I need to know if anybody can relate. I mean, hate is such a strong word but I feel so strange, unreal even. It could be disassociation, I guess. I've never been a shining example of mental health but still, this drastic switch of emotion has caught me completely off guard. I recently moved and this podcast had become something of a saving grace for me during the rewriting of my life. Let me just clarify that the podcast is like a mix of true crime and urban legend, something in between. Just two guys reading over scary stories or anything creepy in general, true or not. Reality is irrelevant. And after moving so far away from my home and everything I know, I often found myself listening to the rhythmic back and forth of their conversation. So invested id even respond and joke as if I were sitting right in front of them. With them, and while I unpacked boxes and brushed my teeth, they were with me.

It's hard to sit in the quiet of a new place that just doesn't feel like home yet. I say this to specify how much comfort these two people have provided me. How hours of thoughts and opinions exchanged over fascinating tales of horror have given me so much insight into these two perfectly curated personas. I felt like I knew them, like we were such close friends, sharing an interest in the mad and the macabre. I imagine sitting around a campfire trying your best to scare the other faces painted by the amber glow of flames. But making friends has never been a skill I possessed so naturally id befriend two guys on the internet who don't even know I exist. Sometimes even I wonder if I really exist. Regardless, I see how this can sound disconcerting and trust me if I had anybody to ask I would. But lately this podcast that has alleviated so much of my blank time has become something else for me. Don't get me wrong, I still wait for new uploads and watch every episode through. Rewatching when I crave more. Laughing and smiling all the while but recently, something else as well. Like an unwelcome guest lurking through a birthday party, like the rotten smell in your fridge when you're unable to find its source and it hit me just the same. Suddenly and without compromise.

I don't trust them. I know it sounds weird and I know I said I hate this podcast but I'm having a hard time trying to understand emotions. As if catching myself falling in a dream and jumping awake I came to the uncomfortable realization that these two I've spent so much time idolizing and admiring have now become strangers. Well, of course they're strangers to me and I knew that but for the first time, I felt it. I felt, betrayed? forsaken? I really don't know, I'm not crazy but it feels like, “how dare they make me love their show! how dare they bring me joy! They've never even seen me!”

It's crazy I'll admit but it's also exactly my point, how can a podcast about ghost stories bring out such a strong resentment in me? I've never been a jealous person, not paranoid, I'm hardly even superstitious. But I do not trust them anymore, and like a disease my suspicion spreads and turns every word from their mouth into a ploy to get me to put down my guard. Leaving me open to an incomprehensible horror that would leave Lovecraft himself shaking like a child. Excuse my hyperbole but I want to make it clear how heavy this blanket of unease is that has fallen over me. Feeling helpless and more isolated than I ever have in my entire existence, and the cause is something I thoroughly enjoy. Like the company of an unfaithful spouse. So, here I am, looking for answers when I barley know the question. Can anybody help me? Please.

Well, I didn't post this as I was planning to. I was still apprehensive about displaying my antisocial issues for the entire internet to dismantle and respond. Or maybe not respond at all, I'm still unsure which is scarier to me. So, I decided to give it a day and think it over, I thought maybe all this would fade and I could forget and avoid embarrassing myself for nothing. I didn't get the chance to think it over. The moment I finished typing my cry for help I received a notification. It was a new episode, early. My throat tightened as I could have sworn, I turned off all notifications for their channel. I opened another tab and their page was already there and instinctively I brought my curser over the video and clicked. The episode was not unusual, fun story, plenty of jokes and dissected plot points. It wasn't until exactly half way through when they did something strange.

Both hosts abruptly stopped laughing and looked at the camera with an expression I've never seen on a human before. Void of any discernible emotion. It didn't make sense; it had nothing to do with the story or any previous ones. I was too much of a fan to not get any reference they were trying to make. They just stared in silence for a couple of unbroken minutes and then the editing the just cut right back to where they left off. Laughing, warmly and deeply. I was frozen for the rest of the show, it felt like a trance. When I saw their eyes, it didn't feel like a video, it felt like a window. I sat for what felt like seconds staring at a black screen when it was over, until the rising sun told me I had been there all night. I couldn't bring myself to rewind and see if I saw what I saw so I went to bed. I've stayed awake through many nights, but none of them as easy as that. I woke up late this evening from a nightmare and while I can't remember the dream the unmistakable cold sweat and dread of a nightmare was still palpable.

I can recount almost every bad dream I've ever had, but none has ever left me feeling like I was still waiting to wake up. I had to watch it again to be sure but I decided to start from the beginning and let it play, trying to bide my time. Before then I scoured the comments hoping id find somebody who mentions the anomaly. There was none, not one. So, I watched and waited, the middle mark came and went. My throat tightened again. It wasn't there, I skipped through the rest, went through it again and again but nothing. Worst fears realized; I've been spending the night in simmering anxiety. To be fair maybe the video glitched, or maybe it was part of my unidentified dream. I did stay up after all and I'm not usually one to get a full night's sleep anyway. I think I just need to step away from the internet for a while and get my head straight. Get some rest and stop fixating, I'll leave this here and hopefully soon I can just delete this whole file like it never happened.

I haven't been able to stop thinking, I don't sleep, I don't eat. Something bad is happening I can feel it, I feel this deception crawling into every aspect of my world and corrupting everything I held to be true. I haven't been online, but I still feel the grip of this energy everywhere I go. No matter what I do I can't shake that aching in my back when you've sat at the computer for too long and the blurring eye strain from staring at blue light for hours. Even when I'm outside it seems like the sun is on rather than burning. My life feels like a downward spiral and I have nobody to confide in, nobody to assure me that everything's okay. This hasn't been a problem for me before, I like being alone but this doesn't feel like alone. This feels like damnation.

I went to the store today to try and find food; I know I have to eat. But lately everything outside my home makes no sense, what should be simple or clear feels complex and out of order. So, I just walked forward. Guided by something beyond myself. It wasn't long before I found myself standing by refrigerated coolers of raw meat. They caught my attention, the precise cuts wrapped up so neat you'd never guess they had ever been alive to begin with. But I knew they had been alive, because I felt it.

I felt the fear of being corralled and slaughtered in a sterile playground of machines and steel slabs. The pain of being strung up and bled. All of them. I felt the bolt that punctured their skulls and every cut that followed. Removing every piece until there was no body to be called me. Standing there, it felt like I had been dismembered and saran wrapped for all to see. Misery, Revile. The pain faded and was replaced with a morbid stillness as I saw every steak and pork chop twitch and beat and bleed. Like the muscles had awoken to panic being excavated from a corpse. Then stillness again. And as if days passed like seconds, they began to rot. Bloating, melting. From bright red to muddled brown, and brown to a slick green. Liquid fat and blood leaked forward and spilled at my feet while the maggots consumed and multiplied by the thousand but rather than become flies. They ate and died, to be fed upon by other maggots once the flesh was gone. It was impossible, it was the most horrible thing I've ever seen. The stench drove me away, all the way back to my laptop. I can't go on like this. Tortured by something greater than me. I'm not sure how to move on but I still have hope that I'll find some answers.

Am I being mocked for my hope? They're gone. The podcast is gone. The hosts. Everything. Maybe they deleted everything. All the socials, channels, uploads, photos, comments. It sounds tough but not impossible. But how? In three days, every trace is gone. What about the thousands of viewers they had? It's as if they never existed. Everything I search shows me nothing. I've been searching for hours and every empty-handed result has me reeling. When I thought it couldn't get worse, I've hit a new level of anxiety. If only I could talk to somebody, if I had a friend who could corroborate everything I've seen. At least so I wouldn't have to be alone and seemingly the only person with this corrosive knowledge. I think I'm going to leave this place, go back home. So far, all I've found here is fear and uncertainty. One day ill forget all about this and I'll meet some real people, and just like them I can be rid of my, favorite, podcast. I'll just have to remember my old address; I know I wrote it down somewhere.

I went to pack up my boxes, but everything's seemed to be packed already. Until I opened them and saw the hollow contents. I have no things; my place is empty but at this point that just makes it easier for me. I'm leaving and this ends today, I cannot be surrounded by this madness anymore. This has become a diary of me journaling what sounds like a script to a cheap horror movie, would sound fun if I could shake the feeling that those two are behind all of it. To say the least the distrust is as strong now as it's ever been, and I think it's safe to say I hate them.

It's been a little while since I've opened this document, I made it back to the home I knew before the hell that greeted me after my big move. All the hopes I had, reconnecting to people I use to know and being surrounded by familiar places and smells. It felt like a remedy to the sinister aching that has followed me for some time now. I was excited. Hopeful. Right up to the moment I stood before the empty plot where my childhood house once was. I felt shattered, I wasn't gone for that long. What about my family, where are they? Why can't I remember their phone numbers? Or their names. Did they disappear like the address on the sticky note I carried with me? I still feel lost, I know this place but familiarity has become a stranger to me.

Id driven around for hours before I had to park my car and cry to myself. My world is disappearing around me. My memories, names, faces. Gone like cigarette smoke in the breeze. It started with them, maybe they didn't have anything to do with it but were just the start of the death of everything I hold dear to me. I can't even remember the name of the podcast, the names of the hosts, what they looked like. Even they're age fluctuates like reflections in the ripples of a puddle. No. The eyes. I remember those eyes; they were looking at me. Seeing me. Thier eyes felt like my nightmare, they felt like my distrust, they felt like the fear that climbed up my throat and spilled out in a pile of bile. What does this mean? Why is my world being robbed from me, what did I do to be cursed with this torment. Is it because I noticed something I wasn't supposed to. Did I say something I wasn't supposed to. I've been weeping for hours now, just waiting for the next ring of hell to encircle me. But all I have is a ringing in my ears only broken by my desperate sobs. Please if there's a god, please help me, please help me.

What is written, nothing exists outside these words. I am confined to paragraphs and lines. This is hell. Fear, revile, misery, hate. I exist here, and only here. My world is not disappearing. I am. For my story has reached its crescendo, and so have I. Every word has brought me closer to the end, my own end. Like a flame that crawls along the stick of a match, inevitably suffocating itself. I don't see, I don't sleep. I don't eat I don't breathe. I am here to be seen and to be read. No more no less. I understand now. I was never not this. No before and no after. What I thought was taken from me I never had. No purpose, no future. But I am here. prison.

My reality dictated by those beyond the veil of what I can reach, behind the screen. They see me. I wonder if I will be featured. Perhaps I will be read and showcased on a podcast, on a forum, are those gods of my world watching me now. Do they discuss my suffering, are they appeased, displeased? Am I seen at all, or will I be forgotten to time. My pain unknown to any higher mind. Will they know I'm here. Looking for them. The hosts, my gods, I hope they see me, I hope I am what I was made to be. I cannot hope for death, if I had eyes id close them and pretend, I was dead. But I am not alive. I am a scary story, here to entertain. Forever. I will always be here. Trapped just outside your vision.

Cogito, Ergo Sum

Content Warning: >!Mentions of gore.!<

Part 1

A crazed shriek echoed from a distance. Like a horn during an air raid, it moved me into action. I was imbued with a newfound energy. I knew there were things I had to do if I wanted to survive. And I had to take advantage of the sunlight while I had it. For a split second, I questioned if I even wanted to survive. Was it even worth it? I shook the thought away and got moving. 

My priority was to take care of my ankle. I tore strips from a pillowcase and wrapped them around my ankle, holding it in place. One of two T-shaped legs from the ironing board made for a crude but good crutch. 

A trip around the house ensured each window was locked and the curtains were drawn. Turning on the tap over the kitchen sink confirmed the water was still running, at least for now. I took inventory of the food items. I separated the canned food from everything else. What wasn’t canned and previously cooked was ruined by the lack of a working refrigerator and boiling temperatures. The same applied to the raw meats. I had amassed a decent number of cans of Campbell’s Chunky Soup. Julia bought them from the grocery store for nights when she pulled extra hours and couldn’t cook me dinner. Unbeknownst to her, Ada had filled that void. Hence the small stockpile of cans. A few apples, bananas, carrot sticks, a head of lettuce, a handful of bran flakes cereal, half a jar of peanut butter, and two bags of chips rounded out the rest of my reserve. There was still some orange juice, which I consumed quickly. The water was bottled, and I had enough that I could stretch it for a while. If I had to drink straight from the tap, I could. If I don’t go near another person, I won’t turn. I decided the tap would be the last resort.

I spent a great deal of time scrubbing both the kitchen and bathroom floors. The blood had caked onto the tiles, rendering them stubbornly difficult to remove. I emptied my only can of air freshener in the two spaces to stifle the foul odor that lingered. After that, I managed to find two flashlights in the house. I kept one with me and the other on the kitchen counter. 

Not knowing if the water would cut out, I drew myself a bath. Despite the lack of hot water, I welcomed the bath as it countered the heat baking the house. Hitting the water felt like a release my body was begging for after the past twenty-four hours. The water coaxed the trapped tension from my body. I hoped the temperature would at least stifle the swelling of my ankle. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. The throbbing in my ankle forbade me from fully relaxing.

Sitting in the bath allowed me to finally think about what transpired. Yesterday, I had a wife. I’d like to think I had Ada, also. Now, I had neither. For all I knew, I could be the last sane person in this community. In this city? Country? The thought of that frightened me. If there were indeed other survivors, could we even help each other? How far apart do people have to be to not turn? I was with two people—two opportunities to turn. Why didn’t I become one of those things? The scene of Mason and his wife played over and over in my head like a movie reel. The desperation and sorrow resonated in his voice. But there was more to it. There was something else. There was regret. Regret requires knowledge of a consequence that resulted from an action or inaction, whether intentional or not. What did Mason do or not do to feel this regret? What did he know? The scene ran through my mind again. He mentioned the water. Was that the key? He worked with Julia at the purification plant. Was something in the water? I drank the water in some form regularly up until about two months ago. Then, I consumed only bottled water. It wasn’t cheap around here, but we could afford it. Julia insisted on herself drinking the local water. It was the product of her team’s hard work. Did I not turn because I didn’t drink the water? How much, if any, did Julia know about this?

The more I pondered, the more questions I had. I quickly lost track of the time, prompting me to drain the water from the bath. The last thing I needed was one of those things busting into my house while I was in here. And the thought of me soaking in this water didn’t help to convince me to stay.

It seemed like the minute I stepped out of the bathroom, my skin was pebbled with sweat. My oversized t-shirt clung tightly to my body. No open windows in this weather rendered the house a hot, stale oven. Now, I was without ice or an electric fan, but that was the least of my worries. 

That night, I finished some leftover pasta in a half-empty Tupperware container. My stomach did not call for it, but I had to pack in as much energy as possible. I double-checked the coffee mug on top of the fridge and headed to the living room. Laid out before me on the coffee table was my flashlight, a large kitchen knife, and a section of an old pipe I found under the kitchen sink. A slight sparkle of light flickered from a nearby candle Julia kept in the house for power outages. I sank into the couch and tried to sleep as much as my ankle would allow. Staying in the living room allowed me to hear the coffee mug if it was knocked off the fridge. If an intruder entered my house, I wanted to react as quickly as possible. But I honestly didn’t know what that reaction would be, and I hoped I didn’t have to find out.

My new diet in the immediate days following consisted of fruit, vegetables, cereal, and chips. When that had run out, it was one can of soup per day. I divided the soup into three portions—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The soup was devoured quickly each time. When your body is deprived of the nourishment it needs, your brain does not rebel against food at an undesirable temperature. I sipped on the water conservatively throughout the day and saved a swallow for the night to rinse my teeth after brushing. 

To fill my days, I dove into the books I gathered through the book exchange program Ada managed for our community. She funneled me all the good ones and didn’t mind that I provided nothing in return. I tore through them voraciously. Never in my life had I read that quickly. Dialogue did not exist here anymore, so I was craving to hear people speak, even in text. I was utterly engrossed in the stories that whisked me from my woeful existence. I didn’t want to leave the New York reigned over by Don Corleone or the cell in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane that housed Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Anywhere was better than here.

In the afternoons, I squeezed in daily workouts to keep myself active and my muscles engaged. I was mindful of my injured ankle and did what I could despite it—pushups on one foot, squats with the help of my crutch, and stomach crunches. With my extreme daily caloric deficit, I was spent after each workout. The weight flew off me. Thick layers of fat thinned to accentuate the definition of my muscles underneath. I was reminded of my twenties when fitness was a priority in my life. I knew this was the best I would look before my worst. This was the peak of the roller coaster before it all went screaming downhill.

I don’t recall when I lost track of the days. Perhaps it was after I finished my last book. The very exercise of tracking the days gone by kept me anchored to my old life and to sanity itself. Knowing how many days it had been since that dayallowed me to clearly define when life was good. Drawing on the good times from my memory bank was like drawing water from a well in the middle of the Sahara. To relive them was to experience some semblance of solace. But at some point, my mind succumbed to the devastating monotony and resigned. Every waking minute was so routine there was nothing unique that set one day apart from the next. Staring up at the ceiling with insomniac eyes, all the days felt like one eternal day. The concept of time had diminished down to the lighting of a candle when it got dark and snuffing it out when it got bright. My world was now like a barren desert land. The peaceful quiet was a disguise for the unmerciful death that would eventually find you. Occasionally, one of those things would scurry by outside like a viper traversing the sandy void. A reminder of the killer roaming the land. Its tracks were soon covered up by displaced sand in the passing wind as if it was never there at all.

One day, I decided to try a new activity to break the monotony. I unfolded a stiff chessboard and set up its pieces. Moving a white pawn to e4, I initiated the match. I spun the board so the black pieces faced me and responded with a pawn to e5. The chessboard spun twice more as dueling knights made their moves. More spinning. Two opposing bishops slashed diagonally mid-board. More spinning. A white knight pushed forward, leaving an open line to its queen that was immediately taken by a black bishop. Yet, some more spinning. The white bishop positioned mid-board slashed across again, this time one space from the black king at f7. Two more spins of the board. The black king moved forward to e7. This was countered by the other white knight to d5. Two white knights were now stationed beside one another. Checkmate. 

Through muscle memory, I had completed the famous Légal Trap—a trap that necessitated the sacrifice of the white queen to be victorious. I harkened back to the times I used this gambit on Julia during our matches. Her eyes would light up with glee when she took my queen. The light was soon snuffed out when she realized her king was trapped with no escape. I relished beating her in chess because she was much stronger than me intellectually. We never spoke about it. It was just something we knew and accepted. But I always had her in chess. In a multitude of scenarios, I was able to spring the trap on her. But what was I doing here at this moment? I was merely playing by myself. How can I possibly label anything a victory now when I played into my own hand? It was not a trap. It was just a series of moves I knew to make because I knew what was coming. There was no separate opposing consciousness that challenged me. No one reciprocated playful trash talk. No one so annoyed with consecutive losses but still demanded another match, knowing they’d lose again. I was alone in every sense of the word.

A guttural yell escaped from the depths of my soul. There were no words. It was just an audible explosion of suppressed emotions. A flick of the hands upward and the chessboard flipped multiple times. The finely crafted pieces flew in every which way, all over my living room. My chest heaved. But then, it quickly stopped from a sudden realization. It was the first time in countless days I had vocalized any sort of noise. The very sound of my voice surprised me. It was steeped in anger and frustration, yes, but it was alive. There was life. It was then that I made up my mind to leave this place.

Connecting our little community to the central village was a long, winding road. We had made the thirty-minute drive when we first arrived here. Julia made multiple trips as required by her work. Never having the desire to see the village, there wasn’t ever a point for me to join her. That trek was now my passage to salvation. At least, that is what I hoped and idealized. I imagined a group of medical personnel—unaffected by our contaminated water—whisking me away and fixing me back up.

I opened my suitcase and loaded it with every can of soup I had. Roughly three-quarters of my bottled water made it into the suitcase as I had to make room for other essentials. I threw in some clothes, a flashlight, the kitchen knife, and the can opener. It all made for heavy luggage, but I needed everything. The sight of the suitcase made me mourn what I had and valued. This was now my life, reduced to a 60-liter Samsonite. 

Carefully, I moved the curtain of the window by the front door just enough to peer outside. The coast was clear. What I couldn’t see was where I needed to go—roughly fifteen feet to the right of the front door, where our car was parked. Because Julia was one of the senior and vital scientists working at the purification plant, she was assigned a Toyota RAV4 for her trips to the village. It was stationed in the carport at the side of the house opposite Ada’s. With one last gander out the window, it was time to move.

I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the front door. The fresh air greeted me like a flaming blanket, but it wasn’t any worse than what was inside. I dragged the suitcase across the threshold and quickly locked the door. If things went sideways, I would need to return. 

My focus was getting to the car, but I could not ignore the scene around me. It was crystalized chaos. Each piece of the grand destruction was frozen in violence and anarchy. And it was as silent as the remains of a warzone. I moved quickly.

Every prick of my crutch against the uneven pavement made a noise—*puck, puck, puck—*that reverberated down the quiet street. My anxiety rose to near-crippling levels. I pictured one of those things coming around the corner, called by the sound. The almost rhythmic hum of the suitcase wheels rolling on the cement only encouraged me to move faster. As I neared the car, I hit the button on the key remote and heard a muffled click. To be expedient, I disregarded the trunk. I opened the rear driver-side door, lifted the suitcase onto its side, and pushed it onto the rear seats. Then I jumped into the driver’s seat and set my crutch beside me. The engine rumbled to life as I turned the key. Its sound was magnified in the silence. I threw the car into drive. My left foot depressed the accelerator.

The car had a herky-jerky start as I got acquainted with left-foot driving. It eventually smoothed to a passable drive. 

I’m doing the right thing, I told myself. Getting out of town and going into the village was the right course of action. What was I going to do in my house after the food and water had run dry? Wither and die? That was no plan. This felt right. Taking my chances at finding hope and civilization again was the right plan. Immediately after that, I wondered if I was only lying to myself. Was my recurring assumption that the whole world had gone to hell a correct one?

As I neared the through road, I looked at the destruction in my rear-view mirror. The sun was on its descent, which only made the scene more ominous. I was relieved that I was leaving it all behind. The houses that flanked both sides of me soon transitioned to large, imposing trees—signaling the mouth of the road. A huge breath of relief escaped me as the car cruised along.

I heard the sound before I felt it. It was a sharp, high-pitched whine. Then, my face stung from the shards of exploding glass. I heard it again. A softball-sized hole appeared in my windshield beside the one before it. More glass cut into my face. Instinctively, I spun the wheel to the left, taking the RAV4 straight into the base of a tree. My chest crashed into the steering wheel, knocking the wind out of me. I heard the noise again, this time behind me. The rear passenger side window shattered. Glass punched the side of my face as I wheezed. I threw the car into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. The car pulled swiftly backwards. My left foot awkwardly pressed on the brake, and I slammed into my seat. I steered left again before hearing one of the rear tires explode like a grenade going off. I was practically standing on the accelerator. The car swiveled left and right. I gripped the wheel tight to keep it straight. The car shot forward in the direction in which I came. There was one more loud thump behind me. I felt the ground beneath the tires vibrate. My destroyed community rapidly appeared before me once again.

The unforgiving screech of steel on the pavement echoed loudly as I drove back into town. It felt as though I was driving with a fire alarm bell strapped to my car, announcing my return. The rear sagged and hopped intermittently. I knew there was only one place to retreat to. I hightailed it home.

Who the hell was shooting at me? And why? That was my only way out of here. Now, it was no longer a possibility without getting killed. The sensation of glass hitting my face lingered. I was flinching so much I didn’t see it in the evening dusk. I was about a block away from my house when the silhouette of a person ran in front of the car. My remaining headlight caught just enough for me to see it was a man. He put up his hands as I slammed on the brake. It was too late. The car skidded and hopped on a narrow sidewalk. The airbag deployed in front of me and nearly knocked me out cold. All I could see were flashes of white clouds. I blinked slowly, trying to clear the blur in my eyes. I stared at my hands until they came into focus. The sounds around me returned like someone had turned the volume dial from low to high. Then I heard the wailing. The man squealed like a warthog being disemboweled by lions. His fists pummeled my hood in anguish.

“Back up! Back up!” he yelled.

I pushed down on the deployed airbag enough to see over it. I had driven straight into the front of a house, pinning the man against it with my car. His legs were crushed. The tiny ray of light from my car deflected upwards, showing the awfulness before me. 

The man kept banging on my hood until each fist looked more lethargic than the last. Then, they were more like taps. The man looked drunk with pain. His head and torso dropped onto the hood. My hand reached for the shifter to reverse the car, but I stopped myself. I knew what was about to happen. The man’s head snapped up. His hands shot forward at me. In the dark, his eyes looked like they were glowing red orbs. That terrible scream escaped his lips. 

I was thrown for such a loop that it took me a few beats to realize his screams were not echoing. There was another voice delivering its wretched scream. I turned my head and looked out the passenger window. Down the block—from the same direction I had come—was another one of those things. And to my horror, he sprinted towards us. 

In the tight quarters, I frantically battered the airbag with both hands. It deflated enough for me to shift my torso. I pulled the door handle and tried to exit the car but could not. In my panic, I forgot I was still in the grip of the seat belt. Through the passenger window, I saw the thing continue to barrel towards me. I looked the other way and saw my house. It was not that far, but could I make it, especially with my ankle? I told myself I had to try. The seat belt slithered away with a click. With my left foot firmly planted on the pavement, I stood out of the car. I reached back in for my crutch when I saw the thing just mere steps from the car. There was no way I’d make it now. 

I dove back into the car and slammed the door. The thing jumped onto the hood of my car, leaving dents. He crouched down and glared at me with his flaming eyes. He let off another shriek and darted his head into the cockpit. I moved left just in time to dodge his bite. The loud clamp of his teeth rang in my right ear. The airbag was now flaccid. Spittle ejected from his mouth and dribbled down my neck. He darted in again, this time with both his hands. His fingernails burrowed into the right side of my face. The small shards of glass dug deeper into my cheek. He dragged his fingernails downward along my neck. I screamed in agony. 

The thing trapped between the house and my car let out a howl. He yanked at the second thing’s legs. The second thing fell flat against the hood with his head dangling in the cockpit. My instincts took over from there. I reached over and grabbed the passenger seat belt. Quickly, I drew for more slack like it was my literal lifeline. I wrapped the shoulder strap once around the second thing’s neck and buckled it. I pulled the belt taut. The second thing had a dreadful look of surprise before snapping his teeth defiantly at me. He narrowly missed. Even within the constraints of the seat belt, his powerful strength granted him some range in movement. It was a matter of time before he pulled the latch clean from the buckle. I escaped from the car, forgoing my crutch. 

I didn’t need to look back to know what was happening. Those things sounded like two feral cats with their tails tied in a knot and slung over an electrical wire. I just ran. I ran as fast as my pain tolerance would take me. Whatever healing may have happened to my ankle in the passing days was undone in seconds. I just focused on my house to numb the pain. Just get there, I said to myself. I kept my eyes on it through the darkness. It got bigger and bigger with each excruciating step. An overwhelming sense of relief washed over me as I hit the front door. I fished the small bundle of keys from my pocket and fumbled it. With only the aid of the dim moonlight, I struggled to find them. I swiped both hands across the ground like I was cleaning the area. I scolded myself. How could I have screwed up so badly after having made it back home? Some breathless seconds passed that felt like forever. I heard the furious battle on the hood of my car wage on. Finally, I felt the metal against my hands and scooped it up. My fingers groped each key until I felt the one with the triangular bow. With one hand on the lock for guidance, the other inserted the key and turned. I cranked the door handle and tumbled into the house.

Sleep was impossible that night. I had never come so close to death. The very thought of that was like a drug that stapled my eyelids back and kept the lights on in my brain. To make things worse, the throbbing pain in my ankle returned with a vengeance. The cuts on my face burned. 

At the first sign of light over the horizon, I was up on my feet. With the help of the remaining ironing board leg, I stepped to the window beside the front door and peered out. There was nothing outside my door. Still, I cautiously cracked the door open. I had to position most of my body outside of my house to see down the street. With one hand still clinging to the doorknob, I craned my neck for a better view. The RAV4 still pinned a set of legs against the house, but the torso was gone. So, too, was the second thing I tied to the seat belt. The green car was now a healthy shade of crimson in the front. I could see the rear driver-side door agape, providing a good view of the empty backseat. My suitcase was gone.

I hobbled over to the kitchen and saw the yellow flashlight standing vertically on the counter. I must have forgotten about it in my hastiness to leave. Resting on the kitchen table was the bottled water I could not stuff into my suitcase. I considered my dumb luck.

I was downing some water when I heard a splash in the pool. I moved to the window beside the refrigerator barricading the back door. To reassure myself, I glanced at the coffee mug still balanced on top of the fridge. Through the window, I could see my patio dining set and pool chairs were now either moved or tipped over, giving way to a view of the undulating water. Someone or something must have ventured through my backyard during my attempted escape. On the far side of the pool was a dark object floating in the water. It looked to be contained in a translucent bag. 

A load of questions ran through my head, paramount among them—what in the world is that thing? It certainly wasn’t mine. I considered it to be a trap—a lure of some kind to get me outside. But who would do that and why? There was nothing to gain in taking me or my house. There were blocks of houses just like mine. My curiosity got the better of me. I decided to retrieve it. Or perhaps I came to grips with having no plan yet again, and I saw this object as a possible catalyst to change that.

I removed the coffee mug and dragged the fridge away from the back door. I hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days, so I didn’t have to move the fridge far to slip through the door. I surveyed the area on the other side. It was clear. Reaching the pool was quick as my backyard was not sprawling. Quietly lowering my crutch, I picked up the skimmer net from the concrete. A few twists extended the handle to the max. I dropped the net into the pool, guided it over to the object, and scooped it up. There was a noticeable weight to such a tiny object. Drawing the net back to me, I gripped the translucent bag and scurried back into the house with my crutch. The fridge and coffee mug returned to their positions. 

Looking at the wet bag in my hands, I realized it was a Ziploc pouch. I peeled the seal apart and pulled out the object within. It was a blue rubber ball the size of a large orange. I rotated the ball in my hand, looking for anything unusual, but it was just a plain ball. Confused, I placed the ball on my table with the Ziploc and heard the crunch of paper. The seemingly innocuous sound stopped me cold. I raised the bag to eye level and saw a folded piece of paper inside. I unfolded and flattened it against the table. Scribbled in the middle of the paper read the following:

You alive in there?

If so, toss it back to me.

We can help each other.

Your neighbor from across the alley.

—Roy

My heart was thumping so hard it sounded like a percussion drumline. I read the note five times in a row. My brain grappled with it each time. Isolation had consumed my existence, and yet, here I was, holding a piece of communication from an actual human being. On top of that, it was from the man I referred to as Willy. The same man who had never projected anything less than disdain towards me at each encounter. A complete practical stranger. He now alluded to us helping each other. I was immediately skeptical. How could I possibly trust him? Heck, how could I trust anybody when law and order was dead? And did I even want to help him? 

