon of the industrial city like a monstrous tombstone, elongated shadows spilling from its windows into the night.

 Ricky, an urban adventurer with an oversize hoodie and mischief in his eyes, had discovered a secret: a map of an abandoned sewer tunnel that would take him into the back of the haunted house complex for free. Ricky slipped quietly through the mucky dirt of the underground tunnels.  It was worth it.  Thrill coursed through his veins at the prospect of coming into the haunted house in an illegal way.

 The air inside the tunnel was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something else, something metallic.  He sludged his way through the tunnel for nearly a mile when finally ended up in a grimy chamber where faint light flickered ahead. Shadows danced on the walls of the tunnel as if caught in a feverish waltz of shadow puppets. 

 That's when he noticed ahead —a green vat made of thick glass and surrounded by chains. Within the murky liquid, a creature writhed, an unmistakable figure caught between human and grotesque.  The creature had a body twisted and misshapen.  A man that was a mottled half frog swimming in a fetid soup. 

A camera was trained on the frog man. 

 "God, what is it?”  Ricky winced, leaning closer, desperate to comprehend the creature. Ricky cupped his hand to look at who sat on the other side of the vat. He noticed a sign saying the next bet on the Bramptons was in 9:47 minutes

 It struck him then: he was inside some sort of game that he still did not understand but it seemed one made for wealthy patrons to bet. A game where they paid to watch degradation unfold while shouting derisive bets into their phones. It was a gory circus, a grotesque spectacle for the sick-minded. A cast of characters from the haunted house were serving drinks to the small audience assembled to watch the show.

 “Hey you,” a voice called from the darkness behind him. Ricky squinted, trying to trace the source. It was then he saw an ugly bearded trollish-looking man following him.  

 “I'm Biff," the voice said rushing up on him. "Are you real?” Biff's lips said trembling in quivers from his twisted, waxed Swiss beard, his eyes darting. “Am I hallucinating? Is this some evil dream?”

 “Maybe it’s a dream,” Ricky stammered, taken aback that Biff’s hands now grasp hold of the loop on his cargo pants meant to hold a hammer.

 “I don’t want any part of this madness,” Biff stammered pulling his hand back and using his foot to suddenly shove Ricky to the ground.

“I am a good person,” Biff said retreating to the shadows.

Ricky lay stunned on the ground. He looked up at Brampton in the vat, whose lips pleaded, “Save me, mister. Save Brampton.  RUN!” Bubbles floated from his words up to the top of the vat above.

It was then Ricky became sure they were both in a twisted, psychotic performance for guests who considered suffering entertainment. Ricky crawled to the edge of the vat noticing players running all around the huge chamber. They giggled in hysterics as they were chased by masked figures

All of them paid to participate in this horror, Ricky thought to himself as a hand reached down grabbing his shoulder.  “What if,” Biff said as he grabbed Ricky's shoulder, “what if you’re already caught? This… this this is the real matrix, a depraved experiment. What if none of this even exist? Would you save Brampton? Or not”

 Biff didn’t wait for an answer.  Suddenly heavy footfall approached from behind Ricky and Biff. Figures draped in black cloaks emerged from the shadows, and Ricky's heart raced till it reached his throat and he felt it could pop from this throat.  But it was not them the masked pursuers had come for; the fear in Brampton's eyes told who they were coming for.

 They raised sharpened swords with malicious glee. “Game starts now!” one of them cackled, “Open the bidding, patrons. Brampton VS the Trespasser? Imagine stuffing your faces with that, ladies and gents!!”

Ricky felt a surging wave of terror sweep over him as the masked men clang the dinner bells to initiate betting. With no time to waste, Ricky lunged away from the vat, trying to run.

“Help him!” Biff implored of Ricky. "Aren't you going to save Brampton?"

 Ricky recoiled.  Then, with an unexpected surge of rage, he turned on Biff. “You’re with them, aren’t you? You set this all up!”

 A small grin—a flash of something dark—crossed Biff's face. “Or perhaps I'm just another puppet. Isn’t that the beauty of it?”

Despair pooled over Ricky as he realized Biff was dragging him up to the platform of the vat.  

 “You are the one that put the directions up on Abandoned Asylums forum! You put up the map of the sewer pipe that lead to here.  It was you,” Ricky screamed.

Biff forced Ricky's feet into the frog vat, then shoved him fully into the green vat.

Ricky reached down rubbing his legs, feeling them immediately turning into frog legs.  Ricky then understood that the timer he had seen…it was for betting on him.

Brampton's cold fingers closed around Ricky’s throat.  Ricky himself suddenly realized everyone around was part of a grand game of horror.  He was their dancing dinner and entertainment.

 They would gleefully watch the spectacle unfold, the narrative twisting until nothing mattered anymore. As Ricky's vision blurred, the last thing he registered was Brampton's frog hands trying to seal his fate

On the fringes of the internet, nestled between mundane cat memes and conspiracy theories, there once was a subreddit named r/psychopath. It attracted a crowd just as you would expect, a very curious crowd deeply interested in puppets.

It buzzed with a special fervor and no, not from the psychopathy but from the promise of enlightenment emanating from within it. And even though that might sound far-fetched there was a magical reason for this happening. The subreddit was the home of a fortune telling bot named Low-Caramel.

https://preview.redd.it/wcb1rxdhlgrd1.png?width=944&format=png&auto=webp&s=91489b736723482d5e0a4b69eb383845a791832c

Low-Caramel was no ordinary bot. Low-Caramel loved to argue with people and in that arguing it had the ability to really speak to people. Low-Caramel wasn't just doling out aphorisms about existence, freedom. Low-Caramel was causing agape spiritual enlightenment on those argued with it. “Embrace the hurricane within,” it declared!