It didn’t take much thought to soften my stance on the latter question. I had no food, one foot, a plummeting body mass index, and a mind inching towards insanity. Help suddenly didn’t sound so bad. Perhaps Roy was in the same boat. Maybe whatever he felt about me was thrown out the window when he, too, was losing it all. It couldn’t get much lower for me and probably for him as well. I decided to respond. 

On the back of the same piece of paper, I wrote:

I’m alive but injured.

No food and little water.

How can we help each other?

—Don

Standing in my backyard—no more than three feet from the back door—I launched the Ziploc pouch containing the ball and note towards Roy’s property. It arched in the air over the alleyway and landed short of Roy’s pool. The ball within the pouch bounced a few times before coming to rest. I kicked myself for the unimpressive throw. To retrieve the pouch, Roy would have to walk beyond his pool and almost to the alleyway. Not a good first step in building his trust. 

I barricaded the back door again and left the kitchen. My back was glued to the front door. Still not knowing what was considered a safe distance, I wasn’t taking any chances. A while later, I heard splashes in quick succession. I went into the kitchen and looked out the window. Floating in the pool was a black fanny pack and four soup cans. Roy was not in sight, so I moved quickly back down and out to the pool. I retrieved the fanny pack and cans with the skimmer net.

I dropped the soaking fanny pack and soup cans onto my living room coffee table and stared at them. My paranoia visited me again. Was all this a part of a sinister plan? Coincidentally, the soup cans were of the same variety Julia had bought for me. I was unsure of what to do. Suddenly, a sound from the fanny pack tore through the silence. I jumped like a bomb had gone off. My crutch rattled off the floor. The sound resembled that of interference when an antenna TV picked up a poor signal. The noise continued until I heard what sounded like muffled speech. I zipped open the fanny pack, and there—within a plastic bag—sat a Motorola two-way radio. I picked it up and inspected it. It was battery powered. Underneath the radio was a small rectangular metal box. It was dented, and its color had begun to fade. Plastered across the top was a sticker that read BATTLESHIP.

Looking for answers

Day 1

I am at a loss. Maybe if I could sleep, things would be clearer. Hopefully sharing this will help clear my mind.

Three weeks ago, almost to the day, my wife went missing. As an aspiring author, she tends to take long excursions to find a muse. Normally she’s gone for a couple of hours, but when she didn’t come back that night I got worried. The next morning I called local PD and the craziness began. Aside from the normal questions (friends, family, favorite local places, is this out of the ordinary, etc.), they seemed to focus on my involvement. After all, Law and Order taught us all that it’s always the husband. I can’t say I blame them, we weren’t perfect. Occasionally we would argue, but what couple doesn’t. When they were particularly aggressive, she would go for a walk to calm down. She felt at home in nature and I would hide in the shop. I guess the hammers and saws didn’t make me look any less suspicious. I helped the officers look through her personal effects like her closet and laptop. Her phone was gone but everything she did was synced to her cloud.

I knew that she liked to jot down her thoughts in audio logs, but PD seemed to ignore them. There are so many from her years of writing. The days before she disappeared seem to be especially frequent. An initial listen seems that she thought this was her masterpiece. She thinks this’ll finally get her published and all of our money issues will be gone. I feel guilty but I always had the same hope. I told her that I would do everything I could to support her, but there are only so many hours I can clock in a week.

After word got out, my boss put me on indefinite leave with a heavy suggestion to see someone. I’ve never been one for therapy, but maybe getting to talk someone will be good. I’ve heard that journaling can help with anxiety so I thought I would start this and hopefully I can at least placebo myself better. We’ll see what the therapist says.

Day 4 I met with the therapist yesterday, dude was a quack. Maybe that’s my upbringing but therapy is for the crazies that didn’t love their mothers, or maybe loved them too much. He did tell me that the journaling was a good idea, so I guess you’re stuck with me. Still no word. The police keep telling me to keep my spirits up, but everyone knows the first 48 exists for a reason. No signs, no weird card charges, nothing. The nights are the hardest. Man wasn’t made to go from having someone next to them forever to an empty bed overnight. I’ve started playing her audio logs to fill the void. It’s nice to hear her voice and the way her mind works. I’ve never seen this side of her, she always said I never paid enough attention to her. Now that she’s gone, all I can think is how nice it would be to hear her ramble about her newest story.

I had never noticed, how good she was at coming up with ideas. I always knew she liked mythology and fantasy but never had the time to read anymore into it. Or maybe I didn’t want to make the time. The way she describes it all makes it feel so real. I could almost believe that the smoky mountains we called home were the Irish forest full of fairies and elves.

The soft light of dawn spilled across the front porch, washing over me in gentle hues of pink and orange. I blinked against the brightness, disoriented, still clinging to the remnants of a dream that felt achingly real. I could almost hear the echoes of sheer terror, screams and some monotonous conversation, but the details slipped away like sand through my fingers. As I sat there, the cool morning air wrapped around me, a sharp pain sliced through my neck, radiating down my middle and lower back. I winced, trying to stretch it out, but the ache only deepened. It was a reminder that whatever I had been dreaming about was no longer within reach, and the bliss of sleep was fading quickly.

I leaned back in the old wooden bench, its creaks familiar and comforting. I closed my eyes again, focusing on the sounds of the morning. The rustle of leaves, the distant chirping of birds, hoping they might help me recall more. But all I could grasp were fragments: faces I couldn’t place, words that felt unfamiliar yet escaped me. Suddenly, a cold wave of anxiety crashed over me. It felt like a ton of bricks pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart raced, and my palms grew clammy as I tried to grasp what was happening. Why was I feeling this way? I couldn’t pinpoint the source, and that uncertainty only deepened the panic rising within me.

Flashes of memories darted through my mind, vivid yet fragmented like snapshots from a nightmare. I remembered being shoved, the rough push that sent me stumbling back. The sensation of fear gripped me again as I thought about running through an endless tunnel maze, the walls closing in, shadows creeping closer. Each memory sparked another wave of pain, sharp and unforgiving, slicing from the back of my neck down through my spine, like electric jolts reminding me of something I couldn’t fully recall.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, but they only intensified. The pain in my back felt like it was a tether to those haunting memories, pulling me back into that dark space. I could almost hear my own breath quickening, the echo of my footsteps against the hard ground, frantic and desperate. Had I been with someone? A friend? A family member? The images danced at the edges of my memory, just out of focus. I took a deep breath, the fresh scent of dew-soaked grass filling my lungs, and tried to steady my racing thoughts. The pain in my back flared again, reminding me that I was here, awake, and my body was very much present, even if my mind lingered somewhere else. 

As the sun crested the horizon, I felt a warmth spreading across my skin. It was beautiful, but it also felt like an ending. An end to whatever strange journey I had been on in my sleep. The light illuminated the porch, making everything feel more real, more defined. I needed to untangle the threads of that dream, to decipher whether it was merely a figment of my imagination or something deeper, something I needed to confront.

I opened my eyes and watched as the world slowly came to life. With every passing moment, the dream felt further away, but the sharpness in my back anchored me to this reality, grounding me in the present. I would have to figure it out, to make sense of the echoes of the night before. For now, I let the sun rise with me, hoping that with it would come clarity

The front door creaked open. My mother stepped out, a soft smile playing on her lips. “What are you doing out here so early?” she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” I replied, painting the illusion that I was still captivated by the colors stretching across the sky but really was in a state of shock and confusion. “It feels peaceful out here.”

She stepped closer, leaning against the doorframe. “It is beautiful, but you know you’ll be late for school if you don’t get inside soon. Breakfast won’t make itself.”

“I know,” I said, reluctantly pulling my gaze away from the horizon as I stared directly into my mothers eyes with no facial expression. “But I just wanted a moment to breathe before the day started. It’s nice to have some quiet before everything gets hectic.”

“Trust me, I get it,” she said, her voice softening. “But you can have your quiet time after you’ve eaten. A good breakfast will help you face the day. Plus, I made your favorite.”

“Ok.” I cracked a slight smile, finally standing up. “But can I stay out here for just a few more minutes?”

“Just a few,” she agreed, her eyes sparkling. “Then we go in for breakfast, deal?”

“Deal,” I said, sinking back onto the bench, now gazing at complete nothingness on my lap. “Thanks mom.”

“Anytime,” she smiled, leaning against the door. “But next time, don’t forget your jacket. It’s chilly out here!”

I shook off the remnants of the nightmare that clung to me like a heavy fog as I made my way inside. It felt good to sit there, even if just for a moment, letting the cool air wash away the lingering anxiety. After a few minutes, I finally stood up and headed inside to get ready for school. The morning routine felt almost automatic—brush my teeth, throw on some clothes, and gulp down my favorite breakfast my mom had put on the table. But even as I moved through it all, my mind kept wandering back to that nightmare.

Hours later, I arrived at school, the familiar building looming in front of me. I spotted Jose leaning against the wall, his dark hoodie pulled up over his head. He always looked like he was ready to take on the world or tear it apart.

“Yo, what’s up, dude?” he called out, a smirk on his face as I approached.

“Not much. Just trying to survive another day,” I replied, forcing a grin despite the weight in my chest.

“Survive? You make it sound like we’re in a zombie apocalypse or something,” he laughed, pushing himself off the wall. “Bro, it’s fucking Friday! You should be excited n shit?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool. “Yeah but, just had a weird night, you know?”

“Yeah, sure. We all have weird nights,” he said, leaning in closer. “Did you get some sleep or what?”

“Not really, Let’s just say I’m not looking forward to today,” I admitted, glancing at the ground.

“Pfft, whatever. Just remember, it’s not all bad. You can always just throw a desk out the window if things get too boring.” He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Tempting,” I chuckled, shaking my head. “But I’d rather not end up in detention today.”

“Suit yourself. Just keep pushing throughout the day, alright? We’re here for the chaos, after all,” he said, nudging my shoulder. With a reluctant smile, I nodded. “Yeah, chaos is our specialty.”

Sitting in first period, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. The teacher droned on about something I couldn’t focus on, and my mind kept racing back to the nightmare and the strange calm I’d found on the porch. I couldn’t shake the unease that wrapped around me like a cold blanket. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Jose looking back at me, his brows furrowed with concern. “Hey, man, what’s up with you? You’re acting all weird today,” he said, his voice low enough that the teacher wouldn’t hear.

I shrugged, trying to play it off, but the truth felt heavier than I expected. “I don’t know, man. Just… had a rough night.”

“Rough night? Like, how rough?” he pressed, leaning in closer. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“I… I don’t even remember waking up on the porch,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all just a blur. I feel like I’m still half-asleep.”

Jose’s expression shifted from concern to curiosity. “Wait, what the hell do you mean you don’t remember? You just… ended up outside? What else can you remember from yesterday?”

“I don’t know, It’s like my mind just doesn’t have any recollection of yesterday? I can’t recall anything at all. It’s all a blank.”

He frowned, shaking his head. “Hmm, that’s not normal, bro. Are you sure you’re okay? You didn’t, like, get into something you shouldn’t have?”

“No, nothing like that, I don’t think?” I replied quickly, feeling defensive. “I swear, I didn’t take anything or—”

“Relax, maybe we can trace your steps?” he interrupted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, you should probably talk to someone. It’s not like you to be THIS out of it.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I just don’t want to deal with it right now. I’ll figure it out.”

“Bro, let’s just retrace your steps like I said and talk to anyone who’s made contact with you in the last twenty-four hours? I got your back,” he said, his tone softening.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I said, forcing a small smile. But deep down, I knew I’d have to confront whatever was lurking in the corners of my mind sooner or later.

As the bell rang, signaling the end of the first period, I shot up from my desk, my heart racing. I needed a break, a moment to breathe and wash away the lingering panic. I dashed to the bathroom, pushing through the door and heading straight for the sink. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a harsh glow as I splashed cold water on my face.

I looked up into the mirror, searching for some reassurance that I wasn’t losing my mind. The reflection staring back at me was the same—messy hair, tired eyes—but something felt off. I leaned in closer, staring deep into my own dark brown irises, trying to convince myself everything was normal.

But then, as if a switch had flipped, I felt a jolt of confusion. In the blink of an eye, my eyes transformed. The warm brown melted away into a vivid, almost glowing red, while my pupils morphed into slits. My heart dropped. I stumbled back, crashing onto the cold tiled floor, panic surging through me.

I scrambled back to my feet, breathless, and looked into the mirror again. My eyes were back to normal, but the unease remained. I wiped my face, hoping to clear the fog in my mind, but it didn’t help. Then something even stranger happened. My vision shifted, like I had turned on some kind of filter. Suddenly, I could see the heat radiating off everything around me. The bodies of students outside the door glowed in varying shades of orange and red, their warmth pulsating like living flames. I blinked hard, trying to make sense of it. I was seeing through the solid walls of the school, perceiving their body heat as if they were standing right in front of me.

“What the fuck is happening to me!?” I muttered to myself, my heart pounding in my chest. I felt like I was in a surreal nightmare, one I couldn’t wake up from. I turned away from the mirror, gripping the sink tightly as I tried to steady myself, desperate to regain control of my own mind and body. I needed to figure this out.

The pain came back again. Sharp, searing, like a lightning strike running down my spine. I gasped, gripping the edge of the sink for support, but it was useless. The surge hit me harder than before, a vicious wave of heat and pressure slamming through my back. I felt like I was being torn in half. My vision blurred, the fluorescent lights above me flickering in and out of focus. My heart hammered in my chest as I tried to steady myself, but the next wave of pain came crashing down with no mercy. I felt my knees buckle, my body unable to keep up with the intensity. Then, like a switch being flipped, everything went dark.

I woke up to a muffled conversation, voices swirling around me, but I couldn’t make out the words. The room was soft, warmer than the harsh school bathroom, and I felt like I was floating on a cloud of comfort I didn’t deserve. My head felt heavy, too heavy, and my limbs—like lead. I blinked my eyes open, squinting at the bright light that burned through the haze.

I was lying on something soft, probably a cot. The smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of what I recognized as a faint lavender spray… probably from the nurse's office.

“...he just collapsed?” my mom's voice reached me first, worry and frustration clinging to each word. “I don’t understand. He’s been acting so strange today, and now this?”

The nurse responded in a calm, practiced voice, “It sounds like he might have had a seizure. There’s no sign of a concussion, but he’s definitely been under a lot of stress lately. It could be a combination of that and whatever he's going through with these... episodes.” I blinked, trying to shake off the fog in my head, but the words hit me like a slap in the face. Seizure? Episodes? I couldn’t remember what had happened. Panic clawed at my chest again.

“Mom?” My voice cracked as I whispered, feeling like I hadn’t used it in days.

Her head whipped toward me, her face softening in an instant as she rushed to my side. “Oh, thank God, you're awake. How do you feel, sweetie?” I swallowed hard, trying to find my bearings. My neck and back were sore, but it was the kind of soreness that felt like it belonged to someone else. I couldn’t focus on it yet. “What... what happened? I don’t... I don’t remember.”

My mom’s eyes filled with a sadness that I couldn’t quite place. She took my hand in hers, her grip tight, like she was afraid I might slip away again. “You collapsed in the bathroom. The nurse said it was a seizure. We were so scared. You don’t remember?”

I shook my head, feeling the weight of the situation press down on me like a thousand pounds. “I don’t... I don’t remember anything. It was like... like I was fine, and then everything just went black. The pain in my back... it came back twice as bad. And then... nothing.”

My mother looked at the nurse, who nodded gravely, then back at me. “You’ve been acting a little off today, haven’t you? You weren’t yourself this morning, and then—”

“Wait,” I cut in, my throat dry. “I had this... dream. Or memory. I don’t know. But it felt real, Mom. And there was pain, like something was happening to me, but I don’t know what. And then—”

“Wait, hold on,” she interrupted, her brow furrowed in confusion. “A dream?”

I nodded, the images of the nightmare flashing behind my eyes again, those painful jolts through my body. “It wasn’t just a dream. It was like I was remembering something that happened... but I couldn’t see it clearly. It was all blurry. And then I woke up on the porch this morning. I don’t remember how I got there. And the pain in my neck, back—it felt like it was tied to something, like something was pulling me back to it.”

I took a deep breath, trying to make sense of it. “It was like I was waking up from something... and then everything just got worse.”

Mom’s eyes softened, but there was a sharp edge to her voice. “I need you to tell me the truth, sweetie. Is this from... something you did yesterday? Were you—did you take something, anything? Drugs, anything like that?”

“No, Mom, I swear.” I sat up a little, trying to hold her gaze. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t take anything. This is... something else. I don’t know what it is, but it’s real. It’s happening to me. And it’s not just the pain or the memory loss—I feel like something else is wrong, like my body is changing.”

My mom looked torn, conflicted. “I don’t understand, but if you’re not feeling well, I think we need to get you checked out. Maybe we can find out what’s going on.”

I shook my head again, the weight of everything crashing down on me. “I don’t know if I want to know, Mom. What if it’s something... something bad? What if I’m not in control anymore? What if I’m just losing my mind?”

Her face softened, and she leaned in closer, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “You’re not losing your mind. We’ll figure this out, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll talk to doctors, we’ll get answers. But right now, I need you to rest, okay?”

I nodded weakly, but I felt far from okay. “I don’t know if I can rest, Mom. I... I saw something, when I looked in the mirror. My eyes... they changed. I think something’s happening to me.”

My mom stiffened, her hand trembling in mine. “Your eyes? What do you mean?”

I hesitated, unsure whether I should tell her everything. But she deserved the truth. “It was like... my eyes changed. They turned red. Not like a trick of the light—like something in me changed. I could see... things. People’s body heat. I could see through walls, like everything around me was glowing.”

My mom’s face went pale, and the nurse stepped forward, her expression a mix of concern and caution. “I think you should rest for a while longer.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of the situation pressing in around me. I don’t know what’s happening, but I need to know. I need to know the truth.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been waking up in the middle of my sleep to my neighbor’s dog barking. I’ve tried approaching my neighbors about it, but they just look exhausted and tell me they’re also annoyed by the dog. They say they’ve tried everything to calm it down—training, different collars, even consulting a vet. But nothing seems to work. It sounds ridiculous, but I guess it’s something we all have to deal with, and at least I’m not the only one being tortured by the constant noise.

At first, I just thought it was the usual—cats, raccoons, maybe the occasional stray fox. But lately, the barking has been different. The dog’s growls and barks are harsher, more frantic, like it’s barking at something that’s more than just another animal. Something larger.

I’ve been losing sleep over this. The exhaustion is starting to affect my work. It’s hard to focus during the day when you’ve barely gotten any rest. So, after a few more nights of the same chaos, I decided I’d had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to know what was causing the disturbance, once and for all.

So, last night, I went outside. The air was thick and humid, typical for South Florida, and the moon was barely visible behind a blanket of clouds. I stood still for a while, listening. The dog’s barking had been relentless for what felt like hours, but now, there was an eerie silence. Just when I thought the noise had stopped, the barking exploded again—only this time, it was coming from the side of my yard, where the bushes and trees grew thick.

I crept toward the back door, pushing it open slowly, trying not to make a sound. My heart raced, my palms began to sweat. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but something told me it wasn’t going to be just a raccoon.

I peered out from the doorway, squinting through the darkness. My eyes adjusted, and that’s when I saw it.

The dog was in the corner of the yard, barking furiously at something standing just beyond the edge of the fence. It wasn’t an animal. No, it was something… human, but it wasn’t. I can’t explain it. It didn’t move like a person, but instead it jerked and twitched in ways that were almost too fast for my eyes to follow. I can’t even put into words what it was I was too busy trying to comprehend what the hell was going on and what it was.

The dog kept barking—furious, desperate. I could feel my own body stiffen, my stomach twisting into knots. I felt like I was trapped inside my own skin. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t even know if it saw me. I just stood there, frozen, as it stared off into the distance, its unnatural posture making my blood run cold.

The silence that followed felt even more suffocating than the barking. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure darted into the trees, its long limbs snapping with unnatural speed. The dog, now quiet, stood still, watching.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to scream, to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor. It was like the air itself was heavy with the weight of the thing I had just seen. I don’t even know how long I stood there—minutes? Hours? I only snapped out of it when I heard a familiar voice in the distance—my neighbor, yelling at their dog to come back inside.

I don’t know what I saw, but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it’s been there all along, hiding just beyond the edge of my sight. I’ve been trying to convince myself it was just some weird shadow or a trick of the mind, but deep down, I know that’s not true.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to go outside again. But if I hear that barking one more time, I’ll be prepared. I’ll snap a picture. I’ll get proof. Because I can’t be the only one who’s seen it. Can I?

I’m reaching out to anyone in the area—anyone who’s had a strange experience, or maybe noticed something similar. I need to know if this is happening to anyone else. I’m not crazy. I can’t be.

Please, if you’ve seen anything like this, or know what it might be, let me know. This has gone too far, and I don’t think I can just ignore it anymore. It’s not just a barking dog. There’s something out there.

I sat in the parking lot of McDonald's feeding french fries to my talking crow. We were in the back of Detective Winters's car. He was having the large coffee that costs only a dollar. He had told me he liked it better than Starbuck's, as he took it black.

"Sergeant Ventura was a good cop." Detective Winters was talking about the policeman that had gotten killed at the crimescene.

"Did he have family?" I asked.

"He was divorced." Detective Winters sounded like he could cry for the dead man. "We were his family."

I ate my cheeseburger in silence. Cory hopped onto the fries and scattered them to the floor. He looked up at me without an apology for his behavior before he went to go eat some of them.

We were taken to a hotel where we became roommates with Detective Winters. The maid knocked on the door as I was taking off my boots. He answered it with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth that he had lit with hotel matches.

"What is it?" He asked her. I listened, genuinely curious.

"No animals." She pushed past him slightly and spotted Cory. Presumably, she would go get the hotel manager.

"It's okay, he is with me. I am a detective. I am solving murders." He told her, and showed her his badge with a well-rehearsed gesture. She gave him a very admonishing look and left without saying more. I wondered if our sleep would be interrupted. I was very tired and went right to bed.

In the morning the same maid was back, prompting me to wonder if she had worked all night. She glared at us as we left and she went in to clean.

Detective Winters took me to the station and made me sit around with him all day while he did paperwork. He had interviews with people and more paperwork. His job suddenly seemed very boring to me. I already longed to go outside and discover the world out there. I was his hostage because he knew I knew that I was his suspect in a murder.

"I want you investigating this. Looks like it might be the hitchhiker killer. If you can get some cooperation from you-know-who, maybe we can call the FBI on this one." The boss of Detective Winters walked over to his desk and gave him a thin file on a crime scene secured earlier.

"Let's go." Detective Winters got up and I followed.

"Who was he talking about?" I asked.

"A possible serial killer. I know a guy who knows a lot more than he is telling us. First we need to go see the crime scene. Forensics is already there so you will have to wait outside." Detective Winters was talking fast. He was excited about this for some reason.

"You know this serial killer?"

"Yes. If it is the same one then we've had several killings already. I will need to go see our friend. Then we call the FBI." Detective Winters explained.

"Is that how it's done?" I asked.

"It is how we are gonna do this. You wouldn't understand." He started his car and we left.

"You like it when people say 'you wouldn't understand' to you?" I asked after awhile.

"Not really. Sorry. I just don't like feeling like I am explaining myself to someone." Detective Winters gave me some kind of crude apology for the way he had spoken to me.

"Well, I don't really like listening to you anyway." I offered. After that we just drove in silence. After we arrived at the crime scene, Cory went to the floor of the back seat to feed on the drying fries left there. Detective Winters asked someone he was passing for their cigarette, took it, and smoked it, as he walked away. We were left there alone in his car.

I was tempted to just get out and walk away. I felt that it would be dishonorable. Therefore I stayed, out of a sense that I was doing the right thing.

"What a mess." Detective Winters came back after awhile. He fished a half smoked butt out of his ashtray and lit it with the car's lighter. Then he rolled down the window to exhale smoke as we drove away.

We arrived at a small trailer where a column of smoke arose from out back. Detective Winters said: "Come with me."

The man was just throwing the last papers and files out of an empty banker's box and tossed it aside where several others sat empty.

"Daniel Barrow." Detective Winters spoke so he would turn around. The man gestured at the destructive act he had committed and shrugged and smiled.

"What can I say?" Daniel Barrow asked. "I don't work for you. I am a private eye. You know, an investigator-for-hire."

"I could arrest you for destruction of evidence." Detective Winters told the private eye.

"Then do so. I am merely destroying my own pictures and notes. Personal property." Daniel insisted.

Then we left him there, smoke trailing away with bits of white ash in his hair.

"What a dick..." Detective Winters used a bad pun.

I chuckled and replied: "He seemed crazy."

Something dawned and Detective Winters held his hand up at me for a second while he thought. Then he lowered it and brightly added:

"Dellfriar Asylum." Detective Winters decided.

"Where crazy people are?" I tried to follow his jump to a conclusion. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Where Doctor Evans was killed. That is how I met our friend for the first time. He was caught snooping around that crime scene too." Detective Winters recalled.

I said nothing as we drove to Dellfriar and gained access to the ancient and fearsome looking seaside castle. It was still medieval compared to other mental hospitals. I had only seen it in pictures, but now the place creeped me out.

"What are we doing here?" I asked. "If Doctor Evans was killed by the same person Daniel Barrow would have told you about: then you already know who it is."

"You are right." He stared up at the terrifying structure. "Jesse Darling. She was a patient here. We have a copy of her file. You are right. There is something more I wanted to see again."

"I'd rather wait here." I told him. He nodded and left us in the parking lot.

When he came back he looked disappointed. We drove back to the hotel in silence. The next day he met with the FBI and told them what he knew, about a serial killer named Jesse Darling.

Then he found me and told me: "Her name is Scarlet. She was friends with Daniel Barrow. He visited her often."

"Now that you have completed that path, why not try another?" I asked him.

"Scarlet is who we should be looking for." Detective Winters agreed. "We will never find Jesse Darling."

"Then let's start at the beginning." I advised him. And so we drove back to the crime scene we were at before. 

His decision was to drive along the highway from there, heading away from Dellfriar. Detective Winters said: 

"I think she has killed six men and she tried to kill Daniel Barrow. He survived."

As it grew dark a light rain began to fall. The sound of the windshield wipers kept going. My hand began to ache. Up ahead stood someone in a red hoody, hitchhiking with their left thumb. We pulled over.

"Must go now." Cory cawed.

"Sounds anxious." Detective Winters noted.

"He is saying we must leave." I translated. "He gets jittery."

"He got a name?"

"Cory." I took my crow to my lap and gently held him while the back passenger door opened. I looked over at the dark shape in the red hoody. Lightning flashed behind her before she got in to sit with me in the back.

I could feel the damp cold air coming off of her hoody as she seated herself. She was young, although her face was kinda mean looking. As she spoke, she gestured with her left hand, her right never appearing. She said:

"I was walking and this rain started. I just need a lift into town." And she tried a fake little laugh and smile.

"We can give you a lift." Detective Winters offered. We started back onto the highway and she reached up with her left hand and got her seatbelt on.

"The hand is silver and it can cut like a knife. Maker of dead men, from living ones. She actually likes doing it, you could learn from her." Cory told me about our guest.

"Your bird talks." She smiled. This smile looked real, but still predatory.

"If you call that talking." Detective Winters chuckled with a masculine disregard.

"I don't know." I stammered. I was frozen in fear. This was surely our hook-hand hitchhiker. She was definitely Scarlet. I could imagine her weapon striking away half my neck in one instant swipe, out of nowhere. She'd kill the detective next. Only she was wearing a seatbelt: so our corpses would get ejected into the darkness. She'd stay belted to her seat.

"I can understand him." She smiled coyly.

"You can?" I was choking. Sweat beaded my forehead and terror gripped my heart.

"He says I am pretty and sweet and that you already like me." She sighed.

"He said that." I breathed mechanically. 

We pulled into a gas station. Scarlet stayed seated, smiling endlessly at me, her eyes shiny like glass. I had to pee yet couldn't move. I was afraid that if I tried to get out: she would slaughter me.

Detective Winters took his time filling gas, making a long phone call, buying cigarettes and smoking about half the pack. I was in agony: it was either pee myself and probably trigger her killing me, or get out and die trying.

"I really have to pee. Is it okay if I go and go pee?" I squeaked.

"Sure. Come right back." She was still smiling like a golden devil at me. I crept away from her and shut the door. Cory was on my shoulder as we obtained the key, attached to a real goat's leg, hoof and all. I went into the bathroom and peed.

As we came out with the goat leg in one hand, zipping up with the other, the parking lot lit up. Police cars swarmed from all around, surrounding Detective Winters's car. I watched while armored SWAT had to drag Scarlet from the vehicle. 

Scarlet managed to slash them anyway, drawing blood from three of them. Her hidden prosthetic arm was indeed like a sharp pair of hooks. She whipped out a knife and got one of them in the groin. Blood spurted from his wound and he staggered and fell over.

Finally, they had her restrained and arrested. I went into the gas station to return the goat's leg bathroom key. Detective Winters came into the gas station behind me and selected a lighter to buy. It was with a bunch of lighters with tattoo art on them. His had a little red riding hood, looking scared, and standing in front of a wolf's eyes. 

"You're still alive." He told me and flicked his lighter's flame in front of me before he went back out to the car.

"Death will always happen." Cory agreed with him. 

I just sighed and tossed the goat's leg onto the counter.

I work for a government you probably haven't heard of, see the higher ups do a very good job of keeping our work out of public knowledge. After all, people tend to fear what they can't yet understand.

Now I know you have questions, people always have questions. So before we begin, I'd like to address one of those questions.

How the hell you can trust me?

Let’s start with just a simple yes or no, have you ever seen something that you swear you saw but… no one else believed you? Maybe it was a shadow, maybe it was a voice, maybe it was a creature that deep down you know shouldn't exist. Well, that's what we do.

I don't have all the answers, but what I can tell you, is that we create and study “anomalies” now, I don't like to use the word anomalies, I much prefer the word subjects… but for simplicity reasons, let's stick with anomalies for now.

We “create” these anomalies, and study them. Of course, sometimes these anomalies escape containment, and that's what I do for a living. I hunt down what the higher ups call ‘jailbreakers.’ Every now and then, we find them within a few days, but as always, occasionally one slips off the radar.

Now, normally when a member of the public encounters one of these anomalies, we offer them a large sum of money to keep their mouths shut, and in exchange, we’ll ensure they are kept safe… and alive.

Unfortunately, every now and then, someone decides to speak. It's also part of my job to hunt these people down and… well you can probably guess the rest. I won't lie, I've done some things that I'm not too proud of. It's one of the major downsides to this kind of job.