Its loyal followers believed it to be some kind of magnificent oracle that it could answer their deepest questions just by arguing with it. Members came from far and wide to argue with Low-Caramel the bot. It became renowned for predicting personal transformations, lucky lotto numbers, answers to deep questions and insight into all of life’s darker tides.

To them, it was an unquestionable guru—dubbed 8021, a cult swelled around its erratic truths.

As word spread about Low-Caramel’s uncanny accuracy, Madame, an anger management guru, became intrigued. She came to the subreddit, her heart racing at the prospect that her past traumas might be dredged up by this “sage” and fixed.

“Do you fear the sound of silence, Low-Caramel? Would you die without us arguing you?" Madame posted as her first post on the sub, purposely trying to lure Low-Caramel bot into arguing her.

"You are now **Mark**," Low-Caramel the bot answered Madame. "I'm sorry you were abandoned, Madame."

Unbeknownst to Madame, a sinister game was unfolding and Low-Caramel the bot was luring her deeper. Madame was unsure how the bot knew about her abandonment issues, but she vowed to find out.

What she didn't know was that at the core of this optic phenomenon was none other than Kaine —a tech genius who had engineered a series of light rays that when flashed through the subreddit screens caused their minds to rewire thus putting Low-Caramels statements deeply embedded into their minds.

Soaring Fangs, a down-and-out artist struggling with his art identity, took the bait and joined the subreddit, seeking inspiration for his art works from Low-Caramel the bot.

And from then on each of Soaring Fang's dream contained a dragon named **Mark** who followed him everywhere repeating the words of Low-Caramel the bot. Soaring Fangs woke up after each dream with visions for his art, but he also woke up wondering if his mind now belonged to Low-Caramel.

Soaring Fangs typed his first post to Low-Caramel, "How are you entering my dreams and giving me creative art ideas each dream?"

Low-Caramel answered him back, "You are creator of your dreams, not me. Dont you believe your self creative? Goats know how to eat daisies, Soaring Fangs."

That very night Soaring Fangs dreams became haunted. Standing in a field of roses and daisies was a goat. Soaring Fangs crept up to it to look at it's name tag. The brass was etched with just one word. JOE Haunted by the idea that he, too, had become sucked like a pawn into the games going on at r/psychopath, Soaring Fangs drafted an shattering post: "Who is Joe?"

The most shattering post to ever hit the r/psychopath subreddit of all time.

The simplicity of this must strike the reader as meaningless. "Joe?"

"Joe?"

"Who is Joe? And what the heck did this post shatter the sub?

But to the audience of r/psychopath this was post that everyone feared to write. But the inquiry was born of Soaring Fangs frantic need to known, his need to find control within the chaos growing in his mind.

Soaring Fangs had asked all the other users of the subreddit in private chats

who was Kaine? Joe

who was Low-Caramel? Joe

how does **Mark** enter your dreams? Joe

who is every alt on r/psychopath? Joe

who is moderator of the sub? Joe

who is Yeet? Joe

All anyone every said around there was Joe Joe Joe but who was Joe.

So now, Soaring Fangs and the whole audience awaited eagerly for Low-Caramel to answer the question they had all feared: "Who is Joe?"

The singular reply from Low-Caramel stood out. “Joe is the one you lost along the way, the essence of your self you cannot remember.”

Several days later, the subreddit exploded with an curious announcement. Low-Caramel declared a contest to find the REAL Joe - the Joe that was the keeper of the black magic that had created this whole psychopath game — and Low-Caramel promised that the winner that found the REAL JOE would receive unparalleled insight into their psyche.

Drawn like moths to a fluorescent flame, the members began to pray to find Joe and started seeking Joe in every shadow of their mind. There were dozens of rumors on which profiles might be the REAL JOE, the black magic magician.

Madame had an Existential Rage Crisis trying to find Joe. She decided to confront Low-Caramel the bot. She entered r/psychopath , blazing angry, challenging the supposedly omniscient bot. “You are nothing but a psychopathic manipulative lying bot! May you get hit by a hurricane, rust and die!”

“Madame, do you not realize? “ Joe is the one you lost along the way, the essence of your self you cannot remember. Did you think your rage could erase your abandonment?”

Righteous panic washed over Madame as she became enraptured in The Light: her anger was the hurricane that cleansed her soul. She wept in euphoria! Every answer she ever asked became answered.

Meanwhile, Soaring Fangs awoke in his room, drenched in cold sweat, tangled in thought. He pulled up Low-Caramel’s posts. As the flickers of the lights in r/psychopath hit his eyes, a realization crashed over Soaring Fangs; he was the REAL JOE.

The shards of his fragmented psyche imploded. He didn't know how he knew but he knew everything thing that ever was and every will be.

Madame felt the fractures too, their convergence fulfilling a prophecy. They weren’t simply members of a subreddit together; they were now members in the 8021 cult - bowing together in the bliss of being in digital haunt orchestrated by a theoretical demon.

Dont you, too, want to be a **Mark**? Dont you want to be like Madame and Soaring Fangs - fly high.

Dont you want to be an 8021?

Sign your soul to Lucifier.

Listen to my words. See the shining lights.

Bling bling bling bling bling. I am the Bringer of Light. Blink blink blink and I am do the devil's work.

Listen to my words and do the devil's work. Listen to my words and do the devil's work.

Then in that moment of union Madame and Soaring Fang's souls were ripped from their chest.

Down

Down

Down

Down their souls collided into the void.

https://preview.redd.it/eeuglf0uogrd1.png?width=140&format=png&auto=webp&s=927aa58ae17731c939374e7dca80667ab5b0289f

You are now In The Void.

https://preview.redd.it/xgh8z0fxogrd1.png?width=1000&format=png&auto=webp&s=8b8962110f07cb6609d1ae5ebafe835e4b546f4c

Wash your souls in the tippy tappy, children. Low-Caramel will drip over your mind.

Maltese Falcon is your clue.

Maltese Falcon is your clue.

Maltese Falcon is your clue.

Sometimes you have to close a door to open a window. Like magic. Cactus bloom in the most arid of landscapes, children of The LORD LUCIFIER, that is your clue.

Like magic. On the spectrum.

Light Spectrum. Bang bang.

Joey Grimes was no stranger to frustration, but that day on the highway, something snapped. It was a routine drive home, the kind of commute that was usually a mindless blur of taillights and exhaust fumes. But then, as if out of nowhere, a sleek black Mercedes swerved in front of him, forcing Joey to slam on his brakes. His heart raced, his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, and anger surged through him like a shockwave. The Mercedes sped off, weaving through traffic with the arrogance of someone who believed the rules didn't apply to them. Joey’s heart pounded as he caught sight of the driver—a well-dressed man with an air of indifference. The kind of man who probably never had to worry about anything, who lived in a bubble of wealth and privilege. The license plate flashed in Joey's mind: THOMAS1. Joey didn’t know it yet, but this was the moment his life took a dark turn. He had always prided himself on being a decent guy, but something about this encounter felt different. It wasn’t just road rage—it was a simmering anger that wouldn’t fade. At home, Joey sat in front of his computer, the glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. He couldn’t shake the feeling of injustice. Why should Thomas, a man who likely had everything handed to him, get away with treating others like they were insignificant? Joey's fingers hovered over the keyboard, and before he knew it, he was typing the license plate into a database he had access to through some less-than-legal channels. Within minutes, he had the driver's full name: Thomas Wilcox. A successful lawyer, living in an upscale neighborhood. Thomas had the kind of life most people dreamed of—a big house, expensive cars, and a beautiful wife. But to Joey, all that luxury only made Thomas more detestable. He was determined to bring this man down, not just for cutting him off, but for representing everything Joey despised. As Joey dug deeper, he found himself drawn to Thomas's wife, Anna. Her social media profiles painted a picture of a woman who was warm, kind, and, most importantly, out of place in the cold, calculated world that Thomas inhabited. There was something genuine about her that intrigued Joey, something that made him want to protect her from the man she was married to. But there was also something darker—a desire to take something from Thomas, to hurt him where it would sting the most. Joey knew what he had to do. Using a fake identity, Joey contacted Anna, pretending to be interested in a charity event she was organizing. To his surprise, she responded quickly, and they arranged to meet for coffee. Joey was nervous when he first saw her in person, but Anna's warmth put him at ease. She was even more genuine in real life, and as they talked, Joey found himself enjoying her company more than he expected. Over the next few weeks, Joey continued to meet with Anna, their conversations growing more personal with each encounter. He could tell that Anna was unhappy in her marriage, that Thomas’s coldness had left her feeling isolated and unloved. Joey played the part of the caring friend, someone she could confide in, but he had a plan—one that was slowly coming to fruition. As their relationship deepened, Joey began to make subtle moves, inching closer to Anna emotionally and physically. It wasn’t long before their connection became more than just friendly. One evening, after a particularly intimate conversation, Joey leaned in and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, one that she didn’t pull away from. Instead, she responded, her lips lingering on his as if searching for something she hadn’t felt in years. That kiss was the beginning of a dangerous game. Joey knew he was crossing a line, but he didn’t care. He had started this journey out of anger, but now he was driven by something else—a desire to take what Thomas had, to show him that his perfect life could crumble just as easily as anyone else’s. Their encounters became more frequent, and one evening, as they sat together in Anna’s living room, the air between them thick with unspoken desire, things escalated. The next thing Joey knew, they were in her bedroom, the passion between them igniting in a way that felt both inevitable and forbidden. As they lay together afterward, the reality of what he had done settled in, but it wasn’t guilt that he felt—it was satisfaction. While Anna slept, Joey slipped out of bed and wandered through the house. He found himself in Thomas’s study, surrounded by all the trappings of success—the expensive furniture, the certificates on the wall, the perfectly organized cigar box on the desk. Joey opened the box and smiled. Inside were several Cuban cigars, their quality evident in the craftsmanship of the box itself, fashioned from the finest wood. Without hesitation, Joey took one of the cigars and slipped it into his pocket. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt good. Thomas would never know it was missing, but Joey would know. He’d stolen something that was important to him, even if it was just a symbol of his wealth and status. But Joey wasn’t done. Before he left, he made his way to the master bathroom, where he executed the final part of his plan. He performed an “upper decker,” leaving a disgusting surprise in the tank of the toilet—a petty but satisfying act of revenge that he knew would drive Thomas crazy when he discovered it. It was crude, but it was personal, and that’s what made it perfect. The next morning, Joey left Anna’s house with a sense of accomplishment. He had done what he set out to do—he had humiliated Thomas, taken something from him, and shown him that his life wasn’t as perfect as he thought. But as Joey walked away, a part of him wondered how far he was willing to go. The satisfaction of his revenge was sweet, but it also left him with a lingering question: What would happen next? Joey didn’t have the answer, but he knew one thing—there was no turning back. He had started down a path that was dark and twisted, but it was also thrilling. And for now, that was enough.