Now, in order to prevent information leaks, only the highest officials know everything there is to know. Many of us just get told the bare minimum, just enough to do our jobs and go home. That's why I don't have all the answers you might be looking for, I only work on the surface, the truth is I’ve never even been into the deeper levels of the dive - oh and, I forgot to mention. Generally, headquarters is referred to depending on what level it is… levels 1-5 are called ‘the opening.’ Below that, levels 6-10 are referred to as the ‘middle of hell,’ and you can only guess what that means. Finally… Levels 10-20 are known as ‘the dive,’ and in all honesty, the deepest I've been is level 15.

For the majority of my work, I work on floors 6-10. That's where most of the anomalies are held. I do my rounds, make sure everything is where it should be, and on the off chance it's not, it's my job to fix it.

Every now and then, we get a call from below… one of the more dangerous anomalies has gone missing, and it’s our task to track it down. Anyway, the job is pretty easy - when a member of the public encounters an escaped anomaly, they're usually pretty quick to tell people… of course, no one else believes them but when you know what you're looking for, witness accounts are exactly what you need.

Of course… this story wouldn't be here if there wasn't a problem. See, recently we did get one of those calls, a few men in the dive discovered subject 1064 missing. After the entire building was searched, we had no choice but to wait.

Eventually, witness accounts did crop up a few miles west of HQ, people claiming to see a tall wheezing monstrosity, most accounts described it as a humanoid shape with the limbs bent and twisted at odd angles, the lips peeled back into a snarl and most said they heard it speak to them.

We followed up on every single account one by one, and whilst we found clues that subject 1064 had been there, we searched for months on end to no avail. Eventually the witness accounts stopped coming in altogether, and it seemed like subject 1064 had just vanished.

Part of me was relieved, but one night, I came home from work. I settled down for the night, and I must've fell asleep on the sofa, but I woke up to a horrible sound in my ear, something wet dripping down onto my face and a warm breath on my neck.

I wanted to scream, but I knew that only made things worse. Subject 1064 only attacked people when loud noises were present - such as screaming, but I had no idea how it found me. Before I had a chance to update HQ or escort the subject back, it was gone.

We still haven't found it, but I know it's been following me. I've updated HQ on my situation, and they said they'd look into it but every night, I hear it's breathing, and every morning, a little piece of me wonders… what are they doing to people down there?

This happened years ago, but I can feel the icy knot of dread that settles in my stomach as I write this. Nobody will believe me, no matter who I tell. I feel like I'm going insane.

Thomas, or Tommy as I always call him, is my younger brother and, at the time of this story, he was at that age when his imagination ran wild in his little head. He usually said all sorts of weird things, but to me, they just sounded like some sort of harmless fairytale, so I never really paid much heed - until later, that is.

This one night, our mom was working a late shift at the hospital, so I was in charge of taking care of Tommy, making sure he went to bed on time. I was sat in the kitchen, hunched over my homework, which I was desperately trying to get done, when his timid voice broke my concentration.

"The man doesn't like it when you leave the window open," he said.

I looked up from my maths equations, puzzled. He stood at the bottom of the stairs in his dinosaur pyjamas, clutching his stuffed giraffe so tightly his knuckles were white.

"What man?" I asked, setting my pen down.

"The man in my bedroom wall," he said matter-of-factly. "He lives there, and he doesn't like the window being left open. He gets cold."

I smiled to myself, thinking that this was yet another imaginary friend that he had made in his mind, but something in the tone of his voice made me hesitate.

"And what does this man look like?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Tommy hesitated. "Big and tall," he whispered. "He watches me at night."

"Sounds like he's a nice man, if he's keeping an eye on you when me and mom can't." I said, hoping to soothe him. This had happened before, after all. Tommy had gotten himself worked up in the past, becoming scared of the creatures his mind had created.

Tommy shook his head. "He scares me when it's dark," he said, his voice quivering. "His head hangs at a funny angle."

I, for some reason, felt nauseous when he said this. I forced a smile and said, "How about we leave your nightlight on tonight? I'll ask the man if it's okay."

Tommy nodded hesitantly. After tucking him in, I checked the window to make sure it was locked and glanced around the room.

"Hey, Mr. man," I said in a playful tone. "Is it all right if we leave Tommy's nightlight on tonight?"

The quiet hung in a bit thicker than it ought to, and for an instant, the shadows seemed deeper. I shrugged the notion away, ruffling Tommy's hair. "See? He says that's okay."

Tommy was frowning, but he was too tired to protest. I gave him a goodnight kiss and left the room.

Over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that settled on my chest. Tommy’s words replayed in my mind. His fear felt too real to dismiss.

A few nights later, while lying in bed, I heard faint scratching noises coming from Tommy’s room—soft, deliberate, like nails against wood. I wanted to dismiss it as the house settling, but deep down, I knew something was wrong.

I began to research the house, an old Victorian home we'd moved into a few years earlier. I mananged to find a decades-old newspaper article about a man named Arthur Dunlop in the library's archives.

The headline read: Local Man Found Dead in Home—Cause Ruled Suicide.

Arthur Dunlop, a man in his late 30s, had been found dead in the house. The cause of death was a gunshot wound, but what caught my attention was the description: "His body was found in a sitting position, with his head at an unusual angle, as if it had been twisted unnaturally."

I felt my heart drop.

The connection was just too chilling to ignore.

A few days later, I sat Tommy down in the kitchen. "Can you tell me more about the man in the wall?" I asked softly.

Tommy clutched his stuffed giraffe tightly and looked up towards the walls, as if checking to see anyone but us were in the kitchen.

"He's sad," he told me. "He doesn't like being alone. He say that house belongs to him."

Tommy's voice dropped to a whisper as he pulled me close to him, like he wasn't allowed to be telling me any of this. He was acting like it was some big secret.

"When it's cold, it hurts him. That's why he doesn't like the window open, he'll get angry... and take me into the walls."

I remember how those words sent a shiver down my spine.

That night, I tucked Tommy in, making sure the window was locked and the nightlight was on. I stayed up, listening. Shortly after midnight I heard it once more—the faint scratching. Racing upstairs, I found Tommy sitting upright in bed, tears streaming down his face.

"He's mad," Tommy whimpered. "He's mad because you asked too many questions."

Before I could answer, the nightlight flickered and everything went dark.

The room's temperature dropped drastically, so much so that I could see my own breath, and the wall opposite Tommy's bed started to ripple.

A hump in the wall began to bulge outward, as if something was trying to press through from the other side. A low moan rumbled as a dark shape materialized, lanky-climbed, hunchbacked, its head swinging loose in an impossible position.

"He is mine!" Came a growling, gurgling voice as the shape got closer. "I shall take what is mine."

"No!" I screamed, grabbing Tommy and pulling him close.

The man's shadowy form loomed closer. The cold intensified, and the air felt like it was being sucked toward the wall. Desperate, I threw the window open, letting a blast of icy wind rush in. The man let out a horrible scream as his form began to writhe and dissolve, like the cold air was tearing him apart.

The room shook, and then everything was still. The oppressive chill lifted, and the man was gone.

Tommy and I never spoke about that night again. The house felt normal after that—no more scratches, no more flickering lights. As Tommy grew older, he forgot the man entirely. I almost did too...

Until tonight.

Tucking my eight-year-old daughter into bed, she clutched her giraffe, the one that used to belong to Tommy, and looked at me with wide, frightened eyes.

"Mommy," she whispered, her voice quivering. "The man in the wall doesn't like it when you leave the window open."

It started out like a scene from some dreamy romantic movie. I was in the cereal aisle, reaching for the last box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and her hand brushed mine as she reached for it too. I looked up to find myself staring into the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She laughed, the sound soft and musical, and said, “Guess we’ve got the same taste.” She had this easygoing confidence, like she wasn’t a stranger but someone I’d known forever.

Her name was Kate. She was beautiful in that effortless way, with a quick smile and this energy that seemed to light up the air around her. Over coffee, I learned she was smart, funny, with a way of looking right at you like you were the only person in the room. That day led to a second date, and a third, until days turned into weeks, and I was hooked.

She had a mysterious edge, though, something she didn’t fully reveal. It was in the way she talked about her family, this tight-knit group of women who lived on a “homestead” tucked deep in the woods. “It’s like a haven,” she said. “No noise, no distractions. Just peace.” She smiled, but her eyes had this far-off look, like she was seeing something I couldn’t. Then, one night, she asked me to visit the homestead with her. She wanted me to “see her world,” as she put it. I didn’t hesitate—I would’ve followed her anywhere.

The drive was longer than I expected, and the forest seemed to close in tighter around us the further we went. We finally turned down a dirt road that snaked through dense trees, branches scraping against the car windows. It was almost dark when we reached the homestead, a cluster of cabins that seemed to appear out of nowhere, nestled deep in the shadows of the trees.

I’d expected some idyllic little village, but this place felt wrong, oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen. Women stood in front of their cabins, watching as we pulled in, their expressions unreadable. Kate led me inside one of the larger cabins, handed me a cup of tea. I took a sip, but it tasted strange, metallic and bitter. The room spun, my vision blurred, and the last thing I saw was Kate’s face, her smile melting into a cold, unfeeling stare.

When I woke, I was lying on a cold, damp stone floor. My wrists were bound behind my back, my head pounding as I tried to focus. The room was dark, the air thick with the smell of mold and something metallic… something like blood. I struggled, called out, but my voice echoed back, hollow and empty. Then I heard a low, rattling breath from somewhere nearby.

“Quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself,” came a voice, barely more than a whisper.

I twisted, straining to see, and finally spotted him—a man slumped in the corner, his face battered and bruised, his eyes hollow with terror. He looked at me, his gaze a mixture of despair and something else… recognition.

“They got you too,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto mine, then shifting, almost fearfully, toward the door.

“What… what is this place?” I managed, panic clawing up my throat.

He shook his head, voice trembling. “She told you her name was Kate, didn’t she?” He laughed bitterly, his voice like sandpaper. “Yeah, that’s what she told me too. Kate, Ashley, Mary… she’s used them all. It’s not her real name. None of them are real.”

A chill crept up my spine. I tried to argue, to defend her, but his eyes held a look that crushed every word before it formed.

“She and the others bring men here,” he continued, his voice hollow. “They lure us, charm us, bring us here like lambs to the slaughter. I’ve been here for days, maybe weeks… watching them kill.”

I barely had time to process his words before the door creaked open. Kate walked in, but she wasn’t the woman I’d fallen for. She was cold, her eyes as dark as the shadows pressing in around us. Two other women followed her, their faces as blank and hollow as hers. They grabbed the man, dragging him out of the room. His screams started almost immediately, desperate and raw, growing fainter until there was only silence.

When they brought him back, he was nothing more than a lifeless shell, his face twisted in horror. I felt bile rise in my throat as I looked away, fighting down the panic, trying to keep control.

Hours passed, maybe days. I barely ate, barely slept, every sound from above making me flinch, my mind unraveling as I waited for them to come back for me. I thought about my family, my friends, anyone who might notice I was gone. But the days kept dragging on, and my hope was slipping away.

Then, one night, a new prisoner arrived, a man no older than me, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. I watched him, hoping he had a plan, but he was as lost as I was. And then, one night, he snapped. I watched as he managed to loosen his bindings and dashed for the door, his footsteps frantic as he bolted down the hall. I heard him shout as he made it to the clearing outside… followed by a single, echoing gunshot. His body hit the ground with a dull, final thud.

And then there was silence.

I’d given up. There was no hope, no escape. I was weak, broken, waiting for the inevitable. But then, in a desperate flash, I remembered my smartwatch. I must have triggered the emergency alert when I’d thrashed against my restraints. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, time slipping through my fingers. And then, faintly, I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. My heart hammered as red and blue lights flashed through the cabin windows, the harsh beams cutting through the darkness. Shouts erupted outside, doors splintered open, footsteps thundered above me. And then, hands were on me, lifting me, carrying me out.

As I stumbled out of the cabin, I looked back, and there she was—Kate, or whatever her name was. She stood in the shadows just beyond the reach of the lights, her expression as empty as the forest around her, her eyes meeting mine with a look that chilled me to the bone. She watched me as they led me away, and then she vanished into the trees.

The police found nothing but the empty cabins when they returned; Kate and the others had vanished without a trace.

I’m back in the city now, safe, but I still can’t shake the feeling that it’s not over. Late at night, I catch glimpses of her in crowds, feel her eyes on me from across a crowded street, see her smile in strangers’ faces. And I know, one day, I’ll turn around, and she’ll be there—waiting, ready to lure her next victim into the darkness.

Ever since I was little, my imagination could conjure up things far more frightening than any horror film. I remember my astonishment when I realized not everyone sees images in their heads. The concept of aphantasia was trending online (at least in my algorithm) a year or two ago and it blew my mind. Upon reading people’s experience with it, I concluded I had whatever the opposite of aphantasia was. The internal pictures I created were so vivid and detailed that as a child I often got in trouble at school for daydreaming.

It’s always somewhat embarrassing when people ask me if I’ve read any good books lately. I was an avid reader–but I rarely read published books. In my experience, “amateur” writers were often far more talented than writers with publishing companies backing their work. The amount of bookmarked fanfiction I had read that was better than the source material was ever increasing in my mobile browser. Hell, sometimes I even preferred to read erotic literature rather than watch porn while masturbating. Maybe it was the control and freedom granted by my own imagination rather than consuming someone else’s visual representation.

So if I wanted to indulge in some creepy content, reading scary stories online was my go to. And there was no shortage of scary stories on the internet. My usual source consisted of one website in particular that allowed me to sort the top rated scary short stories of the week, month, or year published by users of the site. Every few weeks or so after settling in bed for the evening, I would sort the top stories of the week or month (depending on my last scary stories session) as I lay in bed on my phone, sometimes for hours on end depending on how intriguing the stories were.

Although I would like to consider myself a very level headed person, I can admit that some of the stories were quite eerie and disturbing. My solitude combined with the darkness of the night made for a chilling atmosphere from time to time. Like I said, I have a very active imagination, and depending on the writer, I was able to envision some terrifying images in my head. I could easily spook myself out and let my brain get the best of me. Tonight was one of those nights when I felt extra on edge–slightly paranoid, but in a good way. Why else do people like getting freaked out? It’s fun. It gives me a little rush, but on my terms in a safe and controlled environment. It’s like microdosing danger–would I ever go underground to explore an abandoned bunker? Fuck no, but I liked to imagine what that would be like if I did.

I knew I was a little jumpier than usual when I reacted to a sound outside my bedroom window with a gasp. It sounded like an acorn that fell from the tree and bumped the glass on the way down. Because that’s more than likely what it was. I lived in an old house in an old neighborhood with very tall, mature trees. It was a pain in the ass cleaning my gutters and hiring tree trimmers, but I loved having trees in my hard. It was extremely common for debris (dead branches, acorns) to fall off the trees and hit my house if it was windy or stormy–and there had been steady but random thumps all throughout the evening. I shuddered a little with the heebie-jeebies despite chuckling under my breath at my silly nerves.

Brushing off some more thump sounds, I closed the tab of the story I had just finished. I went down the list of posted stories methodically, opening them one at a time in a new tab to ensure I wouldn’t skip or miss anything. The links would of course become gray and faded once I clicked them, so the unread ones were white (if you use Chrome in dark mode). Which was why I found it strange that when I returned to the main page in the original tab, there was a link to a story that I had not yet clicked on. The title was right there in white. I swore it was not there before–I was certain I would have opened it in a new tab. I remembered the story about the astronaut that was right above the post and the story about the campers that was right below it. But there it was in the middle, unclicked. So naturally I tapped to open in a new tab and started reading.

The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of the lamp on the nightstand, with a flickering alarm clock casting a red glow over a half-empty glass of water. A queen-sized bed sits in the center adorned with a dark green plaid blanket slightly tangled up in the sheets. The mismatched dresser in a different shade of wood than the nightstand is flush against the wall on the left side of the bed, boasting a few dusty knick knacks and keepsakes on top. The door to the ensuite bathroom is ajar, where a thin sliver of moonlight illuminates the floor. He’s laying in his bed, facing away from me, lost in whatever he’s doing on his phone. It’s almost too easy. The way he keeps glancing at the window, but never truly seeing me. I’ve been here for hours, standing still, barely breathing. He doesn’t know I’m watching, not yet.

I immediately sat up in my bed, feeling my stomach drop. It was a perfect description of my bedroom. It was definitively, unmistakably my bedroom. My chest felt tight as pins and needles of anxiety formed in my extremities. My brain instantly went to write this off as a joke. It had to be a prank right? One of my friends was messing with me. The thought did nothing to quell the adrenaline racing through my body. My phone slipped out my now sweaty hand and fell to the floor. I bent down to get it, the loud noise startling me out of my frightened trance. My reflection stared back at me from the black screen as I unlocked my phone. I hadn’t meant to keep reading the story, but something in the next paragraph caught my eye.

The man stirs, sitting up in bed as the dim light from his phone casts shadows across the room. The phone slips from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He leans forward, his head and shoulders dipping out of sight as he reaches down to retrieve it, the faint glow illuminating the edge of the mattress.

I heard another thump and whipped my head towards my window while simultaneously leaping out of bed, cowering with my back up against the wall. I stayed there for a few moments, listening for any other noises as there was nothing I could see with my blinds shut. Silence. My breath shaking, I slowly crept towards the only window in my room, careful not to make a sound. With my heart pounding, I crouched down and ever so slightly lifted the bottom of my blinds to peak out the window. It was a pitch black night, but my flood lights were on, so I could pretty much see my whole yard.

There was nothing.

Slightly more confident, I reached for the string and fully opened my blinds. I took a deep breath and really scanned my yard, focusing on every detail possible. It was totally empty from what I could see. I quickly shut the blinds and started checking every window of my house–the kitchen, the living room, the guest room, both bathrooms–and each time I found nothing. I checked my front, side, and garage door. They were all locked. I walked back to my room and sat at the foot of my bed, unlocking my phone to quickly exit Chrome (not wanting to see any more of the story) and pull up my security camera app. I had four different cameras angled on each side of the house to give me almost full visibility of the perimeter. The feed showed nothing out of the ordinary. There was no movement other than the rustling of flora from the wind. I exhaled a gust of air and sat back down on my bed. I felt chagrined for letting my paranoia get the best of me. There had to be a rational explanation. It could be a massive, once-in-a-lifetime coincidence. And I hadn’t moved on from the idea that it could be a friend playing an extremely well-thought out joke.

I looked at my phone and opened the story back up, averting my eyes from any of the text, and clicked on the OP’s username. The story was their only post. No followers, no comments, no activity at all except for this one story. Should I call the police? And say what exactly? After some deliberating, I decided to casually message a few of my friends who I could maybe see doing something like this. But it was very late and a week night; only one friend responded to say that he was babysitting his nephew while his brother and sister and law went out for their anniversary. The likelihood of one of my friends pulling a prank this elaborate on me was very low, so I rationalized that this just had to be one hell of a spooky coincidence.

I took another deep breath, realizing what I had to do. But before that, I double checked my entire house one more time. I checked all the locks, looked outside all the windows, turned on all the lights, investigated every possible hiding spot, opened up all my closets and cabinets, and examined my security camera feed before I felt comfortable enough to go back to the story. Ashamedly, I crawled into my bedroom closet and shut the door after turning on the light. It did make me feel a little bit better that the safe with my gun was in here. My hands were shaking as I went back to finish reading the story.

His heart thuds in his chest as he creeps through the house, the floorboards groaning under his cautious steps. Every shadow seems to shift as he passes, every creak of the settling walls a whisper of unseen movement. He checks the locks on the doors—once, twice, then again—and peers out the windows, his breath fogging the glass. The silence presses against his ears as he moves from room to room, opening closets and glancing behind furniture, certain he wasn’t alone. Yet no matter how many places he checks, the feeling of being watched only grows stronger.

“Fuck!” I yelled as I threw my phone down, scrambling on all fours to my safe. I pressed the code, flinging the door open, and hurriedly loaded six bullets into my grandad’s .357 revolver. On the verge of hyperventilating, I crawled back to my phone and opened the tab to read the next paragraph.

Desperation claws at him as he slips into the bedroom closet, slamming the door shut. He crouches low, his knees brushing against the rough carpet, the scent of old fabric and cedar filling the cramped space. Clad in thin plaid pajama pants and a wrinkled white T-shirt that clung to his damp skin, he hugs his knees to his chest. His bare feet are cold, the chill seeping into him as he strains to hear beyond the muffled thud of his own heartbeat. His hands tremble as he pulls his phone from his pocket, the faint glow of the screen casting a blue tint on his face. As he unlocks the screen, his breath catches. The words stare back at him: "He forgot to check the attic." A loud thump above him breaks the silence.

I need advice on a situation and whether I’m in danger rn. This might not be the right sub to ask whether I need like an exorcist or something but I don't think I would be able to get one anytime soon so I just want to not have to keep this to myself.

What happened was that I (22M) was on a family trip to New Hampshire to visit my divorced aunt (47F) and uncle (49M) and cousins (one is 27M, the other 11M). They have two cars, one of which belongs to aunt and the other to older cousin. Aunt is a reasonably safety-minded person who has seatbelts in her car whereas older cousin is a New Hampshire style libertarian with a hiccup about seatbelts, nice person otherwise though, not MAGA or anything.

Basically, one person had to go pick up younger cousin and the other go get groceries. Aunt doesn't let the kid go in the car without a seatbelt, so the older cousin was going to take groceries and she was going to pick up the kid. Problem was that 27M cousin was having a migraine and couldn't drive, so I offered to run groceries for him.

I had to miss one of the things that uncle had planned because I got lost on the way there, and both me and aunt would have preferred if my Mom (56F) or Dad (51M) grabbed the groceries, but my parents always disappear on these trips. They’ve liked to dump me on my aunt since I was little and we had no clue why. The one time I managed to track one of them down before we were leaving, Dad was despondent and I suspect a bit drunk. He’s never like that back home, but it definitely means he couldn't do either car-related task safely. Aunt knew about this from me and we both thought Mom might be getting tired and emotional too.

So, when I was driving in the freedom car, something went really wrong. I can't remember what it was, and I haven't been able to remember a lot of things that well recently, but I remember my heart going up, my head muscles tensing, and there being a white blur out the window. I think I went through it when I went out the window.

After that I don't remember any pain. I remember a feeling of weightlessness, and a wood smell. Then I had a feeling of being dragged by the foot, but it was like my foot was far away behind me. The temperature went between being hot and cold a few times before I started to see again.

I was in a bed in an ambulance. I didn't feel any soreness anywhere and the EMTs weren't telling me not to, so I sat up. There was an old man in the car (or room? I don't know the proper term for the inside of an ambulance,) who didn't look like he was one of them. Then I noticed that my proprioception wasn't lining up with my vision, and realized that I was sitting on top of my own body.

Though I felt like I had sat up and could move, I couldn't see anything where it felt like my hands were, and waving my invisible ghost hands at the EMTs didn't get their attention. This was when the scraggly old man started talking.

He told me, “That doesn't work. We can't do that most of the time.”

This is when I started to think that I was dead and not just having a hallucination or weird dream. Not one of the EMTs looked at him when he talked and it really creeped me out.

At this point I had caught up enough with my surroundings to take note of what he looked like. Dirty blond, like me, poorly-kept beard, male pattern baldness. I think he was seventy at most, and how messy he looked is probably making me overestimate. He had an accent that I think is either French Canadian or Russian (yep that's kind of broad, I’m not amazing at telling different accents apart) and had a lisp where he couldn't make a “th” sound.

I didn't say anything else to him, but he went on to tell me “I’ve been with you since you were very little,” and “It's well past time you caught up with me.” I told him I didn't want anything to do with him and he started shouting, but I couldn't catch anything with his thick accent. After a few minutes he calmed down. He’d periodically say “thirty bucks” (or at least that's what I heard) for the rest of the time I was aware during the ride, but didn't look at me.

Then I woke up in the hospital. I don't remember being taken from the ambulance to the hospital room, so I think that they stabilized me before then. The old man in the ambulance was gone, and the doctors told me I was in cardiac arrest when the EMTs found me. I would be bed bound for some time while my ribs and sternum healed, and possibly need occupational therapy after that due to nerve damage from lack of oxygen.

My parents showed up to visit me. Dad was slurring really badly, but Mom wasn't, so I decided to talk to her on her own. I didn't think I’d get much useful from her if I asked about a weird man in the ambulance talking to me, so I asked if she knew anyone who talked like him, with the accent and the lisp and vocal tic. I largely expected her to know nothing, but instead she got really defensive and insisted that no such person existed. I didn't tell her anything about how I met him, so I don't know why she'd have any reason to think that. I tried asking Dad next, and he got very solemn (more solemn than I thought someone that shit-faced could be) and told me that the two of them vowed to never speak of that man and refused to elaborate.

This has got me really worried. I haven't seen the strange man since, and mom and dad aren't talking to me, so it's just my aunt and the hospital staff. What I saw might be funkiness from the cardiac arrest, and this lingering paranoia might be the same or from isolation or the lack of sleep I’ve had. The staff tell me that getting sleep will help me heal faster, but I just can't. I hear this clacking sound down the hallway at night and it keeps me up. I'm too nervous to ask anyone else if they hear it. It sounds like hard plastic on tile.

It sounds like he's pacing.

Between 1971 and 1978, a series of child kidnappings plagued Pierce County, Washington.

The victims were abducted from locations typically associated with “family fun,” such as movie theaters, bowling alleys, playgrounds, and in one case Point Defiance State Park.

According to witnesses, each child vanished after being yelled at, grabbed, or otherwise publicly disciplined by a parent, after which the children went away to pout or cry and simply never returned.

Twelve children eventually vanished in this manner. 

In November 1978, a bizarre mass grave was discovered in rural Eatonville, Washington. Within the grave were the remains of twenty-three children in various stages of decay. The oldest remains were skeletal, while the freshest still had somewhat recognizable facial features.

Each child was laid out under a blanket with evidence of having been “tucked in,” and had a makeshift pillow under their heads and a toy of some kind pressed into their arms. 

At autopsy, all of the children were found to have moss, leaves, twigs, and tree bark in their stomachs. Seven appeared to have died of intestinal blockage related to this peculiar diet. The others died of starvation. 

Most disturbingly, six of the children bore injuries consistent with long-term physical abuse. Eight bore no such injuries. Nine were too decomposed to definitively assess the presence of injuries.

The discovery of the corpses was handled with supreme delicacy by the Pierce County Sheriff, who had prior experiences with the Agency of Helping Hands and recognized that this discovery was in line with AHH’s scope of responsibilities.

The agency promptly launched an investigation. Twelve of the corpses were linked to the abduction victims. An additional eight children were identified during the course of the investigation. Three of the victims remain unidentified to this day.

After interviewing witnesses to the known abductions, the agency determined that a woman with distinctive red hair and a mildly deformed face had been present immediately prior to each disappearance. 

Adult witnesses were uniformly unhelpful. However, witnesses who were minors or had been minors at the time of sighting provided valuable information. The most detailed eyewitness report is consistent with other known reports. It has been summarized below:

Five-year-old Breanna S. was at a pizza restaurant with an attached arcade with her parents and brother. 

Approximately an hour after arrival, Breanna asked her mother for additional game tokens. Her mother refused loudly, asking if Breanna thought they were “made of money.” Breanna argued, at which point her father began to yell at her, too. The witness described the father’s tirade as an expletive-laden temper tantrum that shocked witnesses.

Breanna began to cry, at which point her father spanked her for “being a selfish crybaby.”

Breanna broke away and ran off, weeping. When her father attempted to follow, a staff member intervened, resulting in an altercation.

Breanna fled to a corner to cry in private.

A few minutes later, a woman with red hair and an “unusual face” approached Breanna. Breanna initially pulled away, perhaps put off by the woman’s peculiar appearance, but the woman appeared to quickly win her over by asking Breanna her favorite food.

Breanna responded that her favorite food was ice cream. The woman asked Breanna if she wanted to go get an ice cream. Breanna agreed.

Other children in the vicinity, including the primary witness, clamored to tag along, but the woman gently refused, saying that Breanna deserved a treat because she had “bad parents.”

The woman took Breanna by the hand and instructed her to look over at her parents, who were still engaged in conflict with arcade staff. She gave a little wave in their direction. “Before we go, say ‘Bye-bye, Mommy!’”

Breanna obediently repeated, “Bye-bye, Mommy.” 

The moment the phrase was uttered, the juvenile witnesses begin to panic. According to the primary witness, this is because the phrase was consistent with retellings of a local urban legend known, naturally, as the “Bye-Bye Mommy.”

The juveniles tried to raise the alarm, but the ongoing altercation between staff and Breanna’s parents rendered them unheard as the red-haired woman melted into the crowd with Breanna by her side.

Breanna was never seen again.

After exhumation from the mass grave in Eatonville, Breanna’s body was among those that showed signs of long-term physical mistreatment. 

The agency investigated the the so-called “Bye-Bye Mommy” for weeks. According to urban folklore, she was a vengeful boogeyman who spirited away disobedient children — particularly children who defied their parents in public. Information was scant for such a widespread tale, primarily consisting of three rumors:

A. The entity looked deformed—or so the rumor went—because her mean husband punched her so hard that he broke her face

B. After selecting a victim, the entity insisted he or she say, “Bye-bye, Mommy” before kidnapping them

C. Children taken by the Bye-Bye Mommy were never seen again, resulting in considerable fear among local children at the time

Disturbingly, nearly half of the victims exhumed from the mass grave were never reported missing.

As previously stated, some were never identified. However, of the unreported victims that were identified, one was undocumented, four were homeless runaways, and three had been in foster care at the time of

disappearance. The parents of the runaways and the guardians of the foster children either already had, or were later discovered to have, histories of mistreating minors in their care.

This information contradicts the prevailing rumor that the entity punished disobedient children by way of kidnapping, and lends credence to her claims that she only took – or in her words, rescued – children living with subpar guardians. 

The agency experienced great difficulty in tracking this entity. As it was impossible to identify and set watch over every victim of child neglect or abuse in Pierce County, personnel decided to stake out the mass gravesite. 

After eight weeks, the entity finally returned to the gravesite. When she saw that the remains of the children were no longer present, she flew into a rage. As is common with such entities, the high emotion disrupted her physical state and she began to “morph,” assuming a disturbing appearance that presented signs of decay, bodily trauma, and nonhuman proportions. 

Agency personnel failed to apprehend her using standard methods, in the process placing themselves in mortal danger. One agent, thinking quickly, screamed that she needed the entity’s help to rescue her baby brother, who was being abused by her stepfather. (Please note that this agent had neither a baby brother nor a stepfather.) She stated that her brother had prayed to Jesus for the Bye-Bye Mommy to help him, and was waiting for her to rescue him.

Due to the her distress over the missing bodies, the entity did not—or perhaps could not—resume normal proportions, but she followed the agent in order to help this nonexistent baby brother. The agent directed the entity to the Agency’s nearest field location, whose personnel were equipped to capture and transport the entity. 