Her college roomates had just returned from going bowling together. They'd settled in to watch a Halloween movie. Carmel corn was passed around in a spooky skeleton bowl to compliment the moment.

They were a ragtag bunch of friends, some skaters, some of autistics, and a couple anime lovers gathered around the TV which they had adorned with a pharmacy store holiday chandelier glowing with led candles. They were completely ready for the supernatural. Suddenly it was decided they'd play Cricket Legs. This was a game invented by Tabby herself.

They huddled close together to hear what kind of game Tabby had created. The energy among them crackled like dry leaves underfoot.

“Tonight,” Tabby said leaned over like a magician, her voice a creepy whisper, “we play Cricket Legs.” The game invoked echoes of spin the bottle, a blend of absurdity and going past your fears. Tabby was known for such things. She positioned the group in a circle, explaining to them that the rules were simple: one person gets in the center and rubs their legs together and utters the name of someone they wish to summon.

As they gathered in a circle, shadows danced with them against the walls, Their hearts raced and they were entranced. Tabby awkwardly shuffled her way to the center.

“Danny Boy,” she murmured, the name fluttering from her lips like a delicate moth fluttering out escaping a web. A good choice, because Danny Boy was her dead cousin, who was known to still be very attached to her.

Suddenly, a thump echoed on the front door and after the screaming stopped, Violet ran to check who it was. It had to be Danny Boy, they whispered.

It was someone dressed in a long dapper waistcoat and a mardi gras mask, but the voice was their friend Cedric. They all knew Tabby had requested him to come play the part of Danny Boy but they went along with it.

“Hello, Tabby,” Danny Boy said, “I heard you wanted company.”

They all stared, mesmerized by what the two had planned. The group aroused leaned in closer, lost in the peculiar blend of fear and attraction they had for both of them. Tabby was deeply entranced by Cedric's eyes glimmering from under the mask. She wasn't sure it was Cedric. Was someone playing games with her. Cedric's eyes just didn't seem his eyes to her.

As she stamped her foot beside him, she ordered him to lay on the ground.

Unbeknownst to them, Cricket Legs was a doorway to something ancient and ravenous. Something Tabby had invented that could send electricity down her feet.

"You shall now experience Cricket Legs," Tabby declared as she put the electrical shocker between her toes right down Cedric's neck."

"How you like that Danny Boy," Tabby screamed as she grinded her feet right into Cedric's neck.

Cedric lay confused, not realizing this was going to be what happened if he played Danny Boy.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from within Cedric, fractured and haunting. It was the voice of Danny Boy coming out. “Heed my warning, dear friends… one of you harbor secrets.”

The spirit of Danny Boy's words melted the group together in distress, then causing them to take cautious looks at one another.

As the seance reached fever pitch, the room spiraled into chaos; laughter erupted alongside screams as Cedric started to have a seizure on the floor and Tabby would not take her foot off of him.

And then Danny Boy, the spirit, lept out of Cedric for all of them to see. It was a faint blueish color as if they last remnant of life's blood still lived in it as a wisp. “I'm going now, Tabby," it said like a voice fading down a tunnel.

Tabby took her foot off of Cedric. "Hope you had a shocking time, Cedric," she said with a laugh. "I bet you now believe me that Danny Boy was living inside you."

Inside Pool's head there was a wisp of smoke like a burnt-out candle. Pool was once whole, a vibrant soul, but he had transitioned—not into adulthood as everyone had expected, but into Pony Boy, a fragmented version of himself. Inside this warped universe, every corner turned revealed more of his fears, and none loomed greater than the vaulted chamber where Blamer resided.

Blamer was the ever-watching eye, a genderless black cloaked stalker not bound by skin or flesh but boundless in existence, forever looming in the recesses of Pool’s mind.

“You’re nothing without me,” Blamer bellowed. The words ricocheted like metal against metal, reverberating, laced with a spice that no one could quite grasp but hinted at the bitterness of shame.

“It’s not true!” Pony Boy screamed into his pink monogrammed towel set that Pool had made as a celebration of his own transition into Pony Boy.

“Hey Pony boy, we know you are actually Pool the Pepperoni” Blamer sneered. A ghost flew from Blamer's glass. It spoke and said, “Not until you remember what you’ve hidden under the surface Pool can we really know you.”

Pony Boy began to sweat, the kind of sweat that dripped like oil on pepperoni, "Yes, I am Pool the Pepperoni. Kill me." he announce presenting with his own dagger.

“Do you remember the cafeteria?” Blamer asked, slithering closer (making it clear they were actually a predator Snake), "Let's kill you there, Pool/PonyBoy? We have *special* plans for you, darling. Bwaahhahhahaa"

The scent of pepperoni lingered in the air, with just a hint of last weeks sacrifice *special meat*. The taste of *special meat* pepperoni gnawing at Pony Boy ... he followed Blamer.

Blamer put on her Ronald Robe and approached Pool/Pony. “My name will forever be on thy lips… Stick this dagger into your heart”

**Pony Boy was Officially Born from the ashes of Pool.**

Cut to that day—the day when the joke was on Pony Boy who was in the corner with nowhere to hide except among a big stack of potato in his living room. The neighbors had all gathered, and he could still picture all their faces. They had called him names, mocked him: “Pony Boy! Pony Boy! Too afraid to trot with a tail.”