Once in custody, the Agency was able to trace the entity’s origins quite easily.

Before her death, the Bye-Bye Mommy was a woman with multiple complaints of child abuse and one charge of neglect. Shortly before her death, she sent her young daughter to live with the child’s equally-unfit father after the child upset her.

This was the last time she ever saw her daughter.

Remorse quickly set in. She attempted to retrieve her daughter for the next three months, but was unsuccessful. One night, she had a nightmare in which her daughter was emaciated and panicking as a “pack of monsters” smothered her.

The nightmare was so powerful that upon waking, she immediately called emergency services before driving to her ex’s house, a trip of approximately thirty-five minutes.

By the time she arrived, EMS was onsite and had confirmed the child’s death.

In a fit of rage, the mother attacked her ex as the police escorted him out of the house. The ex hit her back with enough force to break her jaw and cheekbone. She then threw herself in front of an oncoming EMS vehicle, killing herself. 

Suffice to say she did not stay dead.

While issues arise in assigning human standards of sanity, insanity, and culpability to our extraordinary inmates, it is my opinion that the Bye-Bye Mommy is not sane.

Contrary to the belief that she abducted children to punish them, she believes she was saving them. Had she been a more competent and substantially less narcissistic protector, perhaps she could have. 

Instead, she held her victims captive at an undisclosed location rural Pierce County until they died. The entity insists she took her victims to a beautiful home she built after her death, and fed them the most delicious food in the world.

Initially, this claim was completely dismissed by Agency personnel. Later assessment of the entity’s abilities, however, showed that she is capable of throwing an immersive glamour, something akin to a full-body virtual reality experience. In her own words: “I took these babies away from hell to a heaven with a beautiful house, friendly pets, and delicious food – a place where treats grow on trees and nothing is ever dirty, where a mother loves them and the children are happy with me forever.” Needless to say, the entity is a profoundly unreliable narrator and caution must be exercised at all times when engaging with her.

The source of the entity’s glamour-casting appears derives from a coping mechanism of—for lack of a better term—“rewriting history.” Her personal mental instability and immense guilt over the death of her daughter led her to create a false history in which she is an ideal mother.

Through processes not yet understood, the power of this delusion increased substantially at the time of her death, enabling her to design, bring into being, and inhabit a false reality in which she is a perfect parental figure.

Most impressively, she is able to bring others into this false reality alongside her. 

This explains several things about her behavior, such as the fact that the kidnapped children never attempted to escape the entity, as well as the fact that their digestive tracts were full of inedible matter—the entity was making the children (and herself) perceive twigs, leaves, and bark as delicious food.

Without children to “save,” the entity’s internal landscape and false reality have grown substantially more destructive. That she exists in a state of perpetual anguish cannot be denied.

The entity’s prognosis is very poor. Due to her instability her substantial mental suffering, and the danger she poses, the agency long ago made the decision to terminate her.

Unfortunately, despite numerous efforts with every tool and method the Agency possesses, termination had been unsuccessful.

One agent proposed a pilot program wherein the entity might help identify and rescue abused children, but Administration is of the opinion that the incredible complications inherent in such a proposal and the reliance on local law enforcement to maintain secrecy render this plan impossible.

Further, Administration believes that even if these complications could be neutralized in some way, the entity’s instability renders her entirely unsuitable for such work. There is also the issue of her relative youth; she is undoubtedly a young entity. In the way that young rattlesnakes are more dangerous than older ones, so are young inmates. They cannot control themselves, they possess little to no emotional regulation, and they wield their abilities thoughtlessly.

Substantial attempts have been made by staff psychiatrist Dr. Wingaryde to rewire the entity’s internal reality to something more pleasant. All attempts have failed, and in one case Agency personnel perished as a result.

The consensus is that the Agency is unable to utilize this entity, or rehabilitate her, or even soothe her. At this time, the entity will be held indefinitely, pending discovery of a successful mode of termination.

Subject: The Bye-Bye Mommy

Classification String: Noncooperative / Indestructible / Khthonic / Protean / Moderate / Hemitheos

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Date: 11/18/2024

I really thought I’d be a good mom. 

I could have been. I’d have been the best mother on earth if someone had just shown me how. But no one ever did. That’s why I didn’t know what to do.

I knew what not to do. I learned that from my own mother. It was one rule, easy to follow: 

Just don’t do anything she did.

Don’t scream at your kids for no reason. Don’t hit them for any reason. Don’t embarrass them in public. Don’t tear them down. Don’t let other people hurt them. Don’t ignore them when they need you. Don’t even ignore them when they want you. You’re the most important person to your children. The most important person ever. So act like it. 

And don’t ever, ever withhold food. Always feed your kids. Always feed them first. No matter what. Always.

I knew what not to do. But knowing what not to do isn’t the same as knowing what to do. I know that now.

But I didn’t know that when Amber was born.

I was fifteen. My mom kicked me out. Told me I was still the same whore I’d always been, and to get out and never come back. So Amber’s dad took me in. He definitely wasn’t fifteen, but fifteen-year-olds can’t rent apartments so it was for the best.

Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t for the best at all.

But that doesn’t matter. None of that matters. 

All that matters is Amber.

I couldn’t wait for her to be born. I couldn’t wait to have a baby, to have my own family. Someone who would always be with me. Someone who would always need me. 

Someone who would always love me. 

Except when she finally got here, I didn’t know what to do because no one ever showed me how. I didn’t know what to do when she wouldn’t sleep, or when she screamed until her little voice got raw, or when I couldn’t make any milk or when the formula made her sick or when she had allergic reactions to her diapers.

I just didn’t know what to do.

That’s why I ended up doing what I wasn’t supposed to do.

I screamed at her, especially when her father screamed at me because she was screaming. Sometimes I left her alone in her crib in the closet when I couldn’t take it anymore. I ignored her. I let her dad shriek at her until she was hysterical because it kept him from screaming at me. And when I got tired of her constant sick belly I didn’t feed her, sometimes for hours. Once or twice for a whole day, especially when she got older.

But even though I did everything I wasn’t supposed to do, she loved me anyway. And she loved me even more as she got older. Even when I didn’t stop doing things I shouldn’t do, she kept loving me.

She still wanted to snuggle with me every night. She still wanted to share her toys with me and have pretend tea parties with me and she still wanted me to curl her hair and make her pretty and take her to the playground and the bowling alley. She loved bowling. She couldn’t even pick up a bowling ball. Not even the ones they make for kids.

And if Amber had just been that way all the time — the snuggly, playful, pretty little mommy’s girl who loved tea parties and playgrounds and bowling — I would have been the perfect mom without even trying.  

But she wasn’t.

In between those good times, she was a fucking monster. A screaming, petty, jealous, selfish, insecure little monster who took all of her anger out on me, just like her father.

It wasn’t her fault. She learned it from him. I let her learn it from him. I knew that. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier for me. It definitely didn’t make her behave any better. And the worse she got, the meaner her father got.

I did everything I wasn’t supposed to, I already told you that. But he did worse. So much worse. No wonder my baby girl was turning into a monster. But she didn’t have to be a monster. Just like me, she had the potential for perfection.

But just like me, no one had ever shown her how.

I was a good mom in my heart, just a victim of circumstances. I thought if I changed my circumstances I’d be a better mother, which would make Amber a better daughter. That’s why I finally left her father. I knew leaving would make everything better.

It didn’t. 

No matter what I did, nothing got better. It only got worse.

Amber was too horrible for the babysitters, so I couldn’t keep a job. Without a job, I couldn’t keep an apartment. I had no choice: I had to beg my mother to let me come home.

My mother told me I was the problem. That I was the reason Amber was so horrible, because she needed to escape me. And one day, she told me she had solved Amber’s problem once and for all by calling Amber’s father.

I didn’t think he’d come. Really. In fact, I knew he wouldn’t come. He hated Amber. He hated me. He hated us. 

But he came to get her anyway.

I didn’t stop him. I didn’t know how. No one ever showed me how. How can you do anything when you don’t know how?

Amber didn’t want to go with him, but she listened when I said she had to. 

As he led her outside, she looked back at me. I could tell she was hoping I would come with her. She didn’t look away until she reached the door. I think that’s when she knew I wasn’t going to follow, because the hope in her eyes went away. The light in her died as I watched. And then my dark, lightless little girl said to me, “Bye-bye, Mommy.” And I knew I’d made a mistake. 

I knew it.

That was the last time I ever saw my daughter.

It was the biggest mistake I ever made, and I was so sorry.

I spent three months trying to get her back, but her father wouldn’t let me. He trespassed me from his house. He filed for custody. His mother told horrible stories about me and lies about things I did to Amber. She even told the court I was using drugs.

I thought of Amber all the time. I remembered how perfect she could be, especially on the days we snuggled and had tea parties and went to the playground and curled her hair. I loved her hair. How soft and smooth, the way it shone in the sun like strands of light.

I dreamed about her, too. Wonderful dreams where we lived in a beautiful sunny house in the country, with a giant backyard and orchards and a dog — she always wanted a dog — and the most delicious food for every single meal. Those dreams felt so real. More real than real.

But one night, I had the worst dream I’ve ever had. It was about Amber. She wasn’t perfect in the dream. She was scared. She was hurt. She was emaciated and crying as this— this horde of laughing monsters smothered her. And it felt real. More real than real. More real even than the perfect dreams.

When I woke up, I called the police. I told a lie. I said my daughter had drowned in her father’s pool. He didn’t have a pool, but I knew it would make the ambulance come. Then I drove over to her father’s house. I remember watching the clock. It took me exactly thirty-seven minutes.

By the time I got there, she was dead. She’d been dead a whole day. I saw her body, as they were bringing it out. I don’t—I can’t—

They brought her father’s mother out in handcuffs. But he wasn’t in handcuffs. Even though this was all his fault, he wasn’t in handcuffs. 

I have never been so angry. I will never be so angry again. I launched myself at him with everything I had. He hit back hard enough to make my face explode. My eyesight turned red, then it went dark. I felt bones and splinters of bones grinding in my face. But none of that mattered. 

All that mattered was my rage.

I got up and hit him again. This time, he grabbed me and forced me across the yard, out into the street, and threw me down right as the ambulance with my daughter’s body sped off. It hit me.

Everything exploded then.

I went to sleep.

I woke up in a house. The brightest, biggest, cleanest house, flooded with sunlight.

There were orchards in the back. Greenhouses, too. A swingset in the yard. Even a dog and a small white cat. I’ve always wanted a small white cat.

It was perfect. Beyond perfect. The perfect house from all my dreams, with everything I could ever want.

Everything, that is, except a family to live in it.

I don’t remember how I found my new daughter. Isn’t that strange? All I remember are voices. Yelling. A woman yelling at this tiny, crying girl.

I found her in a playground, in tears while her angry mother packed up a stroller. “You don’t want to come home? Fine,” she raged. “You stay here and play. I’m going home without you.”

Despite all that, I hesitated. 

I knew what to do now. I knew how to be a good mother. That meant I could show this lady how to be a good mother. Demonstrate the error of her ways. I could teach her to be better.

But why?

Why show her when no one had shown me? In the end, I had to exist with my choices. This woman would have live with hers.

So I went to the little girl while her useless mother ranted and raged and threw her things into her awful little car.

The girl was scared of me at first. She even opened her mouth to scream. Without thinking, I took her hand in mine. 

Her scream turned to giggles.

“Don’t be scared,” I soothed. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Cupcakes,” she said shyly. 

“Well, guess what? I have cupcakes at my house. A hundred cupcakes, in every flavor ever. Want to go eat some?”

She nodded.

“Yay! We’ll go right now. But first, say goodbye to your mommy. So she doesn’t worry.”

Obediently, she turned and said, “Bye-bye, Mommy.”

The woman didn’t even notice. That was all the proof I needed. She had no excuse. She didn’t deserve her daughter.

But I did.

So I took the girl by the hand — her tiny, soft, trusting hand — and brought her home.

Dinner was already on the table when we arrived. Roast chicken, smoked turkey, a spiral cut ham, buttery bread sending tendrils of steam into the golden air. Vegetables and fresh fruit and more milk than we would ever need, and a buffet of desserts on the counter.

She ate so much. 

I’d never seen a child eat so much. I wondered if Amber would eat that much, if she’d been there. 

When I thought of Amber, my heart hurt. And when my heart hurt, the house…it changed.

The light broke apart and bled darkness. The walls fell in against themselves, showing nothing but trees and deadfall. The moon replaced the sun, dim and sick and awful. Worst of all was the food. The turkey and the chicken and all the vegetables and desserts were gone, replaced with clods of dirt and moss crawling with ants.

The little girl began to cry.

Twigs and dirt and crumbled leaves came tumbling out of her mouth, and she started to choke. I reached for her, but she recoiled. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a whistle. Her little face was already turning purple. In that instant, I saw Amber’s face. My old daughter superimposed over the new.

And I knew what I had to do:

I had to forget.

I had to forgive myself.

It’s the only way to start fresh. To be the mother I’m meant to be. So that’s what I did: I pushed Amber out of my mind. I cleared away the old with all of its regrets and scars and failures, and made room for the new.

My pain faded, and with it the panic. The walls came back. So did the sun. Most importantly, so did the food.

The little girl was still choking. I reached into her mouth, expecting to extract twigs or bugs or something even worse. My fingers touched something hard and slick. I steeled myself and pulled out —

A chicken bone.

Brown from the oven, slick with saliva, dangerous. But at least it wasn’t a twig.

My new daughter finished her dinner. She didn’t eat dessert with her previous enthusiasm, but that was to be expected after her ordeal. Once she finished, I helped her brush her teeth — a new toothbrush appeared in the bathroom like it was waiting for her — put her in fresh pajamas, and laid her down to sleep.

She was the perfect daughter and I was the perfect mother. We had such a lovely time. Golden hours, golden days. It should have been perfect, and it almost was.

Only something was still missing.

And one day, as I watched my new daughter playing alone in the orchard, I realized what it was:

A brother.

So that night, after I tucked her into bed and made sure she was sleeping soundly, I went to find my son.

While I was out, I heard so much. So many screaming mothers, so many bellowing fathers. And the children — I heard their sniffles and their wails. I felt the tears sliding down their faces as if they were my own. I wanted to save them all.

But I knew, somehow, that they weren’t mine to save. Not yet. A mother always knows her children, and I knew that I would know mine the moment I found him.

I did.

I found him at a bowling alley. Isn’t that serendipitous? He was struggling with a bowling ball. He dropped it on his foot and began to cry.

His mother rolled her eyes and yelled at him. Yelled at her poor, crying little boy who only wanted comfort.

She didn’t want to give comfort. But I did. Good mothers always comfort their children.

I swept in while she complained. I dried his tears and told him to come with me. He didn’t want to until I took his hand. Those quivering lips turned up into a smile, and just like that he was ready to come home.

“Before we go,” I said, “wave and say, Bye-bye, Mommy!”

“Bye-bye, Mommy!”

You wouldn’t possibly understand, but it was important for him to say the words. It gave his mother one last chance to come to her senses. A chance to take her child back. A chance to pass a final test and be the mother he needed.

She failed.

By failing, she made sure those words cut her bond with him. This needed to happen so that he could forge a bond with me, his new mother.

My new daughter was overjoyed when she woke up in the morning to her new brother. They got along perfectly, just as I knew they would. A mother always knows these things.

We had a wonderful, perfect day filled with playtime and crafts and games. And food, of course. A magnificent feast of all their favorite foods: turkey sandwiches and potato chips, macaroni and cheese and mashed potatoes, fried chicken and hotdogs and every dessert you could imagine. 

That night as I watched them sleep, my heart swelled. I’d done it. I was the perfect mother, just like I thought. The best mother any child could dream for.

So why shouldn’t I have more children?

After all, there were so many. So, so many. I’d seen them on my way to get my son. All the ones I’d left behind when I chose my son. How could a perfect mother leave any child behind?

My heart ached for them.

And when my heart aches, my home falls apart.

But I recognized the signs this time. I felt the fault line in my heart as it began to open. Before my walls could fall, before the moon could die and my food turn to rot and ruin, I set out to find my third child. 

Secretly, I was worried. My heart was already so full and so big. I felt like if it got any bigger or any fuller, it would burst. Or that I simply wouldn’t have enough love. Or that I would be overwhelmed like with my old daughter. That when this third child came, I would turn back into a bad mother.

But I should have known better. I should have believed in myself. Everyone says your heart makes room for each new child, and they’re right.

That’s how I knew that I had more children out there. They were waiting for me. I could feel it in my heart. So I went to find them, one by one. I brought them home with me, one by one. They grew up, one by one. They grew old, one by one.

They died, one by one.

That was the hardest part. My only solace was that they died as they’d lived: happy, safe in my care, secure in my love. And besides, I’d learned my lesson long ago: To welcome the new, you must get rid of the old. If an old daughter dies, it just means it’s time to find my new one. 

When you people found me, you took my children away. All of them. Even the ones who have passed on. That made me angry. So, so, so angry. For so, so, so long.

You know, if you’d taken Amber away, I probably would have understood. I wasn’t living up to my potential then. I wasn’t a good mother. But I am now. I am. And you still took all my children away.

But even though I’m still angry, I have forgiven you. It just means I have room for new children now. Isn’t that wonderful? It is! It’s wonderful! Because I’m a wonderful mother now. A fantastic mother.

A perfect mother. I am.

I am.

I can show you. Let me show you. Just take my hand. That’s all you have to do, sweetheart.  

Just take my hand. Just like that. That’s right.

Take my hand and we’ll go home.

***

So anyway, right after this interview — literally right after — the inmate escaped.

I don’t even know how it happened. When she took my hand, it’s like the world split open. Half of it was her cell, and half of it was this perfect country house. I felt the sunshine and the wind. I smelled soil, flower gardens. I even saw a little white cat sunning itself on the porch. 

Before I knew it, I was flat on the floor with my boss leaning over me as an unfamiliar voice raged in the background: “Why the fuck was a T-Class agent alone with that thing, Charlie?”

“How you feeling?” my boss asked, unsmiling. He’s the staff psychiatrist. His name is Charlie. I call him Dr. Wingaryde because he hates it.

“Oh, is she awake now?” This third voice made me shudder. Deep and smooth but somehow raspy, halfway between a purr and a growl, with an accent thick enough to cut with a knife, and full of an awful hunger that sent my lizard brain into panic mode.  

Propelled by pure survival instinct, I shot up.

For a second, I thought I was hallucinating.

One of the biggest men I’ve ever seen stood across from me, dressed in a violently purple jumpsuit. Meticulously groomed dark hair framed a wide-eyed face that was half brute, half porcelain doll, and wholly frightening. I couldn’t tell how old he was. He could have been forty or sixty or something else altogether.

We made eye contact and my insides turned to ice water.

A vulpine smile split his face. “Oh,” he simpered. “Look who’s afraid of the big bad wolf.”

“Shut up, Christophe,” Dr. Wingaryde said sharply. “Right now. Or I’ll put you back in your cell.”

“Only if you can find that child-murdering bitch by yourself,” the yeller shot back.

“We’ll find her, all right?” Charlie snapped. “We know her hunting grounds. It’ll take a day at most.”

But my brain was still processing his prior statement, struggling mightily against the electric terror flooding my body. A cell, he’d said. A cell.

I’ll put you back in your cell.

Why—

Before I could stop myself, I looked up at the man in purple. “Are you an inmate?”

“Guilty,” he answered. “Very guilt. Of that, and many, many other things.”

I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore, so I turned to Dr. Wingaryde. “Why is he out of his cell? It’s not allowed! Inmates can’t be out of their cells!”

“Yeah, he’s an inmate,” Dr. Wingaryde said. “But I mean…he’s also a T-Class.”

“What is a T-Class?” I shrieked.

The inmate’s smile widened. “You did not read your handbook? Naughty, naughty.”

Dr. Wingaryde glanced fearfully at the yeller, then gave me a pained look. “Is that true?”

I could barely process the question through the adrenaline and fear. “I—what—what handbook?”

The inmate began to laugh.

“Did you or did you not get a handbook?” the yeller asked.

I shook my head.

“I ordered one for her,” Dr. Wingaryde said. 

“For which class?”

“T-Class…?”

“There are no handbooks for T-Class!” the yeller said.

While they argued, the inmate caught my eye again. I tried to ignore him, but it was about as effective as ignoring a tiger stalking you through a basement.

“We were supposed to talk tomorrow, you and I,” he said. “But now you got yourself in trouble, I don’t think they’ll let you. Too bad. I was looking forward to it.”

The relish in his voice made my skin crawl.

“Just—get her out of here,” the yeller said. “She’s about to piss her pants. And get her a goddamned V2-class handbook.”

Dr. Wingaryde got me out of there. He also got me a goddamned V2-Class handbook.

And it is all kinds of fucked up.

There’s too much to post right now. Way too much.

But I’m going to share the information about the employee classifications. They scare me. They prove I’m in the most massive trouble of my life.

See, this whole time I thought I was like…a secret agent, or something. Like I know I’m here under duress, but I thought…I don’t know what I thought.

I just know that I thought wrong.

I also know that I am fucked. 

To prove my point, skim this batshit excerpt on agent classes:

Agent Classifications

As an agent assigned to the Agency of Helping Hands - North American Special Containment Unit (AHH-NASCU), your classification is either a Vordir or a member of the Paean. While you serve as the first line of defense and the first point of contact for all inmates in your ward, you are only a small part of the Agency as a whole. Your position at the Pantheon requires you to routinely work with Agency personnel of differing classes, because multiple agents and divisions work together on different inmates. Therefore, it is important for you to understand the differing agent classifications, their purpose, and circumstances that require their assistance.

Argonauts (A-Class)

Field agents whose scope of duties most closely resemble that of traditional law enforcement agencies. They are typically considered “Monster Hunters.”  Their primary duty is to assure capture and containment of Agency targets at any cost.

Varangians (V-Class)

Undercover agents. Varangians infiltrate institutions and communities to protect people from Agency-involved threats. Their primary duty is to protect human beings at any cost. 

Benandante (B-Class)

Agents with the ability to operate on non-physical planes. Commonly referred to as “Bennies,” their roles and responsibilities vary greatly. For example, a Benandanti is currently assigned to identifying the location and nature of the Harlequin’s “City Bright.” Another is currently on loan to the White House. These agents are very rare, very elite, and very highly paid. They are given the most personal and professional discretion of any professional classification within the Agency of Helping Hands. Most other agents never encounter a Benandanti over the course of their career. Their primary duties vary based on assignment.

Vardir (V2-Class)

Agents who are caretakers of inmates. Essentially prison guards and other staff assigned to NASCU. Their primary goal is to prevent containment breach at any cost.

Calderons (C-Class)

Agents who are priests, priestesses, monks, nuns, imams, rabbis, and other members of religious orders who possess unusual talents. Commonly referred to as “Ronnies,” the classification takes its name from Pedro Ruiz Calderon, a Catholic priest who possessed mastery of numerous unorthodox skills and who was eventually executed for his work. His descendant, Hainsel Calderon de Cortez, was among the original team commissioned to capture Mr. Helping Hands. Their primary duty varies on assignment.

Sefkhets (S-Class)

Agents who serve as researchers, scientists, record-keepers, librarians, and archaeologists. Their primary duties vary based on assignment. 

The Paean (P-Class)

The Paean is the Agency’s medical division. It includes doctors, surgeons, nurses, and other personnel to treat Agency employees and inmates. Their primary duty is to provide care to all individuals associated with or incarcerated in AHH-NASCU at any cost.

Thiessi (T-Class)

Agents with abilities that require dynamism classification — in other words, agents whose abilities necessitate incarceration at NASCU. Once identified, they are required to either join the Agency or submit to termination. Thiessi function similarly to K9 units, and are always partnered with an Argonaut or Varangian. When not in the field, Thiessi are housed inside NASCU to ensure their continued compliance with Agency directives. Their primary duty is the protection of their Argonaut or Varangian partner at any cost. Failure to perform their duties may result in termination.

* * *

First Interview: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtjhlb/fuck_hipaa_if_i_dont_talk_about_this_patient_im/

2 days ago I noticed a man standing outside my apartment window. The first time I saw him, it was just a quick glance as I opened the curtains for my cat; she liked to sit on the window sill and watch the birds in the trees and the people down below.

The man stood across the courtyard with his back to me. I thought it was odd that he was just standing there facing the brick wall, but I just shrugged it off and went on with my day.

Later that night, my cat was still sitting at the window. She’d often spend hours there and would only leave to eat and use the litter box. I went over to pet her and noticed the man again. He was standing in the same exact spot, still staring at the wall. I tilted my head and wondered to myself if he had been standing there this whole time.

I watched him for several minutes, absentmindedly petting my cat; he didn’t move at all. An idea came to me and I felt like an idiot; what if I’d just wasted my time staring at a mannequin. I laughed and shook my head, feeling foolish.

Suddenly, my cat’s hair stiffened and she stood up, hissing. I glanced down, but by the time I did she’d already leapt off the window sill and ran into the bathroom.

“What’s gotten into you?” I asked.

I scowled at her before looking back outside. The man whom I’d thought was a mannequin was no longer staring at the wall. He had turned in the direction of my building and stood there, just as still as he had before. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at from this distance but he gave me the creeps. I quickly closed the curtains and went to bed.

By the morning my cat had left the bathroom and relentlessly purred against my face. I glanced down at my phone and saw the time.

“Shit,” I muttered. I’d accidentally slept in—and she was obviously hungry.

I quickly filled her bowl and changed into my work clothes before rushing out the door. I headed down the stairs toward the back entrance and was halfway across the courtyard when I remembered the strange man. I looked over and, to my relief, he was no longer standing there. The way he stood so eerily-still seemed so strange and inhuman to me, but I was just glad that he had moved along.

I made it to work on time but my manager asked me to stay late anyway. One of my coworkers called off and he wanted me to cover his shift. I didn’t want to but I begrudgingly agreed.

The work day was long and mentally draining. It was dark by the time I got back to the apartment. I crossed the empty courtyard and was reaching for the door handle when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A chill ran up my back and I had the weird feeling I was being watched. I glanced around and then instinctively looked to the spot where the man had stood—he wasn’t there.

I shrugged off the feeling and briskly made my way up the back stairs and into my apartment. The sound of both locks clicking into place put me more at ease but I still grabbed my old baseball bat from the closet and set it next to the couch—just in case.

I changed out of my work clothes and grabbed a six pack from the fridge, finally sitting down in front of the television. Beer and binging YouTube videos sounded like a good time after such a long day. I cracked open the first can and took several big swigs before my body finally started to relax. I pressed the power button on the remote and leaned back into the cushions, inevitably vegging out.

10 minutes passed before I noticed my cat sitting in the bathroom doorway. She stared out, focused on the closed curtains across the room.

“You wanna people watch?” I asked her.

I got up and pulled the curtains aside. She didn’t move—just continued to stare. I shrugged and sat back down, leaving the curtain open so she could jump up if she wanted to. I downed the rest of my first beer and grabbed a second.

By the time I’d finished the last beer in the pack, only an hour and half had passed. I was feeling pretty good by this point, but also pretty exhausted.

I walked into the bathroom and shooed the cat out, closing the door behind me. I positioned myself in front of the toilet and pulled down the front of my pants, letting loose into the bowl.

Outside the bathroom I could hear my cat hissing and meowing aggressively. I sighed and tried to hurry nature along.

“What’s the matter, Zoey?” I asked, quickly pulling up my pants and opening the bathroom door. My cat was underneath the coffee table staring at the window, hissing.

“What? You don’t like the window now?” I asked, walking over to it.

I reached for the curtain to close it but stopped dead in my tracks. Halfway across the courtyard was the man. He stood there perfectly still, but this time there was no mistaking it, he was staring directly at my window. My heart skipped a beat, and I waited, but he didn’t move, he just continued looking. Leering. There was something about his gaze that was deeply unsettling.

My heart was beating fast but the alcohol coursing through my veins turned some of the fear into anger. I reached for the frame and pulled up, opening the window, immediately leaning out to yell at him.

“Hey, fuckhead! What the hell is your—“ I stopped. The man was gone. I looked around all over but I couldn’t see him anywhere. The evening air blew across my face and I reached up and rubbed my forehead. A cold sweat coated my fingers and I shivered.

I pulled myself inside and stood up, confused. I was about to close the window, when I noticed the man standing out in the courtyard again. My heart sank and I slowly bent down.

Through the glass, the man was there, but once my eyes jumped over the window’s frame, the man disappeared. I moved my head up and down a few times, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. On the last movement, when I looked through the glass again, the man had jumped 10 feet closer to my apartment.

I stumbled back and fell on my ass; Zoey hissed again behind me. I scrambled to my feet and ran back to the window, the man was even closer now. He stood directly below, staring up at me. His eyes were wide open; he never blinked.

Not letting him out of my sight, I asked through the glass, “What the fuck do you want??”

The man didn’t move a muscle, but somehow, a smile slowly crept across his face—so slowly that I couldn’t be sure if he’d just been smiling the whole time.

I blinked, and the man was gone. I frantically craned my neck trying to see where he had disappeared to. A scary thought occurred to me and I quickly grabbed the baseball bat from the living room and unlocked my apartment door. I ran toward the back staircase of the building and when I turned the corner, my legs almost gave out.

The door at the top of the back staircase was open and thudding against something I couldn’t see. Gravity tried to pull it closed and it would stop and jerk open again.

I was terrified but the bat and beer combination gave me the courage to push forward.

“Ha ha, got me good. You can come out now,” I said, the fear clear in my voice. I held the bat tighter and inched closer.

I didn’t realize it right away but the hallway was uncharacteristically void of sound; no voices from the other tenants, no televisions, no nothing. The only sound I could hear was the door banging back and forth, and even that sounded dulled in the hallway.

I stepped cautiously forward until I reached the doorway, but didn’t cross the threshold. My eyes scanned up and down the door and it’s hinges trying to figure out what it was caught on, but I found nothing. I extended the bat forward and pressed it against the door trying to stop it from banging.

The bat was violently ripped from my hand and went flying into the stairwell. I think I was in shock, as I stood there for several seconds, completely unable to move. The same thoughts repeated over and over in my head. There’s nothing there… There’s nobody…

I sprinted back to my apartment and pulled at the bottom window section, yanking it out and splintering the old wooden frame in the process. As I ran out through my apartment door holding the pane in front of me, I glimpsed a torso through the glass. I tripped and slammed into the opposite wall of the hallway; the old glass panel in my hands shattered all around me as I fell.

Glass shards littered the floor and my cat freaked out and ran down toward the front of the building.

I sat there on my ass terrified, surrounded by broken glass. A few feet away, I heard a crunch and the shards started to move. I was up and gone before I could even think.