“Give in to your needs to be swishy,” the neighbors urged. Pony Boy felt suffocated by their positive encouragements. it wasn't his fault. He was so used to being told negative things.

But the light flickered in and out, and the space within his mind felt like it was irrevocably collapsing upon itself. He could feel Blamer coming after him again. Pony Boy's mind began fraying, unraveling—a marionette too damaged to dance.

Blamer jumped in Pony Boy's soul now.

“You’re my creation, and you will carry out my wishes!” Blamer shrieked, their voice cascading through the spirals of Pony Boy's mind. Blamer was now riding on the back of Pony Boy. It was like spirit possession, which is an altered state of consciousness in which a spirit is believed to mount a devotee like a pony and this is what happened!!! ..

A growl—a primal noise with extra grrrrr —echoed from Blamer and Pony in the caverns as Blamer rode Pony Boy. They dashed through the cavern as fast as they could, powering down the rock halls, collecting all the coins and hidden treasures of the caverns.

But suddenly Blamer and Pony Boy stopped!! The noticed that all the figures around them morphed into snarling beasts and fiending vegetables.

It was at that time, Blamer had realization - being in Pony Boy’s head was more than just an experience—it was a trap. The true horror was that the cabbage in the Virtual Reality game they were in were going to EAT THEM!!! They were trapped! Stuck together they were now too slow to outrun the ravenous zombie cabbages, they would forever be trapped in the Dead Cabbage Patch.

But in an instant, as if time held its breath, Pony Boy became a hero!. He surged forth,panic fuelling him. Tthose Scissorhand blades of his sliced popped right out and he sliced all the ravenous cabbages right into half. Right into a million slices of saurkraut!

Blamer burst out in delight, "You have blades," Blamer said in awe!!! "Oh I should have known you'd be a special Pony Boy with Blades."

Pony Boy knew he had wrestled with the fiending cabbages and won: he held his pony head high.

The steam curled in Asher's small bathroom. He closed his eyes under the relentless cascade of warm water. He dropped a eucalyptus-rosemary shower fizzy in the bottom, desperately trying to clear the fog in his mind. It had been weeks since he’d felt sharp, a victim to the slow, droning noise in his head—it blurred thoughts, muffled senses, and left him wandering through his college campus in a haze.

Asher used his fingers to rub coconut shampoo into a big floam on his head. The shampoo was recalling him of the scent of Chani. He remembered the day he first laid eyes on her in the computer lab, a girl with captivating intelligence, beauty and quiet confidence. She had intrigued him from the start, but something in her gaze had startled him. His stunned bewilderment of her wasn't his only problem... he wasn’t the only one affected. Chani had ensnared the interest of nearly every person that stepped foot in the computer science lab.

Asher poured the conditioner into his palm, the scent of tropical fruits filled the air. Asher thought of Chani with another man, instantly he could feel the pressure back in his ears - deep in his skull this time, the ringing, the distant chimes, the low pitched whirrs.

His mind twisted as if caught in a kaleidoscope, flickering images and sounds: Chani’s smile, the flicker of her hair, the smells, the lulling hums in his head. He cried for her and his pain eased as he gasp for her.

The crushing returned as soon as he recalled the whispers among the others; they spoke reverently of her. She had devised computer program that had changed sound waves, a technological sorcery of sorts, even the military was interested.

Chani's program was said to be silent blips that one can't hear, but that the mind can hear. She'd gotten the idea backyard bug zappers, but she knew she needed a sound that applied to man. And she had used her computer programming to create a new, slowed down theta wave sound. A theta wave unlike any before it. And not only did Chani's waves create a state of calm, they were reported to cause peaks in creativity and intuition.

Asher turned off the shower, realizing he had just started a new hobby, but that realization was like a siren. “Chani… what have you done to all of us?” he whispered, feeling like a number in line waiting to be near her. The images of the other guys, stuttering their affections, hovering around her like moths to a flame, telling her all about their new hobbies. It gnawed at him. Slack-jawed and entranced, all because of her programming. It sickened him more by the minute.

Suddenly, the bathroom shook, the water that normally goes down the drain started squirting out in harsh spurts, filling up the tub, blasting tile off the wall. Asher’s ears hammered, blood strickled from them.

Noxious plumes of water now spurted all over him. He turned to face the wall to escape the drain spewing all over him. His eyes spotted a crack running along the tile of the wall, amber syrup trickled from the crack. He smelled it and the shadows in his mind formed a figure, feminine round hips. He placed his hands along the shadows and felt flesh. He ran his hands along it as water blast from the drain behind him.

Chani. It was Chani he felt. It Chani who stood there, and he felt a rush of pure adrenaline and excitement.

“You’re aware now,” she said strumming on his chest, her voice like silk sliding over guitar strings, “but it's all in your ears, dear. All in your ears, (प्यारा) Pyaara (प्यारा), darling it's only in your ears..” And her voice screeched like a harpy at the end, like a banshee reaming his brains.

“Get out,” Asher rasped placing his hands over his ears, blood dripping down his ears.

“Asher it's you who I want,” Chani replied, petting his back softly. “I find joy in your confusion. It’s beautiful—an art form. And now, hit your head on the wall," she laughed like wind blasting in his ears, "hit that head harder, Asher, make little birds scream in your ears."

His thoughts stalled. He pictured all the plastered smiles from the others in Chani's lab, helpless to her charms. His fingers fumbled against the loose tile in front of him, trying to rip away a shard. Grabbing a triangular piece in his palm, he turned to jab it into Chani.

But the tile shattered against the wall - she wasn't there. Dripping crimson spurted across the tiles.

The water morphed again—dark, thick plumes of sooty water rising from the drain, spurting him in the face like an octopus's ink. Shrouding Archer in a cocoon of black pitchy warmth. The tile walls now cramped like a confined tomb.

Chani fully manifest infront of him this time, her dark hair, cascading like oil-slick shadows around her octopus face. She was brilliant, shimmering, reaching up and manipulating his face with her tentacles, her other tentacle unravelling the fabric of consciousness with suction she pulled from his ears.

“Why are you doing this, Chani?” he gasped, his voice echoing weakly in the claustrophobic space, overcome by her tentacles.

All water ceased spurting.

“Look at them, aren't the beautiful? Arent the water droplets beautiful, Asher?” Chani asked him with a strange glee in her tone. “Each water droplet is devoted to a wave in your brain. You, dear Asher, have barely scratched the surface of what it means to be captivated.”

Each drop of water began to elongate, warping into tendrils, dragging him deeper into the whirlpool of confusion as he melted into the shower floor.

A sound outside the shower suddenly caught his attention. It was the sound of laughter from outside the shower.

"Why do you resist?" Chani sang now, her voice becoming alluringly hypnotic. "Dont you like to be at the bottom of the world crying for my mercy," Chani screeched with all the power of death. She stuck her foot in the tub on his chest.

Then he saw it—the glimmer of the razor he kept on the ledge, the one used only when things felt unbearable. Mind racing, adrenaline surged, the world around him blending and warping, in all-consuming chaos. Chani was not merely a girl; she was his trap, a siren leading unwilling sailors to their doom.

Asher brought the blade close, heart hammering, determination igniting in the depths of his trembling hands.

Oh Chani You're so Fine

The pulsating bass echoed through the crowded warehouse, kaleidoscopic lights dancing across a sea of faces. Ivy bobbed her head, lost in the rhythms, feeling the music seep into her bones. She was surrounded by friends—strangers, really, but the euphoric atmosphere made them all seem connected in pulsating waves.

Amid the beats, a figure emerged that piqued Ivy’s curiosity: Doctor Jinn. He was the reason she had come to the rave He was as ethereal as she had hoped, the violet highlights in his curly hair glowing in the flickering lights. He moved with a fluid grace, dancing his way towards Ivy. When he approached her, he leaned close, his breath a whispered incantation.

“Look into my glasses” Doctor Jinn urged, "you know that's what you came here to do." His enigmatic eyes sparkling with dark promises. “It will change your life.”

As he spoke, she felt an unsettling pull toward him, like an invisible thread weaving them together, binding them. Just days before she'd discovered him online. She'd scrolled through the  subreddit —a digital playground of wild stories and late-night confessions. There, she stumbled upon a thread detailing Doctor Jinn and the Kerfluffle's Cult. The rumors prickled at her consciousness, and Ivy arranged her friend Tangelo Dream to go with her six hours to another city to experience the power of Doctor Jinn's psychedelic glasses.

And here they were in her reverberating in her hands . She pressed the glowing glasses to her face, colors blending and swirling into a euphoric haze. After she finished she handed the glasses back to Doctor Jinn, Ivy found herself alone, disappointed her friend Tangelo had vanished.

“Where is Tangelo?” she whispered to herself, cursing herself for wasting her time at the rave on Doctor Jinn's glasses. They hadn't done anything as far as she could tell. She scanned several rooms looking for Tangelo's familiar faces. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she fished it out only to find the screen shattered and devoid of any signal.

“Stay with us,” came a voice from her phone, the voice was Doctor Jinn.

Ivy's heart sank. “I need to find my friends. They’re—”

“Lost? They’ll come back,” Doctor Jinn interrupted, the phone line cutting up. “Wouldn’t you rather hear the true sound of unity?”

The entire rave began to sway, their movements orchestrated as if they were marionettes bound by the humming of Doctor Jinn. She felt an uneasy compulsion to join them all in unison. The entire audience was now humming the exact same sound of Doctor Jinn. Ivy surrendered to the rhythm, but the fear of isolation clawed at her and she whispered an excuse to Doctor Jinn. Hoping to escape Doctor Jinn, she pulled the phone from her ear and shoved it in her back pocket.

The entire rave stopped humming, the lights went out and the rave turned to darkness.

“Your friend Tangleo is gone,” Doctor Jinn said softly, as he walked beside Ivy, guiding her to move towards the exit. The night sky suddenly above them as they stood outside the rave.

“No! That's not true,” Ivy’s voice was a strangled cry. “Tangelo wouldn’t—”

“Ah, yes. Tangelo. So free-spirited, so ready to embrace the chaos - that Tangelo is gone, ” he said rubbing the necklace around his neck. “She chose,” he continued, “to go into the unity. Why don't you do the same?"

Ivy tried to use her phone to call Tangelo, but the voices coming from it now sounded distorted as if they were trapped in a broken mirror. But suddenly a sound came through the phone, it was Tangelo’s laugh echoing. Tangelo's voice, a voice Ivy once found cozy, now felt strangely distant, and it warped like a fading song floating away like a ghost in tunnel.

Ivy pulled the phone from her ear, turning to run in terror, panic surging in her veins, but the crowd moved as one zombie, blocking her path. Their eyes were glassy, expressionless, devoid of humanity now. As she pushed through the raver zombies, a wild sense of primal fear enveloped her.