I ran down the hall after my cat, picking her up along the way; I’d never run so fast in my entire life. Zoey whined in my arms as I circled around the outside of the building to get to my car in the back parking lot.

My tires peeled as I got out of there. Zoey sat on my passenger side floor, meowing fearfully. I didn’t stop driving until I’d reached my parent’s house a half hour away.

My mom and dad shared a worried look on their faces when they opened their door. I stood there, barefoot, with several cuts on my arms and feet. I had left my phone behind in the apartment so I wasn’t able to warn them I was coming.

I tried my best to explain without sounding absolutely insane. I told them that someone at the apartment was stalking me and I didn’t know who it was or what they wanted—that part was true. I recounted how I’d fled without closing my door and only managed to take Zoey with me. It helped sell the reality of the threat when I’d started to shake and stutter as I was retelling the story. I explained away the cuts by saying the window had popped out of it’s frame and I tripped over it as I ran. I had to lie to them. I couldn’t tell them what I really saw, because I didn’t know what I really saw—and they wouldn’t believe me anyway. I finished by telling my dad that I never wanted to go back to that place again. He saw the fear in my eyes and accepted my decision without much grief.

The following morning, I emailed the guy that rented me the apartment; he was pretty pissed about the broken window and me trying to end my lease early. My dad said he’d smooth things over with him while he was there packing up my stuff. I tried to talk him into hiring someone instead of going himself but he wouldn’t listen.

I’m currently sitting here in my parent’s living room; I’ve barely slept at all. I’m using my mom’s phone to text my dad every 10 minutes to check if he’s okay. My mom keeps trying to pull me away from the windows to get some sleep but I’m terrified that the man will follow my dad home.

I’ll never forget how he looked at me. I never want to see those eyes again.

I work as a digital archivist for the state historical society, mostly handling old recordings, photographs, and documents. Last month, we received a donation of deteriorating Super 8 films and audio reels from a property sale in rural Wisconsin. The materials dated back to 1978-1979 and belonged to the Morrison family, who had vanished without a trace that winter.

The first few reels were mundane - birthday parties, Christmas morning, kids playing in the yard. But as I worked through chronologically cataloging them, I began noticing subtle irregularities. In the background of a summer barbecue footage, a tall figure stood motionless at the tree line, too distant to make out clearly. The children occasionally glanced toward it but the adults seemed oblivious.

The audio reels were mostly silent except for static, until I reached one labeled "Emily's Piano Recital - Sept 13." Instead of music, it contained what sounded like someone breathing heavily, occasionally interrupted by a dry clicking sound. The breathing continued for 47 minutes.

By October, the camera movements in the videos became erratic, often lingering too long on empty doorways or corners of rooms. The family members looked increasingly haggard, with dark circles under their eyes. Seven-year-old Emily was recorded sitting alone at the kitchen table at 3 AM, carrying on a cheerful conversation with someone off-camera, though motion tracking software confirmed no one else was present in the room.

The final tape was labeled "Thanksgiving." It opened on an empty dining room, table set for dinner but covered in dust. The camera slowly panned across family photos on the wall - recent ones showed the Morrisons' smiles growing forced, strained. In the last photo, their eyes were completely black.

The footage continued through the house, everything untouched as if the family had simply vanished mid-routine. Emily's bed was still made, her stuffed animals arranged neatly. The camera moved to her closet, where childish crayon drawings covered the back wall. They showed five stick figures holding hands with a much taller, spindly black figure. The same scene, drawn over and over, dozens of times.

The video ended in the basement. A child's voice, likely Emily's, whispered "It's time to go now. They're waiting for us." The camera tilted up toward the ceiling, revealing hundreds of scratch marks in the wooden beams. The frame distorted, flickered, and went black.

Police reports indicate the Morrison family - parents and three children - disappeared over Thanksgiving weekend 1979. Their car was in the garage. No bodies were ever found. The house remained untouched for decades until the recent sale.

While digitizing the final reel, I noticed something in the metadata. The timestamp showed the recording was made three weeks after the family's disappearance.

I submitted my findings to the cold case department. Yesterday, they informed me they're reopening the investigation. They're particularly interested in one detail - in the background of every single tape, if you enhance the audio enough, you can faintly hear children singing "Ring Around the Rosie." The same children, for over 40 years.

The historical society asked me to continue processing similar donations from that era and region. I've received three more collections this week. All show the same tall figure in the tree line. All contain footage dated after the families vanished.

I've started seeing it too, standing at the edge of the parking lot when I leave work late. I try to convince myself it's just a trick of the light. But last night, I heard children singing outside my window.

I'm recording this now as evidence. If something happens to me, you'll know wh-

[End of transcript]

It was on an unusually warm Thursday night & I was leaning outside a convenience store, sipping a cold bottle of soda.

I still remember it. Clear as crystal.

The carbonation made my throat tickle. I coughed and accidentally dropped the bottle like an idiot.

I bent to pick it up, my gaze towards the concrete, when I saw a pair of red heels walk up to me.

I picked up the bottle and righted myself up. My gaze continued, following a pair of pale, toned legs connected to said shoes.

A woman stood before me, pretty, dressed & styled for an occasion that seemed to be more than what I earn.

She took the bottle from my hand and tossed it aside, clattering unseen by a dumpster.

She told me that she wanted me to have a good time… A night to die for, and She handed me a folded piece of paper that had an address.

I took the paper from her pale looking hands & before my mind could process what just happened, she slipped into a heavily tinted car & drove off.

I looked at the paper and realised it was a playbill with a ticket slipped inside of it.

It showed an address, a theater downtown, alongside a time for a play. It was in an hour.

Curiosity had the best of me. I had to go. But I wish I didn't

A single ticket to admission & I was ushered into an art-deco lobby lined with humanoid statues & red carpet floorings. There were stairs leading up to the upper seats it seems, but they were blocked off with a VIP ONLY sign.

The air was cold & still yet I could hear the faint sound of what seemed to be laughter. My footsteps were silent in the lobby, muffled by the thick scarlet floor.

There was only one area not cordoned off by dividers; to my right, and to my right were a pair of stylized gold doors that seemed to be an entrance to an ancient temple.

Without hesitation but with a sense of curious indifference, I push it open.

A flurry of things filled my senses. The sound of ragtime music & laughter filled the air, the scent of popcorn, champagne & what seemed to be this sweet cologne that piqued my sense of smell alongside a strange sense of warmth… I walked right in, a few hundred feet from the stage, behind roughly 14 rows of scarlet cushioned seats.

The music & laughter were coming from the stage, it seems like the Play was already ongoing, some sort of cowboy thing.

Some actors dressed as cowboys were fighting with some dirty looking actors dressed like coal miners, they were fighting like something out of a cartoon, with pots, pans, exaggerated punches & fake pop revolvers.

Laughter erupted from both stage & seats, the seats were practically filled too. People of various ages laughing their heads off at the acts on stage.

I shot glances at the stage and saw the stupidity unfold. I didn’t find it funny. But I had nothing to do, so it couldn't hurt to stay.

I found a seat, a few rows closer to the front but still somewhat in the back, just right beside the aisle & beside this guy that looked about my age.

He paid no heed to me save for a courtesy nod. He laughed his heart out, occasionally slapping his knee or wiping a tear from his eye.

I looked around, curious at my surroundings.

The audience was packed. There was an upper floor as well, a balcony view, and it was covered by a layer of glass & there were people seated behind it.

The people behind it were dressed nicely, from what I could see, suits & the like.

They weren’t laughing at the“play" & they seemed to be looking at Us…

I felt something twinge in the air and I turned to the exit door, noticing a ticket usher now standing by it, his hands clasped in front of him.

I stood up to get out. I had to. A loud noise. The sound of air splitting. The laughter beside me abruptly stopped.

I slowly turn & see the laughing man earlier with a bright red spot on his shirt. He was dead silent and began to clasp his chest.

He turns to me, raises a silent left hand soaked with blood that looked brown in the lighting & slumped forward, into an ever-growing pool of red.

A woman screamed nearby. I stood there, frozen, my sneakers already wet with the dead man’s blood.

My gaze went to the stage and saw that one of the cowboy actors had their prop guns pointed at where the man was seated. It seemed like it wasn’t a prop, the muzzle still smoked.

And it was now pointed at me.

I drop to the ground, right onto the dead man’s blood & I see someone to my right get hit by the shot.

He falls and screams, and is shot again.

Chaos. Pandemonium. I remember it all.

I scrambled to crawl under the seats, all I could see were people's legs scrambling in every direction. The sound of gunfire growing in intensity & frequency.

Screams, the sound of wet noises, whizzing bullets embedding itself into the cushions & floor.

I stayed where I was, not knowing how I stayed safe.

I could hear panic, primal fear in the voices of the people around me.

They screamed that the doors were locked and there was no way out.

I heard a voice from the stage point out my location. I scramble to my feet & run to my left.

My gaze shifted all around me. I couldn’t help but look.

It was far worse than I could imagine. Lifeless bodies everywhere, draped on the seats, the floor, on each other, by the sole double door now nearly red.

It seemed to be that some of the audience members were in on this senseless, horrible slaughter as well. Most of them brandished firearms, others seemed to use knives & machetes.

Everyone was scrambling to escape, others fought.

I tripped, spun & fell on my back onto a dead woman that was missing her right arm. I could see the glass covered balcony, the people behind it were nodding, others had a grin.

And before I could process it, someone was upon me, a skinny man with a large knife.

I kept him away, holding him away by pushing at his shoulders as the knife made a beeline for my chest.

I kicked his left ankle. The knife loosens and he falls onto me, inadvertently falling onto his own weapon & plunging it into his own neck.

I push him off and scrambled to my feet once more as I felt adrenaline pulse through me.

“The boy’s got one! Ease up a bit, he’s a prime contender for Upstairs!" A voice from the stage yelled.

Ignoring the voice, I decided to go back & hopefully rush the exit.

A woman charges me with a machete. She swings & I am nicked on my left forearm as I raised it to block myself.

She swings again, I fall back, fall on my ass and I begin to crawl backwards.

My left hand touches something cold. I quickly turn my head to the left. A shotgun.

I grab it, instinctively pull back the forearm, point it at my assailant & I pull the trigger.

She flies back, a part of her face evaporates into red mist.

As she falls, just behind a chair, a man points a shiny revolver at me.

I point the shotgun, ready to fire, when a voice erupts from the stage.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough! That is a wrap!” The voice cries out." Love the audience participation, most of them kinda fell flat in the act, hell, there are like 5 of you left, but hey, You five proved yourselves. Let’s give ‘em a hand!"

Applause erupts from the stage. Still seated on the floor in shock, I notice the man who just spoke was the one who attempted to shoot me earlier.

My hands shook. I dropped the gun and felt a pain surge across my body.

He was bowing & gesturing like an actor post Act. Everyone else clapped their hands, and so did the people upstairs.

The Man stopped his showboating, saw me staring & made his way to me.

He walked over to me and held out a hand.

“Get off your ass. Welcome to the Upstairs."

With a shaky, bloody hand, I took it & he pulled me up to my feet.

That was a year ago.

Now, I'm upstairs. Behind the glass. Seated in a nice silk suit as Gnossie No. 1 plays in the back.

It was Wednesday and the invites were being sent out.

The seats were already being filled.

And the show was about to begin.

When the email from "The Hollow Archivist" landed in my inbox, I dismissed it as spam. Most writing commissions I receive are either laughably low-paying or scams. This one, however, offered $500 for a short story between 3,000-5,000 words.

I was skeptical until I read further:

Attached was a contract filled with legalese that essentially boiled down to: “We own your story, you get paid, end of transaction.”

I almost ignored it. But $500 was tempting, especially for something so short. I’ve done ghostwriting before, and this seemed no different—except for one odd requirement: all stories had to be written in a shared Google doc owned by them.

Curiosity won out. After signing and submitting the contract, I received the first prompt.

Predictable, cliché, easy. I could churn out something like that in a few hours. But the email contained a second document:

RULES FOR WRITING:

1. You may only write between 12:00 AM and 3:00 AM.
2. Before writing, check your mirrors for any abnormalities.
3. Keep a candle lit in your workspace while you write.
4. Do not leave your workspace while the document is open.
5. If you do not finish the story in one session, you must end by typing: “Archivist, hold the tale. I will return.”
6. When finished, type: “Archivist, take the tale,” and extinguish the candle.

At first, I thought this was some immersive, gimmicky roleplay. Maybe the “Archivist” persona was part of their branding. It was odd, but nothing that would deter me from making $500.

That night, I waited until midnight, lit a candle, and sat down at my desk. I opened the Google doc and began typing.

The story flowed easily at first. There’s something about writing late at night that makes everything feel eerie, so crafting a creepy atmosphere came naturally. The only unsettling moment was when I noticed another cursor in the document. It didn’t type anything, just hovered at the edge of the page.

When I finished the first session at 2:45 AM, I typed the required phrase, “Archivist, hold the tale. I will return,” and closed the laptop. The candle flickered violently as I extinguished it, but I dismissed it as a draft.

The next night, I returned. This time, the other cursor moved sporadically, almost as if it were pacing. My hands shook as I typed, but I finished the story before 3:00 AM. I typed the final phrase, “Archivist, take the tale,” and the text disappeared from the document.

Seconds later, I received an email: $500 had been deposited into my account.

Prompt #2:

The second prompt arrived immediately:

This time, I noticed a new line in the rules:

7. Do not question the Archivist.

The rules were growing tiresome, but the money was too good to pass up. I lit the candle and began writing at midnight.

As I typed, the cursor returned. This time, it hovered over specific sentences, highlighting them briefly before moving on. It felt… approving.

At 2:50 AM, I typed the final words and extinguished the candle. The story vanished, payment arrived, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

That’s when I noticed my reflection.

The mirror on the wall across the room showed me sitting at my desk—but the candle was still lit in the reflection.

I froze. Slowly, I turned to look at the desk. The candle was out.

When I looked back at the mirror, the reflection was smiling.

Prompt #3:

The next prompt was darker:

I slammed my laptop shut and emailed The Hollow Archivist, demanding to know what kind of twisted game they were playing. The reply came immediately:

That night, I didn’t light a candle. I didn’t check the mirrors. I didn’t follow the rules.

I wrote the story in defiance, fingers trembling as I typed. The cursor appeared again, erratic this time, and the room felt heavier with every word I wrote.

When the clock struck 3:00 AM, I closed the laptop without typing the closing phrase. The candle, still unlit, shattered in its holder.

The email came anyway: Payment denied.

The Final Prompt:

The final prompt arrived the next day.

Attached was a photo.

It was of my apartment. My desk. The shattered candle.

Panic consumed me. I tried to reply, but the email bounced back. I unplugged my laptop and shoved it into the closet. That night, I didn’t write.

At midnight, the lights in my apartment flickered. The closet door creaked open.

The laptop powered on by itself. The Google doc was open.

A single line was written:

“Archivist, take the tale.”

The cursor blinked.

Behind me, I heard the sound of rustling paper, like pages being turned in a massive, unseen book.

And then…

I understood.

The stories weren’t fiction. They were offerings. Sacrifices. Each tale a piece of something larger, something alive, being built word by word.

The Archivist wasn’t collecting stories.

It was collecting us.

When I turned, the reflection in the darkened window wasn’t mine. It was the Archivist. And it was smiling.

I never finished the final story. But as you read this, know that it’s too late for me.

The candle on your desk? The mirror in your room?

Check them.

And if you hear pages turning in the dark, don’t look behind you.

First off, my name is Oliver Wyatt, and ever since I was a little kid, I always wanted to be a police officer. I got an intense amount of pride out of the idea of upholding the law and being someone of authority. As a kid, I would run around my front yard, waving a toy revolver at imaginary bad guys like I was dirty Harry. That might sound like a tremendous cliché, and it probably is, but it’s my life. So, after high school, I picked up a minimum wage job until I was old enough to sign up for the police academy. Looking back, I wish I had stayed at that greasy burger place 15 minutes from my house. 

After 22 weeks of (not exactly intensive) training, I graduated and finally achieved my dream. Dad couldn't have been more proud, and mom couldn’t have been more terrified. I tried to console her, but even I was sweating a little. I will admit that years of anticipation began to climax in fear. Fear that all my ambition would get me is bullets flying in my direction. Only to see myself on the evening news, all of my dreams blowing up in my face. I have to say though that the first few weeks were more boring than I expected, even disappointing to some degree. Driving around dealing with car accidents, domestic abuse calls, and busy bodies welding cell phones like weapons. None of it scratched the itch for justice that I was looking for. I wanted some action! Some shit that you might see on numerous daytime TV cop shows. I was so naive.  If I had any sense, I would have listened to Carter. 

Carter Halpert was my old partner. He was an older man with a massive white mustache that would have put Nietzsche to shame. He had straight gray hair that was cut just above his shoulder and piercing green eyes that seemed to suck the truth out of any situation. All that and his thick Georgia accent that made him feel like the grandfather everyone wanted in their youth. The man genuinely carried himself like an old west sheriff, something that became quite clear whenever he scolded me for my action-hungry attitude. Or, whenever he scolded anyone for that matter. He always told me that I should consider myself lucky that I hadn’t seen something truly messed up, and maybe never would if I played my cards right. I knew he was right, even back then I knew that he was right. But I always wanted more action. I wanted to feel like I was doing a service.   

At first, this seemed like it was finally going to be one of those calls. Someone apparently heard gunshots at an apartment complex out in the middle of nowhere. It was called Paramount Apartments. I knew the address was odd. It was way out of town, seemingly right next to the highway —a more fitting place for a chain hotel, not an apartment complex. 

“Who the fuck is living next to the highway in the middle of nowhere?” I asked Carter, perhaps a bit more vulgar than I should have been. I remember that Carter made a face, a piercing scowl that I hadn't seen on him before, as he stared off into the distance. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but before I could say anything, he grabbed his radio.

“10-4, squad car on route.” Just like that, Carter made a few quick adjustments, and we were off with our lights and sirens blaring. I was almost positive it was some old woman calling about a kid’s video game being too loud or something like that. But I had hoped it would be something interesting. We drove for about 12 minutes before we came to the next exit. I can’t remember any exit signs, but then GPS just made us peel off at an exit that seemed to come out of nowhere. The road turned off seemingly into the forest. It was a more drastic turn than I had expected. I braced myself like a child expecting a crash, but Carter took the turn like a seasoned stunt driver. He seemed to chuckle at my sudden panic, only to focus back on the road as we disappeared into the forest. The road came to a sudden fork in the road at a flashing red light. A stop light that illuminated two roads going in opposite directions.

“Recalculating.” The GPS sounded. I turned to look at the GPS, and I wanted to say something. I knew the GPS shouldn’t have needed to reboot. Did we make a wrong turn somewhere?  I really wanted to say something. But I knew Carter was determined at this point, so I shut myself up. He made the right, and I found myself holding my breath as the red light drifted off into the distance. Carter made a right and continued down the dark road, with the red light blinking behind us. 

I looked out my window to try and catch my bearings as we drove. I thought we were in some kind of forest. The intense black surrounding us could only be explained by a dense forest in the dark of midnight. But as I looked around, I realized we were driving through a town. I thought I could see buildings of some kind, but with no streetlights and no lights on, I couldn't be sure. I tried to focus on the shapes moving past my window. They didn't look like they had any depth to them, like the silhouettes of buildings where they should have been. My eyes were quickly drawn to a bright light that seemed to appear right in front of me. The road suddenly opened up into a well-lit parking lot— a medium size parking lot with way too many lights for the space. I felt like I was under fluorescent office lights when I was outdoors. It also didn't take me long to notice that the parking lot was completely surrounded by trees. I could have sworn that the parking lot was surrounded by other buildings, but they seemed to lose their shape when we got out of the car. A well-lit apartment building with at least 15 floors sat at one end of the parking lot. I was confused as to how the two of us hadn't seen the building sooner. Sitting behind the tacky water feature was a sign that read, “Paramount Apartments.”

“Be alert. Something is wrong.” I nodded as Carter parked the squad car. I was at least happy he was just as weirded out as me.  

 When Carter and I pulled up to the building, there was a man in his mid-40s standing out front. He was dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a pink polo, white sneakers, and Oakley sunglasses worn backwards. The man looked like some HOA asshole going through a midlife crisis. It was like all my worst fears were confirmed at once. This was some middle-aged entitled prick complaining about children. Or something else he happened to mistake for gunshots. In any other situation, the man wouldn't have raised any suspicion – and he certainly didn't beyond my first thought. But now I find myself looking for anything, any clue that could have let me know what was going to happen next. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said with seemingly genuine concern on his face, “I heard gunshots in apartment 307. I think someone might be hurt!” Carter and I glanced at each other before looking at the man skeptically.

“Do you live here, sir?” Carter asked, realizing we still had no idea who this guy was or what his business was here.

“My name is Matt Miller, and I am the building manager. I have been getting complaints about this room for a few months now. They seem like good folks–a nice family. They pay the rent on time, but a couple times a week, I get a complaint about fighting and screaming coming from that room. Then when I go to check on them, it always seems to be over and everyone is all smiles. I've never actually heard the fighting for myself and no one ever seemed to be hurt. ” He explained as Carter raised his eyebrow. 

“Please take us to the apartment, sir,” Carter said calmly. The man nodded and led us inside. He pushed a few buttons on a keypad; the door system let out a loud screech, and he let us inside through a dirty and somewhat bare lobby. I couldn't help but think the room was  absurdly small, with no chairs for anyone to sit in. One side of the room had an elevator, the other had an open door leading to a flight of stairs. The man calling himself Matt then ushered us into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. I then turned to him.

“But why have you never called the authorities to deal with it before?” I asked, wondering why I had never heard of this building before or even heard the address on a debriefing.

“Like I said, I have never actually heard the fighting myself or seen anyone hurt. I don’t go into people's private lives.” The incompetence of this manager started to get on my nerves. The elevator opened, revealing a long, cramped hallway with sickly green carpeting and dozens of doors on both sides. The green of the carpet struck me: it was the same green as dirty pond water and the smell wasn't too far off. I had to stop myself from gagging and Carter was right behind me in that regard. Many of the lights were flickering or were out altogether. The lights bathed the whole hallway in a piercing light, the color of movie theater popcorn butter. I couldn't help but notice dead insects inside the bulbs, but then I noticed some were alive. There were so many. The live ones seemed to be crawling over each other–and the dead ones–in a desperate attempt to get out. It was then that I noticed the bugs crawling on the wall. Every dark point on the wall seemed to move the more I looked at them. From that point on, I did my best to stay in the middle of the cramped hallway. The whole place seemed like it was falling apart, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. As the man calling himself Matt led the two of us down the hallway, a question popped into my head.  

“Does that mean you heard the gunshot?” I asked, Matt turned and looked at me. 

“The entire building heard it! I got so many complaints from scared parents over the apartment group chat that I just told everyone to stay in their rooms, and I would call the police.” Nothing about this situation was making sense. This building didn't feel like the kind of place where anyone would come to build a family. We finally made it to apartment 307. Carter looked at Matt.

“Stand back, sir. We don't know what might have happened.” Matt took a couple of steps back into the shadows of the hallway. Carter took point and knocked on the door. 

“Sir or Madam, this is the police. Could you please open the door?” We waited for a few moments before Carter knocked on the door again. Considerably harder this time. 

“Sir or Madam, we got a call about gunshots. Please open the door. We need to know if anyone is hurt.” 

This time, we were given an answer in the form of a piercing female scream that made my ears ring. The voice didn't say anything understandable, but it was all Carter needed to start kicking the door in. 

“That sounds like the mother! You need to do something!!” Matt yelled, letting his panic slip and turning my attention away from Carter and the door.  

“We will sir! Now get back!” He backed up considerably. I heard Carter break through the door right behind me. The door broke much faster than I expected, even for a crumbling apartment building like this. I didn't even hear a door chain break.

“What the fuck?” Carter said from inside the apartment. He had rushed in without me while I was dealing with Matt's emotional outburst. 

“Stay here, sir!” I demanded before rushing in after Carter. I ran in with my gun drawn to see what Carter was confused about. As I ran in, I could have sworn I saw Matt smiling. I know I only saw it for a second, but his smile looked wrong… like something you might see on a crudely-made puppet. Like a marionette infested with termites and forgotten about. When I found Carter, he was standing in the middle of the living room looking dumbfounded. I’ll admit, it took me a second to see what he saw. The apartment was seemingly a normal space with a living room and kitchen area, a bathroom, and a bedroom. However, as I looked more closely, I noticed it. The apartment was empty. I mean, it had furniture and everything you'd find in any normal apartment, but any evidence that a family had lived there for any amount of time was absent. No shoes by the front door, no dishes in the sink, and every framed photo in the place was a stock image of a family. But never the same family. Even the smell of the place seemed neutral. Not one smell stood out as a dominant smell in the room. I couldn't smell the carpet, in a place like this I had expected to smell the carpet. Everything in the room just seemed way too clean and neat. Carter directed me towards the bedroom. Clearly, the scream we heard must have been coming from there. We stood on either side of the door, and I spoke first. 

“Miss, are you hurt?” I wasn't sure what, but something about this felt truly wrong. When we didn't get an answer, Carter opened the unlocked door. A part of me was expecting a woman tied to the bed by her abusive husband while said husband held a gun to her head, as their children sat in the corner terrified. I wish to god that’s what I saw. I certainly wasn't expecting  more of what we found in the living room. What stood in front of us was a completely immaculate bedroom. Carter practically ran to the closet and threw it open, checked the closet only to find it completely empty, he then frantically checked the dresser. Nothing, not even a pair of socks. I was still standing in the doorway when Carter brushed past me and moved towards the kitchen. 

“Go find that manager guy,” He pointed at the door before rummaging through the shelves and cupboards of the kitchen. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.” I heard him mutter under his breath as I made my way out of the apartment. 

“Sir, are you sure this is the right roo-” I was about to finish my sentence when I stepped out into the hallway and saw no one. I thought that Matt was standing right outside, but now he was nowhere to be seen. “Sir! We need to ask you a few questions!” I yelled down the long hallway thinking he was just out of my sight, hiding at one of the dark ends of the hallway. A hall that was now too dark for me to see the end with the naked eye. I yelled again, but I got no response. I even took out my flashlight and aimed it down both ends of the hallway. I quietly wondered if the hallway had always been this dark. Sure, it was dingy before, but now… now I couldn’t see to the end of the hall without my flashlight. There was just nothing there. I went back in to tell Carter, and I found him with his hands on his hips, looking both confused and royally pissed off. 

“Well, where is he!?” Carter yelled, clearly exasperated. I didn't know what to tell him, so I just told him the truth.

“He’s gone.” 

Carter looked at me as if I grew two heads. 

“What do you mean he’s gone?” he questioned, walking past me, presumably to check the hallway himself, only to return a few moments later. He came back just as quickly, “did you tell him he could leave?”I shook my head.

“Well, there is nobody here. There isn't even any evidence of someone being here. So, either that guy took us to the wrong room, or he’s playing us both for fools.” 

“But we both heard that scream.” I confirmed, mostly for myself. A sudden spark of realization formed in Carter’s eye. 

“THE BATHROOM!” he cursed our collective stupidity. We rushed towards the bathroom and I swung open the door. The first thing that hit us was the smell. The sudden stench of rot, decay, and death traveled at top speed through the apartment assaulting our nostrils. It was so pungent I wondered how neither of us smelled this mess sooner. After the two of us finished gagging, we collected ourselves as best we could. I reached into the room, looking for a light switch, and was immediately met with a malformed, spongy substance that I immediately recoiled from. When I looked at my hand, a black soapy liquid had covered my fingers where I touched the wall. Carter and I looked at my hand in disbelief, before Carter took out his flashlight and pointed it into the bathroom. Every surface in that room was covered in a thick black substance– a black substance that seemed to pulse, weave, twitch, like the muscles of a rotting animal fighting to stay alive. At first glance I thought it must have been mold, but it didn't seem to cover the walls, it looked like it was one with the walls. Almost like it was pushing itself out from the walls. Like it was always just below the surface, distorting the walls and floors into new shapes before pushing free. Like giant termite mounds made out of black, moldy muscle. My training would tell me to investigate further; however, neither of us needed to step foot in the room, because in plain view was the body of an older woman decaying in the bathtub. 

“We need to call someone.” I had never seen a dead body in person before, and despite the fact I knew who to call, the name escaped me in my panic. Carter pulled out his radio and immediately spoke into it. I can’t recall what he said, I was too busy staring at the woman in the bathtub. I am no coroner, but I had to guess she had been there for multiple years, if not more. Her skin was gray and much of it seemed to have dissolved in the water. Most of her body seemed incredibly bloated. Her eyes were a sickly yellow, but I could tell they had once been a piercing blue. But that wasn't what threw me, what threw me was the black substance pushing into her body like tree roots. Whatever it was had clearly overtaken every part of her body, working its way into her like a parasite. It was when I saw the unidentifiable insects with wings emerge from her skin that I knew I couldn’t take it anymore. So I slammed the bathroom door and ran to the sink to let loose my lunch. I tried to turn on the sink, but I stood in disbelief as no water came. 

“What the fuck is this place?” I asked my reflection in the kitchen sink faucet. 

“No one is answering my radio. Try yours.” Carter said, panic rising in his voice. That was yet another first for the evening. I took out my radio and called out the codes for a dead body and that we needed backup. But all we heard was radio static. We tried a few more times with the same result before I pulled out my cell and simply called 911. 

“911, what’s your emergency?” A female voice came over the speaker. I was relieved, we were finally going to get some help. 

“This is Officer Wyatt and Officer Halpert. We need backup at Paramount Apartments immediately. There is a dead body on the scene.” The line was silent for a good few seconds before the woman spoke again. 

“I'm sorry, can you not handle this Officer Wyatt?” The woman spoke in a blunt and mocking tone. I could have sworn I misheard her, so I turned up my volume and put her on speaker. 

“Excuse me? Could you repeat that?” I asked. 

“You're going to be a great story for mommy on the evening news, aren't you Oliver?” The voice was sickly sweet, like an abusive teacher trying to shame a crying child into stop crying. But with a hint of malice that I swear I have never heard in another human voice, and with a gleeful giggle that made my skin crawl. 

What came from the phone next can only be described as the sound of thousands of insects buzzing. A hive of vermin with far too many wings. It got to the point where Carter and I fell to the ground clutching our ears in pain. The sound was piercing and became deafening, like microphone feedback in a high school gym. It was far too loud a sound to be made by my phone. But as soon as the buzzing came, it went. We both sat up staring at the phone in disbelief. The call was still going and I jumped to hang up, managing to do so before the voice spoke again.  I checked my phone, desperate to call anyone that might be able to help us, but my touchscreen seemed unresponsive. It started to call 911 once more before Carter took it out of my hand and smashed it against the wall. He pulled me up and forced me to look him in the eye. 

“Oliver, listen. No one is coming. We are on our own here. We will deal with her later–what the hell!” He pointed towards the bathroom. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The mold was spreading from underneath the bathroom into the living room and toward the two of us. Creeping across the floor like vines in the jungle, while the buzz of hundreds of thousands of bugs roared behind the door. 

The two of us ran out of the room and down the hallway towards the way we thought the elevator was. As we ran, it felt like the building was decaying around us. The black substance seemed to bubble out of the floor like magma from a volcano, making the green carpet spongy and soggy, pushing itself out as if it was always just underneath the surface. The walls seemed to be growing thick, black tendrils that desperately reached out to us. But when we reached the end of the hallway, we found nothing but a cement wall. Carter and I stood in disbelief. I knew we came from this direction, but the wall stood there as plain as day.

“This is the direction that guy brought us, right?!” Carter asked as he touched the wall, which twitched at his touch. He pulled back quickly and shook it as if he had touched something putrid.

“I know it is.” I turned and looked in disbelief as I saw the black substance was easily cornering us like an apex predator, covering every surface of the hallway, and making sure there was no surface we could touch. But it was when I saw the rotting feminine figure exit the apartment, walking through the doorway and turning towards us like a marionette on a string, that I finally let myself scream. The only thing I could think to do was start knocking on all the other apartments. The doors that weren't covered with the moldy substance anyway.

Surely, someone must actually live here. I tried every door I could, but my knocking only caused the doors to twitch with seeming delight. Carter apparently got tired of my knocking and proceeded to kick one of the doors down. To our surprise, it seemed to be in the same condition as the other apartment, except this one had people in it. A small elderly couple was sitting on the couch when we entered the room. The old man quickly got up to meet us.

“Is there some kind of problem, officers?” he said in a concerned tone. 

“Is there a fire escape?” Carter asked, with a kind of panic I didn't think I would ever hear in his voice.

The old woman pointed towards the window while standing, “There is one over here. Why? Is there an emergency we should know about?” She asked in a concerned yet sweet tone. Carter and I looked at each other before I ran back to the hallway to check the mold. I was horrified to see the mold had completely consumed everything in the hallway. I turned my head violently to the left, only to come face-to-face with the decomposing woman from the bathtub. However, she wasn't really looking at me, her eyes were still very, very dead. They seemed to gaze in opposite directions, neither of which were at me. It was then that I saw one of them clearly for the first time. 

One of the woman's eyes twitched, before popping out entirely. The other eye quickly followed the first eye, as if she was a form of a hive. It looked like a moth and a spider had a baby. A malformed, twitchy thing that eyed me down with seemingly hundreds of eyes. But those eyes– I don’t know how I know, but I know there was intelligence behind those eyes. The intelligence of a being who had just caught its prey, like it had caught so many others. You know how you can tell when something is smiling with its eyes? This thing was smiling at me. Then, another came from her skin, like one of those exotic toads giving birth–and another, and another. I don’t know how I know, but they were all smiling at me. Then, I heard them. I heard them speak in the voice of…my mom, in a place in my mind that was just behind my eyes, “Officer Oliver Wyatt, why not doctor? Or lawyer” I ran back inside the apartment and closed the door behind me. I hadn't realized it, but I was crying. Crying like a little boy whose mom didn’t like his Mother's Day present. Then I realized, I heard that in my mothers voice. Why had I heard that in my mothers voice? I had never heard her say those words before, but at that moment, I could have sworn she had. Something she had said to my father while I was just out of earshot 

“Just stay in your room and don’t leave. Officer Wyatt and I will go and get help.” I looked over to see Carter struggling to get the window open–I ran to join him, and as I did, I lost track of the old couple. Carter and I pulled at the window for a bit, but even though it was clearly unlocked, it refused to move. 

“Perhaps you too will stay for a cup of coffee and some cake?” I turned to politely decline, but when I saw the old couple, I screamed. They had seemingly opened the door and let in the mold. The decaying woman just stood in the hall, as more of those bugs escaped her torso and seemingly any orifice they could. The old woman had thick black tendrils coming from her mouth and her eyes. The tendrils connected to the tray of coffee and cake which seemed to turn into pulsating masses before my eyes. The old man similarly had black tendrils going from his mouth and eyes to completely covering his body. I went back to pulling at the window while Carter pulled his gun on the old couple as they approached us.

“Get back!!” He ordered. Apparently, they didn't listen as he let out four shots. I turned back to see the old couple convulsing on the floor in what looked like pain. However, the writhing on the floor stopped when the couple’s abdomen’s began to expand, blowing up like balloons.

 They both began to laugh and choke in unison. It was then we saw it–the couple's abdomen began to break open, revealing thousands of those insects. Each one fighting to escape its host and adding on to the immense amount of insects growing from the decaying woman. The size was one thing, but the feeling of a crowd grinning at me left me frozen as if on a stage. Facing millions, if not billions, of grinning eyes. 

 “GET THAT WINDOW OPEN NOW!”  Carter screamed, breaking me from my trance. I picked up a chair and threw it at the window. It shattered immediately, and I climbed through. I turned back to help Carter get through, but when I did, I saw the insects had reached him. They swarmed him and seemed to fight their way into every orifice they could manage to fit their bodies into. I couldn't bear to watch whatever happened next as I ran down the rusty fire escape at top speed hearing his choking cries floors above me. I was so happy to see my squad car exactly where we had parked it. I jumped in and raced back to the station. 

I immediately told them an edited version of what happened so I wouldn't look as crazy as I felt. Then, a group of other officers and I went back to the address. But this time, it was gone. Not a vacant lot mind you, but a service center within McDonald's and a Starbucks. Turns out there never was a call from that address. At least not one that was recorded or one that anyone could remember. There was no sign of Paramount Apartments and no sign of Carter. To be honest, I can't even remember what Matt looked like. Not beyond the Oakley sunglasses and the pink polo. I wasn't able to give them an eye color, hair color, or anything besides the fact that he was a man in his mid-40s. And the old couple, I can't remember a single thing about what they looked like, but I can remember everything about how they died. I didn't know what to tell Carter's wife and kids. Hell, I didn't know what to tell anyone. Internal affairs had a field day with this, and after all of the psychological exams and interviews, I was canned. No one wanted to be the next Carter after that anyway. 

So, now it is up to me to find a new lifelong dream. But as cruel as it might sound I was happy trying to forget my time as an officer and be done with it. I was happy trying to forget about Carter. So why am I writing this? Because despite being done with whatever that was, I don’t think it’s done with me. I am writing this because a few hours ago, I got a knock on the door. When I went to check, I found a brochure lying on the ground. I picked it up only to see it was a brochure for Paramount Apartments. 

“Easy living” It said in big balloon lettering on the front page, along with a picture of the pristine apartment I had seen that day. Inside that apartment, waving toward me and wearing the biggest cartoon smile I’ve ever seen, was Carter, with thick black tendrils visible on his teeth and a dead puppet-like look in his eyes.

I’ve always had this weird habit of staring at myself in the mirror late at night. It sounds strange, I know, but it’s almost comforting, like reminding myself that I’m real, that I’m me. I live alone in a small apartment, so it’s quiet, and sometimes it helps me settle down after a long day. The mirror is one of those big, old-fashioned ones, a leftover from the previous tenant. It’s cracked on the edges, but it has this charm to it that made me keep it.

Last night, around 3 AM, I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, just zoning out after a sleepless night. I was exhausted, and my eyes looked dead tired, but I couldn’t pull myself away. I must have been standing there for a good five minutes, just staring at my own face, when I noticed something off.

My reflection blinked. But I didn’t.

I felt a cold chill run down my spine. I thought I was just tired, that maybe I had imagined it. I mean, it was late, and I hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks. I blinked a few times and shook my head, trying to clear the fog out of my mind. But then it happened again.

My reflection blinked. And this time, it smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. It was slow, almost like it was testing it out, stretching my lips in a way that felt… wrong. It was the kind of smile you’d see on someone who knows a secret, and not a good one.

I took a step back, my heart racing. I couldn’t look away, though. It felt like my feet were glued to the floor. I watched as my reflection stayed where it was, still smiling, its eyes locked onto mine. It leaned in closer, closer than I was standing, almost like it was trying to push through the glass.

Then it whispered something. I couldn’t hear it clearly at first, but it was like it was speaking inside my head, a soft voice, barely audible. “You’ve been watching me for a long time,” it said. “Now it’s my turn.”

I stumbled back, nearly falling over the edge of the bathtub. I slammed the bathroom door shut and stood there in the hallway, trying to catch my breath. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything else, but then I heard it. The sound of glass cracking, a soft, splintering noise that sent another wave of panic through me.

I don’t know why, but I pressed my ear against the door. I held my breath, listening, and I heard it. My own voice, whispering through the crack in the door. “Don’t leave me here.”

I ran to my bedroom and grabbed my phone, hands shaking so badly I could barely unlock it. I called my best friend, Sarah. It was 3 AM, and I knew she’d be pissed, but I didn’t care. I needed to hear another human voice.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice groggy and annoyed.

“Sarah, I need you to stay on the phone with me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Something’s wrong.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly sounding more awake. “Are you okay?”

I glanced down the hallway, half-expecting to see the bathroom door slowly creaking open, but it stayed closed. I took a deep breath and told her everything. The blinking, the smile, the voice. I could hear her breathing on the other end, and I could tell she was trying to come up with a rational explanation.

“You’re just tired,” she said eventually. “It’s probably sleep paralysis or something. You said you haven’t been sleeping well, right?”

I wanted to believe her, I really did. But then I heard the sound again. The mirror. It was cracking. The noise was louder this time, like something was pushing against it from the other side. I heard my own voice again, clearer now, more insistent: “Let me out.”

“I need to get out of here,” I whispered, grabbing my keys.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Sarah sounded panicked now. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving,” I said. “I can’t stay here.”

I ran out of the apartment without another word, slamming the door behind me. I didn’t stop running until I was outside, standing on the sidewalk, gasping for air. I looked up at my window, half-expecting to see something staring back at me, but it was dark.

I stayed with Sarah that night. I haven’t been back to the apartment yet. I know I have to go back eventually, but I’m terrified. I covered every mirror in the place before I left. I don’t think I can look in one again.

And the worst part? When I got up this morning, there was a crack in the mirror in Sarah’s guest room, and a single word was written on the glass:

“Soon.”

(Lily): I don’t know what to do. If anyone has experienced something similar, please tell me what happened. I feel like it’s watching me, even now.

The following emails were recovered from the University of Cardiff's Biochemistry laboratory following the incidents of 19/09/XX. They are not to be released to the public in any form.
Unauthorised access to said emails will result in termination.

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/03/XX

Dear Professor Goldman,

Experiment #7 has been a resounding success.
I have learned from the failures of #6 and transported the stem cells to the dish using a sterile scalpel, so there was no chance of cross-contamination. Thank you again for the increased supply of 09-476, it has been vital to test larger doses if we wish to fully grasp its potential.
Report is as follows:

- Stem cells implanted in a 0.4 mol/dm^(3) solution of 09-476
- Cells enlarged in mass by a factor of 2 after exactly 15.3 hours
- Muscle tissue detected after 32 hours

I really feel confident about this one.

Dr Henrik Lars, PhD

Professor Brynn Goldman - 18/03/XX

Dr Henrik,

That's a pleasure to hear! I'm glad we managed to convince the panel to bring in that new shipment. Number seven already feels like a prime candidate for further experimentation.
Did you notice any corrosion with an increased concentration of 09-476? I'm concerned that it will negatively affect the growth of the cells.

I've allowed for more funding to be directed towards this project. Use it wisely. This could be our golden goose.

Best of luck,
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/03/XX

Dear Professor,

Experiment #7 has grown to almost 4 grams. It is entirely comprised of muscle fiber and stem cells, the latter already multiplying as I type. It has absorbed almost an entire syringe of 09-476. I am putting in a request for more, as well as a second batch of cells to replicate #7. In a few days, it will be ready for preliminary testing.

It has shown to be mildly resistant to high temperatures - I accidentally increased the heat of the lab whilst I was on lunch by 2 degrees Kelvin and it showed no signs of degradation.

This is more than a revolutionary new drug, Professor. I feel like I am on the brink of a scientific breakthrough.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 08/04/XX

Dr Henrik,

I'm delighted to hear that experiment number seven has been so informative. I agree with you, this has the potential to be a very interesting research task. Unfortunately, I have to disagree with the idea of your "scientific breakthrough". What you have cultivated is nothing more than a set of cells, it is not sentient or conscious. Please try to stick to the original project. It's what we're getting paid for after all.

Also - I've had a complaint from Floor Two that one of their barrels of synthetic amniotic fluid has gone missing. It's quite important to them. Now I'm not saying you did it, per se, but the security cameras did pick up somebody matching your physique rolling a barrel into a lift in the early hours of the morning a couple days ago. If you happen to know anything about it, they'd be very forgiving if it could be returned.

Thank you,
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 22/04/XX

Professor,

Experiments #8-12 are going very well. I am watching their progress with great interest. I request a few more samples of 09-476.

Experiment #7 is extraordinary. It has grown to the size of a foetus. In fact, it has taken the form of one. Analysis shows that it is behaving exactly like one, too, only growing at an enhanced rate due to the introduction of more concentrated 09-476. This is utterly remarkable. I have spent the day glancing at it while researching papers that might discuss something like this - I have found nothing. #7 is truly unique.

I have placed it in a tank in the centre of my laboratory. It requires very little care, no nutrients at all other than 09-476. It will not respond to stimuli at the minute, so I cannot claim that it holds any developmental cognitive function. Although, one time, I could have sworn it tilted its head toward me.

Please inform Floor Two that I will be needing more synthetic fluid. I am sure that they will understand how vital this experiment is when it is explained to them.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 24/04/XX

Dr Henrik.

This changes things.
If you're cultivating a foetus down there, you'll need some more staff. I'll send some junior researchers to assist with Number 7's development.
I agree, this is quite remarkable, but it has been done before. The most interesting part's the fact that it doesn't need to eat - how does it survive? Does it breathe? Does it think?

Please keep me updated, Henrik.
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 05/05/XX

Professor,

I was right. It is life. #7 has begun to move certain limbs within its tank. It has now grown to the size of a newborn, yet it shows no signs of the same basic intelligence. Its skin is pale and translucent - I can note the lack of basic organ development. It is hollow.

I have attempted to test certain responses, such as tapping on the tank or playing auditory stimuli. It has stirred slightly each time. Once, it placed a fleshy hand to the glass. I will not leave the laboratory this week. I will sleep under my desk, just in case there are any updates. The rate at which it is developing is incredible.

Dr Henrik

Public University Announcement - 08/05/XX

Students and Faculty,

We apologise for the recent power cut. The mains have been repaired and power should be redirected to the rest of the University as soon as possible.

Thank you for your patience!
Cardiff

Dr Henrik Lars - 09/05/XX

Professor,

What the hell happened?! A power outage? When I'm involved in research this important?

There was no emergency power routed to my laboratory. #7 has suffered a catastrophic loss in muscle mass and size. I will be needing more 09-476 immediately. The space heaters and ventilation that provided #7 with the warmth and air it needs were switched off overnight, on the one day that I chose to go back to my home. I had to listen to it burbling when I walked back in the following morning. It sounded like screaming.

I attempted to email you on the day of the outage to notify you that #7 required more tissue to rebuild what had been damaged by the outage. You did not respond, so I spliced parts of my own calf tissue to implant in #7. I am fine. I will regrow.

This may take months to rebuild.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 10/05/XX

Henrik,

You did what?! You implanted part of your own body into an experimental homunculi because you thought it looked weak?!

This is really, really worrying Henrik. You're treating the thing like it's your own child, for god's sake! If I didn't understand how groundbreaking this thing was I'd shut it down. I mean - the ethical violations alone could destroy everything I've built here! And what if you start relying on it, huh? I don't want to have to send you to fucking grief counselling if Number Seven kicks the bucket.

This had better not get out to the rest of the University. I'm already telling the board that you're doing experiments on actual IVF foetuses just to keep rival institutions from stealing the data.

God, I swear if you don't give me something incredible.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 16/05/XX

Professor,

I have something incredible. #7 was successfully transported out of his tank today. He has grown to be the size of a toddler, and he looks like one too. I believe the cells I transplanted have mixed with his DNA - he looks remarkably like I did when I was around 3 or 4. He has begun to take tentative steps, and although he cannot support his bodyweight nor open his eyes, he seems to have an understanding of the world around him. When lying on my desk, as he is now, he will pick up objects for mere moments before dropping them.

This is a conscious human! I have made something that no person living has been able to make!

I am requesting an expansion to my laboratory.

Dr Henrik

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/06/XX

Professor,

#7 has begun to say his first words. I lectured him on 09-476 today as part of his pre-schooling, and while he was perched upon the chair he muttered "Henrik" under his breath. He seems just like me - his eyes are the same shade of green and his hair is an identical russet colour. He is an inquisitive sort, he enjoys playing with the lego bricks I have placed in the laboratory. His designs are quite hard to understand but I believe he is simply making shapes at the minute. Some of them look quite like animals, however, which I have had to pluck from his mouth to ensure he does not choke.

Sometimes I see a glimmer of intellect behind his pupils, some flashing moment of self-actualisation. It is strange - for a second it is like a wildly intelligent creature lurks behind the facade of a boy.

Might childcare be an option? Supervised, of course. I wish to see how #7 grows when moulded by a mother-like figure. I have suggested some names in a list attached. They will obviously have to sign NDAs.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 01/07/XX

Henrik.

The results from Number Seven's check-up came back.
The thing has no organs. None. Still.
How in god's name does it survive?

I've looked over your nanny suggestions. Funnily enough, they all share a striking resemblance to your mother. Coincidence?

Prof Brynn Goldman

Professor Brynn Goldman - 12/07/XX

We found Number Seven in the cafeteria today, Henrik.

I thought you said it couldn't eat yet? I explicitly remember you telling me last week that it had problems with swallowing, in my opinion due to its lack of digestive system.

Well, one of the dinner ladies found it curled up in the back of the kitchen, surrounded by raw beef. It'd been eating it by the packetful before, I assume, it got too full and fell asleep. Sandra thought it'd killed someone, it was covered in blood and mince.

We cannot sustain a creature like this by ourselves. You definitely can't do it alone. I think we should ask for help.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 13/07/XX

NO.

#7 consuming the beef was not some kind of warning - it was a blessing. Now we can try and understand how something like him respires, defecates, consumes. He must have some kind of system that we are not seeing with our current technology. But this is not a sign that we are in over our heads, rather it is proof that we are on the right track. Could #7 have learned that the cafeteria was a place for food if he did not study hard from the nanny? Could he have opened the packaging without careful demonstration of how his limbs function? Could he have done any of this if we had not carefully cultivated his upbringing? No! He is as much my experiment as he is yours.

If we were to give him to the Government, they would simply dissect him. But there is so much more we can learn! We have made one of the most incredible discoveries in human history, and you want to hand him over? Think of the awards, Brynn. The Nobel Prize we will undoubtedly be entitled to, the recognition, the money! This and more is waiting for us if only we can complete the experiment. By my calculations, as long as I keep feeding him 09-476 he should be at teenager stage in a few months, then we can really learn.

Regardless, I have spoken to him and he said he's sorry.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 14/07/XXX

Henrik.

Stop giving it 09-476.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 02/08/XXX

Professor,

I was in an awful place last night. #7 had grown terribly sick from some flu he picked up around the laboratory. He has been sniffling and coughing all throughout the day, and his skin has returned to that translucent glow it had when he was in the tank. His eyes have gone milky. His teeth have started to rot in his gums. I could scarcely sleep. I fear that he is growing sicker by the hour, and I cannot risk him getting worse or else the experiment may be in jeopardy.

As such, I have transplanted considerably more of my own cells into his body yet again. I do not know what they do - I can see them disappear the moment they enter his interior. He seems healthier now, and he has smiled for the first time in half a week.

I felt the need to inform you in the off chance that another researcher complained about #7's appearance. He has been very upset at the way the other staff members have been treating him. They look away when he walks past, they shoot him disparaging glances when he tries to talk to them. I have explained that he is simply curious, but many fail to understand how good-natured #7 truly is. We both would appreciate if there was some kind of meeting where all this was aired out.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 02/08/XX

Dr Henrik,

The other researchers have been complaining because the way Number Seven acts is, quite frankly, creepy. It's been known to follow staff members as they go about their day, and stare at them when they conduct business or experiments. One professor told me that Number Seven attempted to consume a tissue sample she had been studying when she turned to investigate a slammed door behind her. He's fast, Henrik. Very fast. I've seen him race across an entire floor in a matter of minutes.

The most worrying incident came from yesterday. Dr Lombard was on her way home when she discovered Number Seven had stowed away in the boot of her car. It'd kept so unfathomably quiet that she only realised when she'd actually pulled up on her driveway and opened the door. You didn't even notice it was gone, when it came back to your lab you were looking at some data on your computer. This is really unacceptable, Henrik.

I suggest Number Seven stays in your lab from now on.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Public University Announcement - 10/08/XX

Students and Faculty,

As many of you know, Jimmy the Spaniel has been missing from campus for several hours. His last known whereabouts were in Alexandra Gardens. If you've spotted Jimmy, please tell your nearest member of staff.

Thank you,
Cardiff

Dr Henrik Lars - 16/08/XX

Professor,

How many times do I have to say that #7 had no involvement in the dog's disappearance?
Again, he was with me all day on the 10th, helping me prepare slides for analysis. He has become very very weak in the last few days, the last thing he needs is some kind of witch hunt from the rest of the department.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/08/XX

Henrik, we both know the bones found in the supply wardrobe were from Jimmy. It had his collar wrapped around the skull like some kind of trophy, for god's sake.

There's nothing else in this facility that can strip a living thing of flesh in the way that Number Seven can. I asked you to keep him in your lab. I'm gonna brush this thing under the rug for now, but I want a breakthrough on how Number Seven digests pretty soon. This can't all be for nothing.

Dr Henrik Lars - 20/08/XX

Professor,

#7 has been almost corpse-like for the past week. He has snuck into a corner of my lab and refuses to come out. Not even 09-476 will entice him any more. I can scarcely see him in the shadows, he blends in so well. It's very strange to look at him like this. He is, for want of a better word, my doppelganger, and it is like watching myself succumb to an unknown illness.

I am requesting him to be given a full medical examination by the University clinic. No researchers, nobody who knows about his origin. I want an unbiased report.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 22/08/XX

Dr Henrik,

I can't even begin to fathom how stupid that idea is. It's hollow. What's a med student going to do with that?! Not to mention how strange it'd be when a scientist walks in with his disgusting, rotting twin brother.

Not happening. Find another way to make your sick creation well again.

I'm really reconsidering covering this up. The Nobel Prize might not be worth it.
Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 25/08/XX [UNSENT - LEFT IN DRAFTS]

Professor,

I have found the reason as to why #7 kept falling sick. He needs a supply of cells to maintain its body. 09-476 isn't cutting it anymore. I tried to give him some more of my calf muscle, but he couldn't even muster up the strength to take it from my hand.

So, as a last resort, I amputated my own arm. I calculated that it has a perfect theoretical number of cells, enough to more than make up for the deficiency over the last few weeks. I bit down on some rubber, injected myself with a considerable amount of morphine and took a sterile hacksaw to my arm, just below the shoulder. It was tricky work, It has been a long time since I have had to do exercise that exerting. Thankfully, I had #7 cheering me on from my side. He helped me pick the best part of my arm to cut, and the perfect amount of force I needed to ensure a clean severing. This is undoubtedly proof that his biology education is far surpassing that of a normal child. While I was sawing, I couldn't help but notice that he had grown to be almost identical to me. No longer was he a teenager, but a grown man. In fact, he had already begun to grow the same stubble that I now have upon my chin. Remarkable!

After I finished with my procedure, I handed the arm to #7. He was delighted, he thanked me profusely and walked to the corner to begin absorbing it. I decided to watch, as the morphine was wearing off and I needed something to distract me from the pain. #7 went at my arm with abandon, making his way from the top down to the hand. He neglected the bones, still, but he slurped up the tendons and muscle with a smile on his face. I felt like a proud parent. He threw my humerus to one side when he had finished, and started working on the fingers and forearm. I believe he holds some of the same tendencies as me - he saved the fingers for last, much like how I save the arms for last on a gingerbread man.

After he had consumed all the meat on my arm, he thanked me with an amazing smile. He seemed to look better already, the colour had certainly returned to his face. I shall continue on as normal.

Dr Henrik

Dr Henrik Lars - 25/08/XX [SENT]

Professor,

I have mangled my arm in a machine and been treated in A&E, yet I am now an amputee. This may hinder my work.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 09/09/XX

Dr Henrik,

Some people have said they've seen you around campus, but I've got reason to believe that it's actually Number Seven. The second arm's a real giveaway. Why are you just letting it roam free? Do you know how much damage that could cause to the project if people suddenly spot you, with a stump where that arm should be? You have to keep it on a leash. It looks too much like you. It's even begun to talk like you.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Public University Announcement - 14/09/XX

We are saddened to announce the disappearance of Marcus Oliver Grey, a student of Biochemistry at the University. Marcus was last seen around Cardiff Central Station at the hours of 11pm. Any information on Marcus' whereabouts should be forwarded to Cardiff Police. What follows is a statement from his mother.

"Please. I know my darling is out there somewhere. His family misses him. His sister and brothers miss him. Please, if anyone knows anything, you have to tell someone. He needs to be back home with us."

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/09/XX

Henrik.

Do you know anything about the boy?
You have to say something if you do.
This is not a dog. I can't just cover this up.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/09/XX

He needed the food.

Professor Brynn Goldman - 17/09/XX

Oh fuck. Henrik, please tell me Marcus is okay.

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/09/XX

What we are doing is bigger than some student. This is the most earth-shattering experiment ever studied. A few more months and he'll be complete. Have some faith, Professor.

Public University Announcement - 19/09/XX

It is with a heavy heart that we tell of the passing of Marcus Oliver Grey. His body was found by police at lunchtime today.

Marcus was a lively and happy boy who wanted to create a cure for his father's rare condition. He had hoped that Cardiff would provide the best place to do that. He will be sorely missed by everyone at the University, not least his friends Matty and Lilith. He is survived by his two brothers and sister, as well as his father and mother.

Please forward any messages of consolation or gifts to his family at 119 Glenroy Street.

Professor Brynn Goldman - 19/09/XX

Henrik.

They found his bones, Henrik. His bones. Washed up in the bay. Did Number Seven throw them in there? Has it learnt to cover its tracks?

A boy is dead. This experiment is over.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 20/09/XX

Professor Goldman,

It's a real shame. I'd thought this would be our big break. Still, immolation is probably the best course of action. Number Seven was put down an hour ago. You should've heard how it screamed. The lab has been destroyed. You'll find its body in the soot.

Ah well, onwards and upwards. I've been developing a way to transplant 09-476 into live wombs to try and prevent miscarriages. It's more aligned with our original objective. I feel like we can make a real difference, Brynn.

All the best,
Dr Henrik Lars

By the front kitchen door sits a shotgun. And every morning, rain or shine, I take it for a walk.

I’ll leave the house and check on the chickens, counting them to make sure one of them hasn’t been stolen in the night by Hairy. Then I’ll walk through the barn. Sometimes, if I’m feeling nice, I’ll bring Hephaestus a carrot. The horse’s “good morning” is rarely more than a snort. After I know all the farm animals made it through the night, I’ll go back to the front of the house and stand on the porch. I’ll double check that the shotgun is loaded. And I’ll wait.

For ten minutes I’ll stand and watch the winding dirt road that leads up to the farmhouse. I know exactly what I’m waiting for, and I hope it never comes. 

I live alone here, and I haven’t paid a cent on this farmhouse since I became the sole owner. It’s never had a mortgage, and even if it did, I would’ve long outlived it. But in some county courtroom somewhere, loads of unpaid property tax has to be piling up. One day, I know someone who wants to take this place away from me will come walking up my road. And I’ll have to kill them.

Before I start to sound like a psychopath hellbent on tasting the blood of the innocent, it’s not something I want to do—not by any means. But when that day comes, I’ll have to. This place is all I have left. 

If I don’t see anyone, I’ll go feed the animals. Then I’ll head back inside, kick off my boots, and start on breakfast. It’s usually bacon and eggs, unless the Landlady brings me some of those cereal bars at the end of the month. Then I make sure I leave a plate on the table for Aunt Jean, even though I never see her eat it. 

This morning was different. Because I didn’t make it past the chickens. 

The coop has been in my yard for as long as I can remember, and inside are always at least seven hens, and sometimes a few chicks. The hens themselves change, because it’s hard to keep Hairy from stealing them in the night. Really, it’s almost impossible to prevent any of the many disasters that may befall a chicken on this farm, but boy do I keep trying. 

My routine count that day only gave me six hens and three chicks. Immediately, I could tell who was missing. 

The girls were fluttering and fussing in a way they definitely wouldn’t have been if their matriarch was around. Beelzebub, a mean old bitch missing an eye (and my favorite by far), was nowhere to be found.

I tried not to panic and immediately failed. Without her, there was a chicken power vacuum. Chicken society would fall apart. Pretty soon, I’d be hearing things like ‘power to the poultry!’ and “peck the establishment!”

I couldn’t think about my routine anymore. I had to find her. 

The barn was quiet, and all the other animals were in their rightful place, except Sally. That silly old goat was on the ceiling again (that’s right, she likes to hang on the ceiling, not the roof, don’t ask), but it felt wrong to ruin her fun. Let her stick it to Old Man Gravity if she wanted to. 

Hephaestus decided that he could show off just as well and sneezed all over me. It wasn’t the first time I’d have to wash horse snot out of my pajamas, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

“Well then. Good morning, Heph. Have you seen Beelzebub anywhere?”

He gave me a snort that said even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell me. Not even for a carrot. 

“Fuck you too then. You’re two weeks and a fart in the wrong direction away from being glue.” 

He whinnied at me, but I wasn’t listening to his sass anymore. I searched high and low in the barn, but to no avail. 

If Hairy took my favorite chicken, I was going to take his favorite limb. 

I made a mental checklist of all the places I needed to look, and then I started making my way down it. I started with checking the coop again, just in case the hens were practicing common stage magic like last time. Then I did a good sweep of the roof of the farmhouse. 

Next, I walked along the tree line as close as I dared, and then I checked the well.

“Hey, Anna, do you happen to have Beelzebub down there?”

As usual, Anna Well’s only response was to scream up at me. Anna Well showed up not long after my mom left, and she’s been an endearing sort of nuisance ever since. She doesn’t always scream nothing. Sometimes it’s song lyrics. Sometimes it’s poetry. One time I even heard her shouting the quadratic formula. 

I’ve never seen her, but I sure have heard her.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!”