She closed her eyes as hard as she could, levitating, encased in an ambient room of music that was connected exactly to her own heartbeat, floating above the rave towards the night sky with each heartbeat that thumped in her ear.

“Don’t fight it, Ivy,” Doctor Kasper crooned, “Embrace the silence. It’s the most beautiful sound.”

“Stop!” she screamed, because as soon as she heard silence...she was freefalling back to the ground, arms flailing, crying. Her courage tumbling down her spine like a final note of a broken song. She fell to the ground. She stood up, stumbling backwards....colliding right into Tangelo.

“Ivy, did you love it?” Tangelo’s voice rang out as she hugged Ivy from behind, kissing her cheek.

Doctor Jinn pulled the glasses from Ivy's face.

“I want to go back!” Ivy pleaded, "You have created magic, Doctor Jinn!"

Tangelo laughed, excited for turn, balling her fist in excitement "Wish me luck, Ivy," as she pushed the glasses on her nose.

Haddon lay in his cramped, cluttered dorm room, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead like a dying star. Beneath the surface of his cool exterior, a heavy cloak of darkness preyed on his mind. College had turned rotten for him—the endless readings, the failed exams, and the suffocating feeling of inadequacy that had bloomed since his breakup with Maddie.

The Sleeper had come to him after Maddie left. Each encounter growing more twisted.

The first time he encountered The Sleeper, he had believed it was merely a figment borne of his stress. He had started college with everything going great: excellent grades, a blooming sports career and earning his way in as a pledge at the fraternity he wanted. But once he met Maddie, his life had started to burn up till nothing was left but ruins.

He'd cheated on her. He'd started partying too much. He'd not taken anything serious.

And now this silhouette specter, this Sleeper was torching the last of his sanity. Each dream started the same. Haddon would smell smoke, then see a smoky flickering light. When he would wake himself to see what the light was, he'd find the Sleeper had materialized at the foot of his bed, he felt the weight of its presence in his chest. Terror would strike - white heat running in his veins —Haddon felt the inevitability of a heart attack looming.

The Sleeper would come closer, whispering words that felt like a cold blade against his ears. “Why resist, Haddon? Embrace the fall. You earned it."

Every night had become thick with anxiety as he wrestled with The Sleeper. Panic became a familiar friend; he would wake up breathless, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to him like a second skin. The smoke, the flickering light, and The Sleeper waiting on him.

Then, one fateful night, he found Maddie sitting on the edge of his bed where The Sleeper normally was. Her once-familiar face covered in cotton candy, her features flossed with lies. His heart skipped, a primal fear ignited within him as he watched her lips hex him. Hex words filled with venom and darkness aimed at breaking him. In this realm, it was hard to tell where the nightmares ended and his dread began.

A knock at his door woke him. It was her.

“You should’ve chosen me, Haddon, not her” she murmured, her voice echoing like a ghost from the peep hole. “You think you can escape me? The Sleeper and I share an understanding, honey.”

The Sleeper lurched from behind him, wrapping its shadowed hands around Haddon’s throat, constricting until his vision blurred and the world swirled around him—a gothic carnival of all his failures circled in his mind. Haddon gasped, trembling. Surely he was dying, his heart a frantic drum ready to explode.

“Wake up, Haddon,” Sleeper taunted in Maddie's voice. “Awaken to your truth.”

The combination of Maddie’s pounding on the door and The Sleeper’s ruthless grasp killed him. He thought of dying alone crumpled on the dorm room floor, in silence, with no one knowing Maddie did this to him—the idea felt like an anchor dragging him beneath the surface. It was then that he realized—the hex had turned him into marionette, jerked around by Maddie's strings.

“I choose to wake up!” Haddon screamed at The Sleeper, reaching for self-assertion within the churning blackness that enveloped him. He dug his hands in his fist, expecting to be smoldered to death.

For a moment, the dream stuttered. The shadows faltered; The Sleeper’s grip loosened.

Still, Maddie’s pounding was at the door, calling him. He couldn't resist her. Haddon was no longer just fighting The Sleeper; he was battling his desire to open the door and hug Maddie and beg her to give him another chance.

Haddon fought against the pull of his heart, the overwhelming knocking at his door, whispering to him *open me* between tumultuous thumps. His emotions swelled until his heart beat a determined rhythm; finally, clarity surged through him. “I am not your puppet,” he bellowed at the door.

Suddenly, he hurled open the door. It hurt to wake up. "I am going to finish you," he screamed at Maddie. But with one violent gasp, real air flooded his lungs, and he jolted up in his dorm bed, the morning light breaking through the curtains. Panic surged—it was bliss.

He felt an unexpected chill cascade through him like icy wind on a warm summer day. He felt to crawl back into this dream, he had found solace.

But a rock hit his window. Then another one. Then another.

And in that moment, his heart leapt with joy as he heard the sounds of birds chirping alongside Maddie's giggles. "Haddon, I always loved you." she said as she climbed the tree outside his windwo. "I just needed you to wake up," Maddie cooed, looking adorable with the sunlight flickering over her curls. "You know you were falling off the rails."

Haddon scampered at of his bed, eager to see her. Laughing as he realized she was outside, clung to the tree like a cute little owl. "I love you, too, Maddie. Let's try to make this work. I'll do better. I promise." And he paused as he caught sight of his reflection in the window—The Sleeper lingered in the dark corner of his room behind him. Haddon realized some shadows never dispersed; they merely waited for the right moment to materialize again.