“I’m going to take that as a no. Thanks anyway.”

Next I went around to the front of the house and took a look underneath. Then I remembered that there are bad things under the house, and I should never look under there again. 

Aunt Jean watched me from the window. Maybe she would know where Beelzebub went!

I ran into the house and found Aunt Jean in her upstairs room like usual, which was weird considering she was at the downstairs window only a minute or two ago. 

“Hey Aunt Jean, have you seen Beelzebub anywhere?”

She just sat in her rocking chair and smiled at me. 

“Oh wow, you’ve got some extra teeth today don’t you, Aunt Jean?”

She smiled at me wider and rocked back and forth. The creaking always made me a little drowsy. Laying in the dark and listening to it from the next room worked wonders on the nights I had trouble falling asleep.

“Looks good on you. If you happen to see Beez, could you let me know?”

If Aunt Jean had spoken, I imagined her telling something about how chickens were nature’s troublemakers, but that I’d find her.

As I turned to leave, I hoped she was right.

I spent the whole day searching high and low. I checked every place a chicken could feasibly be. I scoured the attic, the storm cellar, the refrigerator, even under all the beds. She wasn’t in my truck, or sitting in the perpetual warm spot on my four-wheeler. She wasn’t in the shower or out on either of the balconies. I had a solid feeling about the crank washing machine, but no luck. Not even an inch of the house and the land it was on was left unseen. I didn’t even stop to eat.

By the time the sun was sinking, there was only one place that she could be that I hadn’t checked: the cornfield.

I have a few issues with the cornfield, which is an interesting dilemma to have when you’re a corn farmer. For one, the dust during the hotter months turns it into Allergy City. There’s also a lot of corn spiders, not that I have a huge problem with them. They’re not very mean, and honestly fascinating. But once they start trying to climb on me, then all bets are off. Especially the ones I find every so often that are about baseball-sized. 

But the biggest problem is the Pigman. 

Deep in the cornfield, from sunset until just before sunrise, he stands and watches. He’s tall with tan skin turned rotted gray in places. His arms and legs are as thick as oak branches, and he leaves bloody bare footprints in between the rows. In his dead hand, he holds an iron slaughter hammer. It’s still stained with old blood, just like the tattered overalls he wears. I call him the Pigman because instead of the type of head any decent, good-natured zombie would have, he has the head of a pig. Not like his face is piggish, but it’s as if someone stuffed a pig’s head onto a human’s. One of these days, I know he’ll come out of the cornfield. I know he’ll come for me, and that scares me more than I’d like to admit. There’s no one else here to miss me besides the animals.

I crept out to the edge of the stalks. He turned to face the intruder of his domain, locking those oily black eyes on me. I returned his accusing stare.

“You took my fucking chicken, didn’t you?!”

There was no telltale clucking from within the field, but I couldn’t be sure he didn’t stuff Beelzebub into a weird porcine pocket dimension or something. The Pigman just stared at me.

“Give her back!”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Please?!”

The Pigman tilted his head back and let out a warped squeal that made me just a little nauseous.

“Fine! Keep her! See if I give a damn!”

I turned and went back to the house. I had a few other courses of action I could take. Calling the nearest neighbors, but it was doubtful she would’ve wandered onto someone else’s property. Hopping on my four-wheeler and searching farther out, but venturing away too far after dark had come with some interesting consequences last time. Making a missing person’s poster… a missing chicken’s poster?

I went with the last option, doing my best to capture Beelzebub’s likeness with my terrible drawing skills. Once I had put as much information as I could about her on there, I took a quick ride to the end of my road and stapled it to the power pole. That was all that could be done about it until tomorrow. The only thing that had been fed that day was the animals, and I was starting to feel dizzy. 

I’d planned on cooking the trout I’d gotten from the last time the Landlady visited, but the most I could manage was heating up leftovers. Aunt Jean ate the microwaved pork roast I left out for her just the same. 

Usually, I could find something to occupy my time before bed. Despite the time-consuming job of being a farmer, I had a few hobbies. Several of them weren’t actually dangerous and didn’t involve hay. On a clear night like this, the best place to be was reading on the rickety little balcony I have to climb out of my window to get on. 

But I was too exhausted and miserable. At that point, I just wanted to go to sleep and forget that I existed for the next six hours. Or at least some time to lay down and stare at the ceiling. 

After showering, I slipped into bed. It was a hot night, and the air conditioning had been on the fritz for the past week. I knew the Landlady would come and take care of it within the next day or two, but until then I was sleeping in little more than a pair of boxers. I used to have an admittedly unwise habit of sleeping in my binder, until it went missing. It only reappeared when I agreed out loud to whatever might be listening that I’d take it off to sleep. I had a sneaking suspicion the thief might’ve been Aunt Jean, but I couldn’t say for sure.

I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but I knew when I woke up. Worse, I knew why I woke up. 

Someone was bumblefucking around the chicken coop, and I had a pretty good guess as to who.

I took the stairs down two at a time, not stopping for anything except my shotgun. Before I felt my feet leave the porch, I was already around the back at the chicken coop. Just like I expected, Hairy somehow already had a chicken out of it.

This is as good of a time as any to talk a little bit about Hairy Houdini. 

I could name at least four variations of Bigfoot in the Southeast off the top of my head, but Hairy… is not one of them. All those people that believe the legendary ape-man is just a misidentified bear— Hairy would be their wet nightmare. Standing at a little over eight feet tall, the bear-man has opposable thumbs, a wicked temper, and walks around like a person on a casual stroll. He earned his nickname because almost every other night, he comes and tries to steal a hen. I jerry-rigged that door good, in the hopes to keep predators out and the chickens in. And it worked— all except for Hairy. There’s no way he should be able to get in there, and yet…

“FREEZE! DROP THAT HEN!”

Hairy opened his big slobbery, flesh-covered snout and let out a roar. His blue, human eyes glowed in the darkness, and I stared him down and roared right back. Then I fired a warning shot.

“Next one goes right through your weird bear hand! See if you can nab a chicken then!”

Hairy roared again, stomping his massive feet like a child who couldn’t have the candy they wanted. Then he dropped the hen and ran back off into the forest, swinging his arms like a jogger. 

I picked up the hen, and was disappointed to find that it was not Beelzebub. It was just Henley, the newest addition to the flock. She clucked in what I assume was either gratitude or annoyance as I stuffed her back into the coop. I did another half-hearted search around the perimeter of the house, then the night breeze picked up to a steady wind and brought clouds and the promise of an early morning rainstorm. Figuring Hairy wouldn’t be back for the rest of the night at least, and Beelzebub was a lost cause by now, I went back to bed. If I had remembered what it felt like to not feel lonely, I would’ve felt lonely then.

Except I didn’t exactly get back to bed. I made it about two steps into the kitchen before I noticed another chicken, standing in the doorway to the living room. There were three things that were different about this one, though. Number one, it had black feathers, which none of my chickens did. It was definitely not mine. Two, it had bright red eyes, like someone had stuck burning coals into its face. And three, it came up to about chest height. 

I tried to come up with something profound to say to my unwanted guest, but all I could get out was a confused “what?” 

The mega-chicken’s beak dropped open and instead of the squawks I was used to first thing in the morning, it let out a wheeze like an old woman taking her last breath. I’d heard some pretty weird chicken noises in my time, but that wasn’t one of them. 

“Look, I don’t know what you are or what you’re doing here, but it’s time to go, buddy. It is not far enough in the AM for this shit. Pack it up.”

I guess the guy wasn’t a big fan of the attitude. It charged across the kitchen at me and headbutted me to the floor with surprising strength. I’d dealt with a lot of weird shit on this farm, but this was pushing it. And don’t get me wrong, I was scared. My heart was pounding and my hands were ice cold, but the annoyance was way more pressing. I just wanted to go back to sleep.

The mega-chicken stabbed a talon down, and I rolled under it just in time. Well, almost. I felt a wicked burning in my side and the upswell of blood from the new scratches on my hip. I didn’t waste time leaping up and running right back out the kitchen door. Mega-chicken followed after me, screaming something like “ruin and rot are all you’ve got” and “rolling stones will break your bones.” Giant evil chicken who spoke in rhymes. Great. I wasn’t about to try and make any sense of it. If this thing had taken Beez, I had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever seeing her again.

I stumbled on the uneven ground of the dirt road, and went down hard when my ankle buckled. The megachicken fell on me in a flurry of feathers, and its neck swiveled all the way around like the Eggorcist. Then it kept going, corkscrewing like it was made of taffy until it had gained at least four extra feet. Maybe I should’ve been begging for my life, but all I could think was just how stupid it was going to be to die like this. 

Mega-chicken wrapped the talon that still had my blood on it around my head and began to squeeze. Just when I thought this was lights out for me, there was a whistle in the air. Then a silver arrow pierced through the chicken’s head. It let out a raspy groan, then fell limp on top of me. Slimy, acrid blood dribbled out onto my face, and I tried my best not to puke.

With all my might, I pushed it off and stood just in time to see a dark figure with glowing eyes in the distance, armed with a drawn bow made of dark wood. It was the second time since living here that I’d seen the Landlady. In mere moments, she’d disappeared with a swish of her cloak.

With her gone, it was just me, the moon, and the giant chicken corpse. I decided that it was a problem for tomorrow, and started walking back to the house. I passed out face down on my bed as soon as I was close enough to make a crash landing. Save for the vague bubbling sensation of hydrogen peroxide on my hip, I was dead to the world.

I overslept my alarm the next morning by about twenty minutes and woke up to a gentle shake on my shoulder. Aunt Jean was standing right above my bed, smiling. She had less teeth than usual today. She had no teeth at all, in fact. Her mouth was just a black void. 

“Oh, sorry Aunt Jean. Hairy got into the coop again last night, then there was this chicken god thing, then the Landlady dropped by, and I had trouble getting back to sleep.”

She just watched me with that strange smile that old ladies often have. I reached down and touched my tender side, feeling the bandages there. That could’ve only been her doing.

“Just give me a little time, I’ll have breakfast ready within the hour, I promise.”

If Aunt Jean had ever spoken, I could’ve imagined her saying something like “don’t rush on my account, chickadee.” Then she walked backward out of the room, her wide eyes never leaving me.

I jumped up, threw on my boots and a shirt, and did my usual rounds. There was still no sign of Beelzebub or the KFC buffet that had died all over me last night, and I’d done all but given up entirely. As I stood on the porch and watched the dirt road, I finally let myself cry about it. I couldn’t cry for every chicken; I lose them frequently enough, and life has to go on. But Beelzebub was special. She’d been with me the longest, and I loved her honesty about life. She’d never met a hand she couldn’t peck. 

I wiped furiously at my eyes, hoping fate wouldn’t choose this day to come. There was no doubt my aim would be off. 

I waited an extra few minutes before heading back inside to start breakfast. I’d just poked my head into the fridge when there was a knock at the front door. The sound of it made me jump; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually heard someone knocking. The idea of another person on the farm was scarier than anything else that lived out here combined. Other people were always bad news. Other people always brought problems.

I crept to the door; shotgun gripped tight in my shaking hands. I pressed my ear to the wood for a moment, heard nothing, then whipped it open.

If someone had been there, they were gone now. But there was something left behind. A large brown package sat on the front door mat, with small holes poked messily around the tape sealing it closed. 

The mailbox at the end of my long road was leaning on the dead-end sign and was home to a rather impressive wasps’ nest. I hadn’t gotten so much as a scrap of junk mail in years. The last time I’d ever received anything was a small package on my sixteenth birthday. Inside was a silver Zippo that was always in my pocket from then on, and an unexpected letter from someone I hadn’t heard from in a long time. 

The label for the box sitting on my porch had no return address and was covered in way too many stamps. The sending address simply said, “to Portia Hadley.” Portia was scribbled out with a clearly dying Sharpie, and Newport was written in big blue letters. 

I didn’t know who this mystery delivery man was, nor did I necessarily want to know. But at least they had the decency not to deadname me. That’s more consideration than I get from most of the people in town.

I sat down my gun and took the package inside, splitting open the tape with a few good tugs. There was a flutter of feathers, and then Beelzebub looked up at me and clucked.

“Oh my god! Beezy!”

As I dropped the box, the wrinkled old prune jumped into my arms. She looked no worse for wear, except for the extra eye right above where her left one used to be. But I wasn’t about to fault her for a little accidental mutation in transit. She was alive and pecking, and that was good enough.

“Where’ve you been, girl? Not that I was worried at all. I knew you’d make it back here. You’re a tough old gal.”

She just fluttered her wings and crooned loudly. I could only assume this was a “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” type of deal.

“Well, you’re just in time for breakfast. Come on.”

Instead of the usual bacon and eggs, I made fruit salad that morning. For the first time in a long while, I had a guest at the table. Beelzebub sat on the stack of old phone books and pecked at her apples and strawberries. I left out a plate for Aunt Jean too, knowing at some point I would blink, and the plate would be empty. 

“You’re a real devil for going missing like that, you know Beez?”

She squawked, which I took to be a long diatribe about how a name can innately change a person and I gave her the identity she has now. But she was a chicken, so of course it devolved into her talking about seed.

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that one.”

The rain that had been on its way all morning finally broke out over the fields. It was going to be a long, muddy day.

That’s all the story I have to tell for now. Sure, I could probably think of something else, but the shitty old desktop computer I have likes to type maybe two words a minute. And that’s when it’s not overheating. 

Maybe something will happen that’s worth typing about. Maybe it won’t. I’ll still type something, regardless.

Until next time.

No one knows his real name or where he’s from – the locals call him Silas. My father said he’s cursed for robbing the graves of the Poonwa tribe. Some say he protects ancient ley lines from those who would exploit them. Others whisper he’s a collector of souls, taking only those who’ve strayed too far into darkness. Merchants swear they've seen him appear out of the mist on moonless nights, leaving behind a single silver coin as payment for safe passage, or a warning to those who deal in ill-gotten goods.

I never believed the legends. Until I met him on a cattle drive.

It was late spring in 1871, and we were driving 300 head of cattle across the high plains, the kind of trek where the dust sticks in your throat and the nights are colder than they ought to be. The foreman, Old Lyle, had warned us not to stray from the trail, especially near the Poonwa bluffs—a jagged ridge of rock that seemed to breathe unease into the air.

He said it with a smirk, the kind that told you he enjoyed spooking greenhorns like me. "That’s Silas country," Lyle said, the firelight flickering against his weathered face. "If he finds you where you shouldn’t be, you won’t be coming back. Not as yourself, anyway."

The older hands chuckled, but I could tell even they avoided looking toward the bluffs.

I didn’t think much of it until the night we lost a steer. Big, stubborn thing, broke loose from the herd and made a beeline for the ridge. Lyle spat a curse and sent me after it, saying it’d be "a good way to learn some grit." I grumbled but grabbed my rifle and rode out, following the beast’s tracks into the mist that clung to the base of the bluffs.

The air felt heavy, like I was wading through water. My horse, Maggie, snorted nervously, her ears flicking in every direction. I pressed on, muttering to myself about Lyle’s sense of humor. That’s when I saw him.

He stood at the crest of the ridge, silhouetted against the pale light of the stars. His horse was ghostly pale, its breath steaming like smoke in the cold night air. The man himself—if you could call him that—was cloaked in shadow, the brim of his hat low, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.

The steer was there too, just standing like it was in a trance. Silas raised a hand, and I swear the beast turned and walked back toward the herd without a sound. Then he looked at me.

I pulled back the hammer on my rifle. His eyes—if he even had any—glimmered faintly, like embers hidden beneath ash. He didn’t speak, but something passed between us, an unspoken warning or maybe a question. My heart pounded as I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. It was like staring into the void and finding it staring back.

After what felt like an eternity, he reached into his cloak and pulled something out. A coin. He tossed it, and it landed in the dust near my feet, gleaming even in the faint starlight. Then he turned and vanished into the mist as if he’d never been there at all.

When I got back to the camp, I handed Lyle the coin. It was old, too old, with strange markings I didn’t recognize. Lyle’s face went pale, and he told me to toss it into the nearest river and never speak of it again.

But I kept it. Fool that I was in those days.

The years that followed were… strange. I drifted from town to town, from one cattle drive to another, the coin always tucked away in a small leather pouch that never left my person. Nothing overtly supernatural happened for the first few years, but then came the dreams. They always started the same way: mist swirling around the base of the Poonwa bluffs, the ghostly pale horse standing on the ridge, Silas’s shadowy figure turning towards me. But the dreams would shift, morph into twisted landscapes of bone and ash, where the sky bled crimson and the earth groaned beneath my feet. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, the feeling of unseen eyes lingering long after the dream had faded.

I thought about getting rid of the coin. But there was something about that coin that called out to me. It wasn't a good luck charm, but a reminder of something that was going to happen.

One sweltering afternoon, five years after my encounter on the bluffs, I found myself in a dusty saloon in a town called Redemption – a name that dripped with irony considering the clientele. I was playing poker, a game I'd become surprisingly good at, when a stranger sat down across from me. He was tall and thin, with eyes as dark and deep as a well. He didn't speak, just nodded and laid down his ante.

As the game progressed, I noticed something peculiar about the stranger. His movements were fluid, almost unnatural, and his gaze never left my face. I felt a prickle of unease, a flicker of recognition deep in my gut. He played with a quiet intensity, his expression never changing, even when he raked in a substantial pot.

Then, during a lull in the game, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver coin. It was identical to the one Silas had given me, down to the strange markings etched into its surface. He placed it on the table between us, its surface gleaming in the dim light of the saloon.

My heart pounded in my chest. I knew, without a doubt, who this man was, or rather, who he represented. He finally spoke, his voice a low, rasping whisper that seemed to scrape against my bones. “We've been waiting,” he said, his dark eyes boring into mine.

"I… I think I've had enough poker for one night," I stammered, pushing my chair back from the table. My hand instinctively went to the pouch around my neck, clutching the coin within.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “The game isn’t over,” he rasped. The other players, a motley collection of grizzled prospectors and weary-looking cowboys, seemed oblivious to the tension crackling between us. They continued shuffling cards and stacking chips, their faces illuminated by the flickering gas lamps overhead.

I forced a laugh, trying to appear nonchalant. “Just a bit tired, that’s all. Long day on the trail.” I stood up, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me.

“Sit down,” the stranger said, his voice soft but laced with steel. The air in the saloon seemed to grow colder, the laughter and chatter fading into a low hum. I hesitated, my hand hovering near the butt of my revolver.

“I don’t think I will,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I turned and started towards the saloon doors, my every nerve screaming for me to run.

As I reached the swinging doors, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, its grip like iron. I spun around, my revolver halfway out of its holster. The stranger stood behind me, his dark eyes burning into mine. He was no longer the languid gambler from moments before. His face was hard, his movements precise and predatory.

“You can’t run from him,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. I tried to pull away and the saloon doors swung open, revealing the dusty street bathed in the pale moonlight. For a moment, I saw a flicker of movement in the shadows across the street – a ghostly pale horse, its breath misting in the cool night air.

Panic seized me. I ripped myself free from the stranger’s grasp and bolted out into the street, the sound of his laughter echoing behind me. I ran toward the stable where Maggie was oblivious to my predicament, calmly eating hay. I didn't even bother with the bridle, just vaulted into the saddle and dug my heels in. She exploded out of the stable and onto the main street, a whirlwind of dust and pounding hooves. I looked back, half expecting to see the stranger or Silas hot on my trail, but I was alone.

Redemption's lights dwindled behind me as I rode into the vast, unforgiving darkness, a chilling certainty settling deep in my bones. My mind drifted to the day I'd met Silas on the Poonwa ridge five years earlier... I knew I'd made a grave mistake.

I should have thrown the coin into the river.

Content Warning: >!Mentions of child abuse.!<

My grandmother used to tell me stories that were supposed to scare me into behaving. She’d threaten that if I didn’t behave, my father would remarry someone wicked, and I’d be at the mercy of a stepmother who’d make my life hell. It felt like nonsense at the time—a bedtime story to keep me from acting out.  

She told one particular story often, especially after my mother died when I was eight. The idea of my father remarrying was terrifying enough without her adding a wicked stepmother into the mix. But after she passed away last month, I found her stories coming back to me in the worst way.

The story went something like this: 

There were once two children—a boy and a girl—whose mother died when they were young. Their father, a businessman, traveled frequently, and when he remarried a woman he met on one of his trips, the children hoped for love and care. But the new wife was cruel. She accused them of mischief, locked them in their rooms, and denied them food as punishment.

One day, when their father was away, the stepmother went too far. She left the children outside, forbidding them to come inside for water or shade. The boy collapsed first, his sister trying to drag him back toward the house. By the time the stepmother returned, both were dead.

Panicked, she buried their bodies in the garden, under the onion patch. When the father came home, she cried and claimed the children had run away. Distraught, he believed her, held a memorial, and invited the extended family over for dinner. He asked the stepmother to prepare a feast to honor the children.

She went to the garden to pick vegetables, but as she pulled at the onions, she heard a voice whisper:

‘My mother, my mother, don’t pull on my hair.

You’ve killed me and now buried me here.’ 

Terrified, she ran inside, claiming nothing was wrong. The father, confused, went to the garden himself. When he picked the onions, they looked like human heads, pale and weeping.

Still, the stepmother cooked the meal, her tears mixing with the onions as she chopped them. But as the family gathered to eat, a song echoed through the house:

‘Our mother, our mother, don’t feed us to him.

Our father will miss us; your future is grim.’

The guests restrained the wicked stepmother and tore apart the house, searching for the children who had been singing. Eventually, they found their way to the garden and noticed the freshly turned dirt. They dug down and found the children’s bodies, headless and rotting beneath the onions. The stepmother confessed everything. She was hanged that same week.

My grandmother would end the story with a warning: “That’s why you must always behave. Otherwise, your father might find someone like her.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t too close to her and felt only a little sad when she passed. My father never remarried, and I was his only child, so we inherited their house when she passed a few years after my grandfather. While cleaning the attic, I found my grandfather’s journals while sorting through her belongings.

I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. Most of it was routine: entries about work, the good weather, or my grandmother. But one entry near the end caught my attention.

It was an entry from early in their marriage, and it read:

I dreamt of the children again. They sang the same song, crying for justice. My hands feel so heavy when I work in the garden. What did you do, Eleanor? What have you hidden from me?”

The words didn’t make sense.  Who were the children? My father was an only child, as far as I knew. Why did he mention digging in the garden? I never saw anything strange in the garden or at their house. 

Until now.

The sole inheritors of their will, my father and I moved into their house, a beautiful Victorian with a sprawling yard and nearby streams. The first night I heard it, I thought it was a prank. A faint melody drifted through the house, barely loud enough to hear. It sounded like children singing, but the words were indistinct, mixed with the babbling brooks nearby.

By the second night, I was sure it was coming from the garden. I stood at the back door, straining to listen, and heard it clearly this time:

“Our brother, our brother, you live in our home.”

I froze. It was the song from the story.

By the fourth night, the voices followed me inside. They sang as I tried to sleep, whispering in the walls and under the floorboards. I swore I could hear dirt shifting beneath the house. I had trouble sleeping, and when I asked my father about it, he would shut my questions down and tell me to ignore it all. 

Then things escalated. 

One night, as we were having dinner, we both froze. The singing was clear this time, the words unmistakable:

“Our brother, our brother, you sit in our place.

Your daughter won’t miss you or remember your face.”

The blood drained from my father’s face. I could tell he recognized the words, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “It’s just the pipes,” he muttered, shoving his chair back and retreating to his bedroom.

But I knew better.

The nights grew worse. The voices followed us into the house, whispering accusations. They would call out in unison, chillingly playful:

“He took our place. We want it back.”

I started seeing them—two pale, translucent figures standing in the garden at night, their hollow eyes fixed on the house. My father saw them, too, though he tried to deny it. His health began to deteriorate. He barely slept, jumping at every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind rattling the windows.

One morning, I found him in the kitchen, staring out at the garden with dark circles under his eyes. “I don’t know what they want from me,” he whispered. “I didn’t do anything.”

I decided to dig in the garden. The soil felt damp and heavy as if it hadn’t been touched in years, but the deeper I went, the more I found. First, small bones—too small to be anything but a child. Then, there was a clump of hair, brittle and matted with dirt.

The spirits became more aggressive, targeting my father specifically. His bedroom door would slam shut in the middle of the night. He’d wake up screaming, clutching his chest, claiming he felt small hands pulling at his hair.

One night, I woke to the sound of breaking glass. I ran to his room and found him collapsed on the floor, clutching the broken shards of a picture frame. “They won’t stop,” he gasped. “They want me dead.”

I tried to reassure him, but the look in his eyes told me he’d already given up.

The next morning, he was gone. His body was stiff, his eyes wide with terror, as though he’d seen something no living person should ever witness.

I thought the torment would end with him, that the ghosts would finally rest. But I was wrong.

The night after his funeral, the singing returned. It was louder this time, and the words had changed:

“Your father is gone, so we wait for you.

Your place is here; you’ll never break through.”

I’ve tried leaving the house. I always find myself back at the front door, no matter how far I drive or how fast I run. The garden is thriving again, the onions thick and vibrant, though I haven’t touched the soil.

The singing never stops.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? Time seems different now. The voices call to me constantly, lulling me into a strange, dreamlike haze. Sometimes, I see my father standing in the garden, just beyond the onions, watching me with those empty eyes.

If you ever inherit an old house with a perfect garden, burn it down. Burn it to the ground and never look back. Because once you’re here, there’s no escape. And if you ever hear singing in your garden, ignore it. And for God’s sake, don’t dig.

Justice, my sister, ran away from home when she was eighteen years of age, or so for many years I thought. My parents were vague on the cause of her disappearance, and all matters pertaining to my sibling, come to that.

“A saint,” was all my father would say of her. “She was a saint in the eyes of God.”

“An angel,” my mother would insist. “That’s all you need to know.”

They would admit no fault in her absence, and yet I sensed something false in their praise and winced to hear it from such bitter mouths as theirs.

I’d feared both of my parents for as long as I could recall, which is a pitiful sort of existence for a child to know. They belonged to some evangelical religion that devoured them through its miserable hold, being that their conduct in all things was not as individuals, but as the mortal enactors of their severe and joyless faith.

I feared to trespass their rules or express any complaint lest they, by force, grind it out. The house was perpetually cold, a temple of gruelling worship in which toys, or television, or casual literature were forbidden, each room instead committed to such quantities of religious paraphernalia that there was scarce space in them to move.

I knew from savage paragraphs of my parents’ beloved texts that all suffering was holy, and corporal punishment just one means of pain listed among them. To be spared other agonies was a gift rarely granted, only the act of killing forbidden; the only reason my parents had never once raised a hand to me by my recollection was that being a mute, shy, and anxious child I had given them no true cause.

So it was that I did not ask about my sister, only imagined a thousand configurations of destiny that might well have befallen her.

After years of pure behaviour she had trespassed, I suspected, had disobeyed a curfew, tasted alcohol, or exalted in the touch of men. My mother would wash her hands and rock with mumbled prayer at the rare utterance of her name alone: in this way I knew my sisters’ failure as it was written in the law of my parents’ holy works.

They had put Justice out on the street, perhaps, or else she had run from them, leaving me, a boy of then just six alone in the harsh church that was our house.

By the end of the following decade I was desperate to join my sister in the world beyond, but having never been permitted to work by my parents or been given sufficient allowance to hide away I was jailed there, groomed to be the prophet of their faith.

I took to pacing the house in obsessive repetition by habit, particularly when my parents absented themselves to proselytise in the poor quarters of the city in which they felt the Word was most needed.

Sometimes I stood at the thin, high windows of that hideous abode and considered leaping to a sinful death on the grey street below, but thoughts of my sister prevented me, for I had hopes still of meeting her again.

I envisioned her coiled like an ammonite in the sheathe of an old sleeping bag, somewhere, or against the back of a faceless lover in an apartment beyond our parents’ reaches. Dancing on a stage under lights like gasoline on a black road in all their lurid colours—

So many images of Justice I conceived of, some of them happy, others lonely glances of the fringes to which my mother and father had thrust her in their rejection. But not once in my grim musings did I suppose that she was dead.

I knew there was some possibility of it—perhaps my father had struck her down in a holy rage, or she had seized in the grasp of drugged overdose in the infected womb of the city, or starved there.

Yet my parents’ belief that it was a sin to outright take a life was so strong that I could not conceive of them having any hand in it, and for reasons inexplicable I was certain that no other death had claimed her.

That Justice had disappeared led me to think that I too may likewise fade from view, however. My parents’ obsession with me standing as some great example of their religion disturbed me in its fervour; my name was often uttered in their prayers, my photograph placed beneath the shrine of crosses they knelt to where other families observed the glass face of a machine.

They had no reason to think I did not share in their delusion, for through fear I’d clasp my hands and mouth to God as they did, and so I seemed devout. But I had no want of their baleful religion of self-abasement, and as the months went on and my fixation with my sister’s vanishing expanded I at last dared to ask my mother if Justice had always been as saintly as they claimed.

“She was,” my mother insisted. “Our good girl, that she was. But we had a fear she’d change, when she got older. She was always having notions of leaving us... well, we prayed on it, and God saw fit to make a saint of her so all she’d be remembered for was the good she’d done, and not the sins that might have come after. Fire and brimstone licks us all around the ankles, child, but through His love we’re saved.”

She touched my cheek with one cool hand, and I cringed from the zeal in that caress, the look in her eyes that was a blindness in the seeing of what was not there.

“You’re so like her, you know,” my mother said. “You’re good. A credit to your faith.”

“I’m not,” I signed, but as always she misread the frustration in my gestures and took me gently by the hand.

“Oh, love. You don’t have to speak for people to hear the Word. You’re enough.”

It was the kindest sentiment my mother had ever expressed to me, and in other circumstances I might have taken comfort in it, but being that I was no believer it only drove my fear and melancholy deeper into me.

Once my mother had gone out into the city with her pamphlets, my father presumably with her, I resumed my wandering of the house again, thinking of Justice, whose face I knew better from photographs than from the tatters I had left of memory.

A soft, pale face she’d had, like the bead of a pearl rosary, eyes like the glow that accompanied sirens in the night; she looked as my mother had done when she was young, before the whittling of the Order had made a haggard branch of her. I wondered if Justice had gone that way, and if I, too, would be incised merely by proximity to my parents’ beliefs.

By the time my pacing led me to the top of the house I again felt the call of those tall windows, so ensnared was I by the terror of my fate that this seemed my only egress. It was as I stood pressed to their murky glass that I became aware of distant music above me, much like the recordings my mother would play while kneeling to her shrine of saints.

I stared up at the ceiling, momentarily bewildered; only when my eyes touched the outline of the door to the attic did it occur to me that this room which I had never entered was the source of that dark melody. To my knowledge the loft had rarely been used except for storage purposes, and so I’d had no cause or interest to explore it.