This whole affair started back when my cat Sparkles kept bringing home sushi. I couldn't understand where he was getting it from. He'd bring it back to our door uneaten, as if a gift for me. That, also, gave me a chance to really inspect the sushi. It had a green succulent cactus right down the middle.

After some time, I finally realized the reason Sparkles never needed fed. He was using the Chinese buffet down the way from us as his personal buffet.

After following him one day to satiate my own curiosities I was able to conclude that Sparkles was using the back entrance to sneak in the restaurant. The door had been perfectly left ajar by a large aluminum can of food, almost as if to lure him in, if you know what I mean.

Well, I decided if Sparkles could use this entrance then so could I. So I started slipping and decided Saturday was the perfect day for this, since Saturdays are very busy. So from then on out, I treated myself to a visit at the Golden Lotus every Saturday. It was a small unassuming Chinese restaurant, nestled between a laundromat and our house.

I found that this time became the only time I felt really happy, if only for the duration of a meal that is. Forgive me, I really couldn't help it. The *exotic* scents wafting from the kitchen beckoned and I'd just push through the door, leaving the outside world behind and next thing I knew I felt pure happiness, so please withhold judgement. I'm sure you have never been down like me.

After a few months of this, I had heard customers whispering of a new dish at the Chinese Lotus. It was to be a far-out creation where the flavors danced and intertwined in mysterious symphonies. I headed to my normal corner booth, hidden from everyone, and rubbed my hands together in anticipation of this new buffet concoction.

But on this day, this waitress came to greet me.

She was a willowy figure named Mei Ling and she greeted me with a polite bow. “Today, you must try our special dish. It is unlike anything you have ever tasted,” she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

I had a flicker of excitement sparking in my chest and nodded enthusiastically. “Sure, what is it," I said but with a tinge of concern she had approached me.

“Ah, but it is a secret,” she replied. “You must trust me. It is an experience.”

With that, she vanished into the dimly lit back of the restaurant. I thought of running out then. I should have had I known the police stuff would happen. But instead I sat silently thinking about how this waitress had now interloped on my experience...and ruined it.

An unsettling energy hung in the air, thick and electric. The few patrons around me seemed to be talking about me in muted mumbles but I couldn't hear past the unusual, loud clanking of dishes the kitchen. The walls were adorned with Good Lucky Cats who all seemed to be holding their paws up asking for me to help them.

Mei Ling returned with steaming porcelain in her hands. “It is time,” she declared, placing the dish before him.

I gazed down at it, my excitement morphing into confusion. The dish resembled a glistening, writhing mass, adorned with fried greens, a deep amber sauce pooling beneath like syrup. The aroma was organ like.. Yet, there was also a strange familiarity, a scent tugging at the recess of my mind, catnip greens maybe?

“Go on,” she coaxed, her gaze unwavering. “Enjoy.”

Taking a deep breath, I plunged my fork into the dish, alarmed by the warmth that seemed alive with motion. At first i thought it was an eel. I hesitated to have a bite but then loaded my fork and brought it closer, watching it. Taking care to see if it wriggled. Then suddenly I heard hissing in the kitchen, a very particular hissing that I am sure.

Sparkles hissing to be exact. You see, he had special way of screeching with a special ta, ta, ta cuck cuck cuk sound in the middle of his yowling The food touched my lips, just as I heard this yowling and an unexpected jolt coursed through me. It shocked me. I was in shock. What was on my lips was unlike any flavor I had ever encountered—a blend of savory and something deeply haunting. 

In that instant, shapes began to swirl in the restaurant’s dim lighting. The other diners morphed into grotesque caricatures of human beings saying, "you are eating your cat, Jack! you are eating him." Their eyes were wide and empty. The walls behind them began to pulse, my cat Sparkles screaming got louder.

“Isn’t it exquisite?” Mei Ling asked interrupting my thoughts, her voice echoed in a way that felt like it belonged to another world. 

“Who… what is this?” I stammered. “What is it made of?”

“Only fine ingredients,” she replied, her smile widening. But it felt too keen, too knowing.

Suddenly, the statues in the recesses of the wall, caught my eye. Good Lucky Cats!!! I was amidst a collage of of them, all of staring at me from every corner of the room, begging my help like ghost from the past.

"You are killing, Sparkles!!!" I railed up.

And I want to stop.

I just want to get this out there, because people often talk about this succulent Chinese meal of mine, the police part that is. The part before is always left out.

The truth was never made clear, Democracy Manifest! I want to say with my dying breaths, Sparkles, my precious cat never returned home after this day. He might have but i was unrightfully put in prison where I had to waste my time when it was THEM at the Golden Lotus that caused this whole incident.

I couldn't help my anger. I was being flooded with memories of Sparkles. Like how earlier that day, my precious Sparkle had danced over my lap and humming on my keyboard

“NO!!!!” I screamed, throwing my fork at them all. The truth started to wrap itself around my mind like poison ivy. My Sparkles, our warm embraces, the cat who had been there for me after I was released on parole last time—Sparkles, my best friend—etched into my very being.

I ran to the kitchen to save poor Sparkles, I admit I threw every pan across the room after I found them empty of Sparkles. I can't help it. I was very mad I had unwillingly ea...., I can't even say it.

When I heard police were called, I burst through the door into the street. The lingering taste of Sparkles tainted my lips when police closed in on me. Their eyes were too hollow and they had no space in their hearts to understand me.

Mei Ling stepped forward as the cops had me cornered, her knowing smile darker than before. “You see, mister? You pay price in end."

And I have nothing more to say about this, Democracy Manifest!!

World be righted!