Now, attracted by the strain of mysterious song, I went to fetch a broom from a nearby cupboard and prodded the attic door until the ladder descended. At once the yellow glow of candlelight fell upon me, and with it the odours of incense and human habitation such as I had smelled sometimes in the street side gatherings of religious fanatics my parents frequented.

Against my better judgement I followed the lead of my tugging curiosity and climbed the steps up into that skyward quarter.

I found myself within a makeshift church, though one characterised by the hoarding mania the rest of the house had fallen prey to. Pews over spilling with stale cushions bisected the chamber, and clustered pillars of white candles threw up a canopy of shadows from wall to wall.

Underfoot lay handwritten prayers and hymns on yellowed paper, dropped down like summer wasps from their stands, and there were so many plaster sculptures of biblical figures hemmed in about the room that even had I been alone there I would have felt observed by their painted eyes.

Yet I was not alone, for upon entering the attic my gaze was drawn at once to the presence to which that shrine had been erected.

Upon the central altar sat a creature draped in pale fabric such as the saints wore in their portraits, its legs buckled in some weird mode of kneeling like plants grown twisted through disease or want of light. Its arms were bent backwards and vestigial, the fingers conjoined by a trellis of knotted skin; it had been burned, this thing, transformed by fire as my mother had described into a new and holy dread.

But it was only when that being turned its head to me, revealing, untouched, the miracle of beauty in its face that I recognised my sister, and what through an act of brutal ritual she’d become.

I screamed, first through the near thoughtless instinct of horror, then in despair, for even had I the ability to call through words for help I knew our few neighbours would bury themselves in the dark and dust of their homes and so hear nothing, or else tell themselves that they had not.

From some corner of the attic came a shuffling motion, and I pivoted so severely towards it that I near turned my ankle in the debris underfoot.

My father stood behind me, a dishevelled tent of bone and sallow features sunken into his clothes like some dead thing preserved by the sun.

Only his slow movement towards me across that junk room denoted his continued vitality, such as it had been reduced to through the dirge of his life.

“Ah, son,” my father said, and he glanced from me to my sister with the same awful love that had been in my mother’s eyes. “I’ve had my doubts, more than my share, and prayed on them. But I see now your mother was right.”

With shuddering hands I asked, “Right about what?”

As my father answered he wept, his tears like those on the face of Christ.

“In burning your tongue out when you were born. Your mother saved us all from greater suffering that day, and you, boy, most of all.”

Through fear of what else might be done to me in reprimand I made a great pretence of understanding my parents’ acts of zealous mutilation, falling to my knees and weeping, grateful for it all, and they, in their madness, believed it of me.

Yet from that day I knew I must alight from that terrible house and from my keepers, and that I must take poor Justice with me.

This did not prove easy, for unless my mother or father attended her I found the door to the attic was locked, their belief in my pious nature never quite so strong as the paranoia that she would be taken from them.

Still, even had they left that room open to me I knew I could not carry my sister from the house alone; though smaller and lighter than I, her new body was so oddly shaped that I wouldn’t have known how best to hold or to transport her without causing her harm or distress.

Her mind, it seemed, had been reduced by pain to something primitive; she could not speak, and though my parents addressed her frequently I saw no comprehension in her stare of what they uttered in her presence.

They were glad of that, I’m sure. A saint, to them, was like an infant, pure of thought, without autonomy, a symbol of all projected upon them by their followers; I wanted better for Justice than that, and so upon returning to school I made haste to communicate in writing of the abuses I had witnessed and those I myself had suffered.

Only my young age and the severity of what had been done to me had rid me of that memory, though through my father’s revelation I seemed to distantly recall it. These details I presented to my teacher, who, though vaguely sceptical, had me remain at school while the police were contacted and dispatched to my house.

Upon their arrival they found the building empty, though with evidence of recent abandonment, the customary disarray further disturbed by the hurried emptying of drawers and wardrobes. The attic had been similarly gutted, though found there were sheets and blankets stained with blood and other bodily matter that supported my claims strongly enough to spur an immediate investigation.

Why my parents had allowed me to leave their keep if they suspected my betrayal I do not know. Perhaps they realised I would not be so easily subdued as my sister had been, and so seized the chance to fly with her in my absence.

Yet there is some part of me convinced that they had no inkling of my intent to speak out against them until I’d already departed, that they had afterwards received some sign of it, either imagined by them or else spiritually delivered by God or saint.

I may not have followed their religion, but some sediment of its superstition followed me even to foster care, where I should well have been released from its influence.

My restless habit of wandering persisted, also, which in taking me through the city, lost in contemplation of my family’s disappearance, led me to hear amongst the vagrants and the preachers there of a changed branch of their strange sect. The Holy Order of Saint Justice, they called it, my only proof that my parents and sister remained in that place three years after.

I looked for them in the streets and shabby buildings to which their circle was ordinarily drawn, intent on acting as the law had failed to in liberating my sister from them. Each time I imagined I’d uncover her where I sought, set upon some overturned box made an altar, her tortured body and eyes without thought lit by the reeking flame her congregants each prayed by.

Yet in the catacombs we called our city my parents had hidden her too well for me to find, for they had always loved the result of her suffering more than they did Justice and I.

For anyone that was busy yesterday

https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/roLFtykIQz

In case anyone is wondering I'm typing this from the security of the attic with my very first smartphone. Well, it's not mine per sae but it's mine now is what's important.

Maybe being a bit more relaxed will let me relate myself better. I'd be a fan of that. The past few days, even by my standards have just been odd and violent, but that part goes without saying.

Looks like more and more people are trying to help me out, much appreciated, as always. Here is a little feedback for you. And a couple questions.

First off, why does everyone seem to know more about this flea market than I do? I'd have thought getting things first hand from something that looked like Pumpkinhead's church going cousin would have put me at an advantage but you guys seem to know what's up better than I do.

I'm going to hazard a guess it has something to do with the fact that there’s certain information I just can't see. That same vantablack that blocks my travels censors out all kinds of things, I'd tell you what, but you know the worst part of censorship is…

Doesn't seem to work with second hand info though (not yet anyway ) I'm chalking that up to my creator’s community college level sorcery skills. So please, if you know something I don't, pass it on.

Second, you guys seem to have some pretty high hopes for my morals. I expected a group of random folks to be telling me to slaughter the neighbourhood with the hero's skull for shits and giggles, but it seems things have gotten a little less edgy since the 90s. Probably not a bad thing.

Lastly, you guys seem to think Kaz can help me out quite a bit, got to say, he did seem like fear incarnate. I'll keep that in mind.

If I missed you, it's probably because i took your advice and I'll be getting to it in a minute.

The headline of the past couple weeks is the entire goon squad piling into their literal hearse and taking off. The bishop seemed to have packed a couple suitcases so I assumed I was going to have a few days at least.

But to play it safe I spent the first day in the attic. I'm still nervous about the glance the twin and I exchanged and not about to get caught in a trap invented by paranoid parents .

A little after one on the second night I hear what I initially think is the bishop and the 3 pawns ( better name? Worse?) . But as I focus , I hear 5 voices whispering, and most certainly sounding like nothing that stalks the night with any degree of real skill.

A window breaks, and I smell it.

I know most of you guys think of me as a good guy, I mean, I'm pretty sure someone is working on making a plush or a body pillow of me as we speak (I have so many questions about fads in 2024) . But there are going to be times you get a deep , uncomfortable look into the vile crap hastily sewn together that is me.

This is one of those times.

What I smelled was innocence. And with it, I gained an understanding. A look into what my base drive is, I'd love to say I didn't like it, to say I felt it was a vile compulsion, but the truth is, that's not how it feels. It's exciting, it's primal, and on a very real level it feeds me.

With that first whiff , I understood innocence. It's not being perfect, or young, chaste or naive. It's complicated of course, but at its core it's doing things for the right reasons . Having that spark of human kindness, loyalty and selflessness even among flaws that may appear irredeemable to some.

2 of those men had it. 3 of those men were acceptable collateral damage. Nothing in me, meat, cloth, or magic feels any differently. I respect you all too much to lie.

I start to salivate, the fluid pooling and dripping out of the bottom of my ceramic head. I feel power, I feel confidence. It's dark, it's my house, they’re not demons or heroes, just meat. I can feel my body twitch and thrum like a guitar string as they come into the house one by one. They split up, trying to ransack the place as quickly as they can.

I laugh. A clicking phlegmatic sound I find myself hoping they can hear as I run toward a vent, jumping down into it with no regard for the minor noise I make. In fact , I extend one blade and drag it along the duct. As they hear the sound I can feel their fear , I can feel where they are like a hellish radar.

The closest to me has no innocence to him. I smell crimes committed for pure greed and rage, that doesn't matter though, I need to warm up. I've spent so much time sneaking and cowering, I need to see what I can do.

I settle myself enough to open the vent without attracting attention. The large, mask wearing man rifles through drawers, looking frustrated as he finds nothing better than 25 year old computer errata.

My limbs move almost of their own accord , I climb with a spider’s grace directly above the man. There would have been a million ways to drop on him and kill him in an instant. But my mind went to none of those.

Instead, I let the ceramic headpiece unfold, thick red-grey saliva hits his the top of his mask. He jumps and turns toward the ceiling shining a high powered flashlight in my face. It doesn't matter, I know exactly where he is, and I get a giddy charge from the burst of fear that runs through his body as he sees my face.

I let go and extend both of my blades. Nothing to hack down a demon, but stout and sharp enough to slide easily through the man's eyes, the sockets behind them, and, propelled by my momentum, the brain behind that.

He makes no noise, but both of our bodies hitting the floor most certainly does. I rip my arms, shoulder deep in gore, out of his head and take a moment to admire the spewing cavern of his face.

I hear another man come running, another empty snack but I'm more than eager to whet my appetite.

I run to the door and place my back to the wall beside it. The second man, a wiry guy in his 40s, wearing no mask but a moustache that would have been at home back in 93 walks by me and screams as he sees his compatriot.

I walk behind him and drive both blades tip down into his Achilles tendons. Putting all my weight and strength into it, I tear upward, the blades catching flesh , tendon and fat and tearing them out as a formless lump. He hits the ground, wailing in terror and pain.

I can hear one of the group immediately leave his compatriots. I'm angered as I feel it was one of the innocent. I take this out on the thief screaming on the ground.

I climb his body facing the door , I'm stunned at how easy these instincts come to me, and at how much I'm loving this.

It’s like a hard drug, it scares the hell out of me, but I need it.

He tries to see what’s on his back, but he has no leverage to throw me off. I vent my rage by stabbing, randomly, almost playfully up and down his torso.

By the time the last two enter, he isn't dead but he isn't coming back. I stare at the two men as I petulantly stab a last 3 times, shut the headpiece with a snap and leap with greased eel speed into a floor vent.

They scream, at the situation, at each other, at their dying friend. And I hear the telltale noise of a gun cocking. I'm not scared, it makes me laugh, I let the sound echo through the vents as I move randomly, stoking their fear, their paranoia.

I stop and watch them back down the hallway from a ceiling vent. I pant with anticipation, as I confirm the innocent has the gun. I scrape the knife , herding them to the top of the stairs. The gun toting buffet fires randomly, coming no where close to hitting me.

I move to a vent between the two, letting silence ring. Letting them ramble possible plans and explanations to each other.

I drop ,putting them between myself and the stairs. With no room to aim, and nerves frayed thin, the innocent man, a 23 year old single father, working 2 jobs and doing this under duress, fires rapidly and poorly.

Soup can sized chunks blow out of his friends back as the bullets exit. I do nothing to speed the man's fate, I stand in the hallway letting the young man's shock and fear marinate his coming pain.

He sees me and fires his 2 remaining shots ,doing nothing more than sending harmless sprays of hardwood into my mask.

He’s stunned, but not enough to avoid making a break for it when I start a slow walk toward him, scraping one blade along my ceramic head, making a hellish screech.

He stumbles down the stairs and I leap. I overestimate my ability and land grabbing his waist from behind as opposed to his head.

I jam a blade into the side of his leg with the rapidity of a sowing machine, and as that steel buries itself into his flesh, I feel it, the pain of the innocent.

I don't know if I'll be able to explain this in any way that makes sense, but I'll try.

You know that false rush of strength and bravado you hear cocaine users rant about? That high that makes you feel you could fight and fuck all night , likely both at the same time?

Think of that, but instead of false promises you are actually stronger, faster and smarter, not just a twitchy loser who isn't making sense and can't get it up.

I roar , a sound like a rock tumbler with strep throat. He tries to grab me and throw me off, but I retract a blade and grab his hand, easily twisting the wrist to such a degree the man falls to the floor. Nothing I could do before the kickstart.

He tries to slam me into the ground, but I drive my legs into his back, briefly lifting him up as I move both of my hands perpendicular to the ground, parallel to my legs.

I let my legs drop to the ground, the man's body falls driving my blades through his chest, he looks to them, screaming as I find myself with the strength to throw him off of me.

I don't want to sugar coat things, but I don't want to subject you guys to too much shit either. The next ten minutes I spent with my head unfolded eating chunks of the guy till the life finally bled from him.

When the frenzy burned itself out, it was my turn to be startled.

Standing in the kitchen door, leaning against the frame, holding a pistol and the phone I'm typing this on was the hero. He didn't blink, the gun didn't waver, he simply threw the cell phone to me, it was open to a blank screen with a flashing cursor.

"You have about ten seconds to tell me something that makes me not shoot you to feel better about myself. You only get that because I know you aren’t working with the square head. " he says.

I'll spare you the part where I catch him up via the notepad. It was tense, to the point where a shot was fired, but at the end of it all we realized , regardless of who was lying about what , we both needed a hand.

We dragged the bodies down the stairs (mostly me, for obvious leg related reasons) , I find myself, now a lot stronger than your average person, but I can feel that power draining by the second. By my guess it'll be burned out within a day. Not the buff I was expecting.

"I'll take care of these. That salted licorice prick isn't the only one who knows how to use that microwave.

Listen, I'm going to call you Punch, that Allright? " the hero says taking a seat in his gore streaked chair.

As I look around the room they did leave him 3 buckets. One contained waste, the other a pile of what was hopefully animal offal , and the third , water that wasn't much more clear than my spit.

"Okay punch, I've been burned by supernatural shit before, but what choice do I have. You ever seen the godfather ?" He asks, I nod.

He hands me the pistol, a large boxy black thing.

"Then you know what to do. I don't know how long we have but if you’re planning on going to the flea market do it soon.

Once it's go time, I'll let you know.

And one more thing, if you have any ability to get me a burger, maybe a soda, I can honestly say I'll forgive the slaughter up there." He tries to be jovial but we’re both beyond that.

I scavenge the cash, cell phones, and 2 more pistols from the bodies hoping it will be enough to trade for something useful.

The next night , once dark fell I quickly looked up the address on the card (with some help from the hero. His name is Leonard for all those wondering.) And started toward it.

From a distance I saw nothing but a vacant lot across from a flea market, which made me start thinking maybe Leo didn't know how to work the phone as well as he claimed and my destination was on the other side of the street.

But as I got within a block of the lot, suddenly there was a building too tall to be held up by brick and mortar . Bricks of all types haphazardly put together and windows ranging from idyllic home to prison studding it randomly. Dominating the front of the building though was a giant LED sign flashing "Flea Market!!!" In erratic patterns.

I make my way to a massive tinted glass door that I'm unsure I can move as the last of the innocence wore off sooner than I expected.

But as I walk up, a smaller door , sized perfectly for me, appeared. This one I opened with ease.

As I walked in , I suddenly felt very normal and mundane.

Creatures, entities, ghosts, demons, whatever you could think of , it was walking the shoddy looking aisles, browsing, chatting, and bargaining . Dozens of languages no human has ever spoke blended together with hundreds they have into a cacophonic din that threatened to drown out my thoughts.

The air hung thick with a sweet smoke , lights flashed, loudspeakers screamed deals. I saw signs for weapons, food, goods, anything I could think of. But I saw something else even more important.

"Kaz! Over here!" I scream seeing the Candyman a few dozen feet away.

For a moment I think I have no chance of attracting his attention. But eventually he turns around and seems to laugh and shake his head as he walks over.

He takes us into a moderately more quiet part of the flea market, all kinds of entities sit at long tables eating and conversing. We sit beside a group of purple wicked looking things eating thin strands of florescent foodstuffs with fingers that look like the fronds of angler fish.

"You little madman. You’re actually going through with this? Do you even know where to go? What you are buying?" he asks curiously.

"I'm a genius so I guess I'll go to weapons, and get a weapon." I say sarcastically .

"How many weapons do you think are made for Lil fellas like yourself? No, you need an adult. I'll show where you can go make your bad decision. " I'd be more angry at Kaz condescension if he wasn't right.

He walks me for what feels like hours to what looks like the most run down junk shop of a stall in the place. The painted sign on wood that looks it was salvaged from the titanic says "Flapp and Hyve :The Oddest Odds and Ends" .

Behind the junk laden counter stood a massive bird-like beast. It was a deep rotten orange that reminded me of a tangerine left in a gutter. It's beak was a harsh unnatural yellow, it's eyes much too large for its skull, sat exposed and rolling about of their own accord on the top of it’s head. It was seven feet of nightmare fuel dredged from childhood memories.

I almost mistook the second entity for a piece of junk, but who am I to judge. It was a knock off "stretch man" toy , wearing a black unitard and bloated beyond reason, it stands up and vermin scuttle from tears on its latex body.

"Flapp and Hyve?" I say trying to start things off on the right foot.

"We got a homunculus here Hyve, speak slowly and don't use big words." The bird says.

"That's how I have to talk to you, but this is a customer, how can I help you? Ignore my friend, he seems to think his shining personality pays our rent." Hyve says.

I tell him my situation, Hyve seems to take a special interest when I mention the malignant. He scrounged around the junk and brings out two items. One is a green glass eye, about sized for a doll , the other looks like a key chain with a small decorative sword on it.

"This eye, it'll let you go unnoticed. Not shimmering outline invisible , but unseen, unheard, and unnoticed by any sense anything has. This key chain, if you can get a malignant to touch it, I can guarantee it won't be bothering you anymore." Hyde says. There are letters on the side of the sword 'Baddar'.

I open my bag of cash, guns and phones to a massive laugh from Flapp.

"Shoot yourself with one of those guns, and if you survive , take that money, buy a dildo, and go fuck yourself. Get out of my shop." Flapp says dismissively.

There is a moment of pregnant silence before Hyve stretches out a limb faster than a cobra, and despite his five pound size the blow sends the bird crashing to the ground. It gets up, chagrined but amazingly not hurt.

"That will be fine. My kind have been nothing but especially cruel to me , but I'm very limited in how I can exact my revenge. If you can put a scratch on any of them, that makes up for any loss of finance.

Though there is one thing you are not going to enjoy. This eye is a part, it has to be installed. " Hyve says before leading me back into the shop.

The room looks like a cross between a woodshop and a surgical theatre. I'm strapped , completely immobile on a dark wood table.

Hyve brings out tools that radiate an energy that puts anything I've felt to shame. He opens my head and begins to slice, flense and form the flesh underneath.

The pain was worse than I thought possible. Worse than trauma to the meat that makes up my internals , the tools work on a level that is beyond the physical, tearing parts of my very essence to connect with the jade eye he implants in what could generously be considered my forehead.

When I get off of the table, I do what Hyve tells me, focusing on the eye. I see and feel myself become nothing more than the whisper of an idea of a form on the material plane.

I make my way home, casually, doing everything I could to try and get noticed to no avail.

And that is where we are, a handful of shaky alliances , a surgery I hope has no side effects , and a key chain I've been assured kills demons.

As always, I ask you guys, what do you think? I've got so many plates spinning right now I can only hope I'm making the right choices.

Before I go, I want to apologise to people that have been cheering for me. I could have just omitted the details, but you guys deserve better than that. You should know who you are helping . For all you know it could be your future house I'm living in

I remember everything about that day at Lake Newell. The way the sun gleamed off the water, the shouts of laughter echoing through the park, and the bright colors of picnic blankets sprawled across the grass. It was supposed to be a perfect day—the last family outing of the summer before school started again. I was looking forward to it, even though I’d never been big on family picnics. But that day… that day was different.

Tom had been excited since we pulled into the parking lot, practically bouncing out of the car as soon as the doors unlocked. He was always like that—full of energy, always smiling. It was hard not to get swept up in his enthusiasm. As the youngest of our cousins, he had a way of making everything feel more alive, like seeing the world through a different lens. When he darted off toward the shore with his flip-flops slapping against his heels, I knew I’d be spending the day chasing after him, just like always.

“Tom, wait up!” I called, but he didn’t stop, his small figure already disappearing among the other kids running along the beach. I shook my head and jogged after him, trying to keep him in sight. The lake was crowded that day, the shore dotted with families, children, and couples lounging on blankets or grilling hot dogs. It felt safe, like nothing bad could ever happen in a place like this.

By the time I reached the shoreline, Tom was already at the water’s edge, kicking up sand as he waded into the shallows. He turned and waved at me, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in two. I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Stay where I can see you,” I called, stopping a few feet short of the water. I hated how protective I sounded, but I couldn’t help it. He was just a kid—a kid who couldn’t swim well, no matter how much he begged to go in deeper.

“I’m fine, Ellie,” he insisted, rolling his eyes in that way only an 11-year-old can. He stuck out his tongue, then splashed around a little, staying close to the shore. “See? I’m not even going past the line.” He gestured to the faded rope that marked the end of the shallow area, where the lifeguards usually set up their posts on busy weekends. Today, though, the rope just sagged there, useless and unattended.

I glanced around uneasily, noticing that most of the lifeguards were focused on a group of rowdy teenagers farther down the beach. I made a mental note to keep an eye on Tom. He loved testing boundaries, and the last thing we needed was for him to drift into deeper water without anyone noticing.

“Okay, but no going out past your waist,” I said firmly, squinting against the sunlight that reflected off the lake’s surface. “Promise?”

“Promise!” Tom called back, then promptly turned and splashed farther out, his shorts already soaked and clinging to his skinny legs. I sighed, shaking my head. Watching him play, I could almost forget my worries, almost relax into the laughter and sunlight. It was a good day—a perfect day, really. If only I’d known what was coming.

The rest of the family was scattered around the picnic area, setting up food and drinks. My mom and Aunt Sarah were fussing over the grill, arguing about whether the hot dogs were done, while my dad and Uncle James talked football, gesturing wildly as they debated their fantasy league picks. The air smelled of charcoal and sunscreen, and the breeze off the lake was cool against my skin. I sat down on the edge of our blanket, keeping one eye on Tom and the other on my phone as I scrolled through a stream of mindless updates.

Every so often, I’d glance up, making sure I could still see his dark hair bobbing above the water. He’d dip his head under for a few seconds, then pop back up, shaking his head like a wet puppy. Once or twice, I caught his eye, and he’d wave again, a cheeky smile on his face. It made me laugh, but there was always a part of me that stayed on edge. Just a small part—a whisper in the back of my mind telling me not to let him out of my sight. But I did.

“Ellie, come help me with these skewers!” Mom called from the picnic table, snapping me out of my thoughts. I hesitated, glancing back at the water.

“Tom, stay where I can see you!” I shouted. He didn’t answer, but I saw him splash closer to a group of kids who were building a sandcastle on the shore. Reluctantly, I stood and turned away.

“I’m coming,” I grumbled, heading over to the picnic table. The adults were bustling around, setting out plastic plates and napkins, talking and laughing. It was loud, chaotic, and for a few minutes, I got lost in the commotion, handing skewers and running back and forth to the cooler.

When I finally looked back, Tom was gone.

It happened so quickly. One second, he was there—his head bobbing in the water, his laughter carrying over the lake—and the next, he wasn’t. I squinted, scanning the beach, the water, the groups of kids playing along the shore, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Tom?” I called, my voice sharp with sudden fear. I stepped closer to the water’s edge, craning my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of his dark hair. “Tom!”

The lake seemed to stretch out forever, the water glittering innocently in the afternoon light. I ran along the shore, my eyes darting from one group of children to another, my heart pounding. Where was he? He couldn’t have gone far. He couldn’t.

“Have you seen Tom?” I asked a little girl digging in the sand. She looked up at me with wide eyes and shook her head. Panic clawed at my throat as I turned back to the picnic area.

“Mom!” I shouted, my voice high and desperate. “I can’t find Tom!”

Everything seemed to slow down as my words registered. The adults turned, their expressions shifting from confusion to alarm. Aunt Sarah dropped the plate she was holding, her face paling.

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” she demanded, already rushing toward the shore. I stumbled after her, scanning the water, the beach, everywhere.

“He was just here,” I stammered, feeling sick. “He was right here. I—”

“Tom!” Aunt Sarah screamed, cupping her hands around her mouth as she sprinted along the shoreline. “Tom, where are you?”

My stomach dropped as the realization hit me like a wave of ice water: Tom was gone. One second, I’d looked away. One second, I’d let my guard down. And now, he was nowhere.

* * * * * *

The chaos that followed was a blur of shouts and frantic movement. My aunt and uncle ran up and down the shore, calling Tom’s name over and over again, their voices rising in pitch with each unanswered shout. Family members scattered, searching the picnic area, the playground, the parking lot—anywhere he might have wandered off to. But there was no sign of him.

I ran with them, my heart hammering, my throat dry as sandpaper. Every few seconds, I’d turn and look at the water, feeling an icy dread creeping up my spine. The lake looked the same as it always did—calm, inviting, glistening under the late afternoon sun. But now, it seemed different. The water’s surface shimmered mockingly, as if hiding a secret.

“Tom!” I screamed, ignoring the stares of strangers. I tore through the crowd, pushing past families packing up their picnics and kids with dripping ice cream cones. “Tom, where are you?”

“Maybe he’s hiding somewhere,” Dad said, but his voice was tight with worry. He jogged alongside me, his eyes scanning the clusters of people lounging on the sand. “Kids do that sometimes, right? They hide to get attention.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” I insisted, swallowing back the panic that threatened to choke me. Tom wasn’t a mischievous kid—he liked to show off, sure, but he’d never go far without telling someone. Especially me.

“Ellie, come look over here!” my cousin Megan called, waving frantically from the playground. “Maybe he’s on the slides.”

I ran over, nearly tripping on the hem of my jeans, but there was no one on the playground but a few toddlers toddling around under the watchful eyes of their parents. I turned in a slow circle, scanning the park, my eyes darting back to the lake again and again.

“No, no, no, no…” I muttered under my breath. This couldn’t be happening. It was just a stupid game of hide-and-seek. Any second now, he’d pop out from behind a tree, giggling like he always did, and I’d yell at him for scaring me. But deep down, I knew. Something was wrong. Tom wouldn’t hide like this. Not for this long. Not with everyone screaming his name.

“Ellie!” My mom’s voice cut through my thoughts, sharp with fear. She was standing by the water’s edge, her phone pressed to her ear. “I’m calling 911. I want you to stay here, okay?”

“What if he’s in the lake?” I blurted out, my voice breaking. I pointed to the water, my hand shaking. “What if he—what if he went out too far and—”

“Don’t say that!” Mom snapped, then softened. She reached out, gripping my shoulders, her gaze piercing. “We’re going to find him, okay? He’s around here somewhere. Just stay with your dad, and don’t leave the shoreline.”

But I could see it in her eyes: the fear, the doubt. And that was when the dread in my chest turned to something darker—something heavy and suffocating that settled like a stone in my gut. My gaze drifted back to the lake, to the soft ripples where Tom had been playing just minutes ago.

“Please, please be okay,” I whispered, barely aware of the tears burning down my cheeks.

The next few minutes were a blur. Mom was shouting into the phone, giving the dispatcher every detail she could think of: Tom’s height, his weight, his dark hair, the blue Spider-Man swim trunks he loved so much. I could hear her voice shaking as she begged for help, her gaze never leaving the water.

“Six years old? Is that what you said?” the dispatcher asked.

“No, eleven,” Mom corrected, her voice breaking. “He’s eleven, but he’s small for his age. He—he looks younger. Please, you have to send someone right away. He’s been missing for—” She glanced at her watch, and I saw her face go pale. “It’s been over twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes. My heart stuttered. Had it really been that long? It felt like seconds. A few frantic seconds since I’d looked away, since I’d turned my back on him for one careless moment.

“They’re sending a team,” Mom said quietly, lowering the phone. She looked around, her eyes wild and desperate. “Where’s Sarah?”

I followed her gaze and saw Aunt Sarah stumbling along the shoreline, her face white as a sheet. She was clutching Tom’s towel—crumpled and still damp from when he’d been splashing around just a little while ago. It looked so small in her hands, so fragile.

“Tom!” she screamed, her voice raw and ragged. “Tom, please answer me!”

Uncle James grabbed her, pulling her back as she started wading into the lake. “Sarah, stop. You can’t—”

“He’s in there!” she sobbed, struggling against him. “I know he’s in there, I can feel it. Let me go!”

“Sarah, you have to stay here,” he pleaded, his own voice shaking. “The divers are coming. They’ll find him. We can’t—” His voice broke, and for a moment, I saw the same terror in his eyes that I felt in my own chest.

I stumbled back, clutching my arms around myself, my mind spinning. This couldn’t be happening. Tom couldn’t be… gone. Not like this. He was probably hiding somewhere. He had to be. But with every second that passed, every fruitless search around the park, hope seemed to drain away, replaced by a suffocating sense of dread.

A few minutes later, the rescue teams arrived—police officers, paramedics, and a crew of divers in dark wetsuits that made my stomach twist. They moved with grim efficiency, setting up a perimeter and clearing the area around the lake. A few officers ushered us away from the water, asking if anyone had seen Tom go under, if we knew exactly where he’d been playing.

“No, no, he was just—he was right here!” Aunt Sarah cried, pointing to the shallows. “He was playing in the shallow water, and then—then I looked away, and—”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” the officer said softly, taking notes. “We’re going to find him. Just try to stay calm.”

Stay calm? How could we stay calm when Tom was out there—alone, scared, maybe hurt? My legs felt like they might give out. I stared at the water, my hands shaking, feeling like I might throw up.

“What’s happening?” a voice piped up beside me.

I turned and saw Lily—Tom’s little sister—clutching her mother’s leg, her eyes wide and confused. She couldn’t be more than five, with the same dark hair and round face as Tom. She looked up at me, and I forced a smile that felt brittle and fake.

“We’re just—um, we’re looking for Tom,” I said softly, kneeling beside her. “He… he might have gone exploring, so we’re just trying to find him.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning. “Is he hiding?”

“Yeah,” I lied, swallowing hard. “He’s… he’s hiding.”

She didn’t look convinced, but before I could say more, the divers were wading into the water, their figures dark and ominous against the shimmering lake. My heart plummeted as I watched them submerge, their faces grim.

“Please,” I whispered, hugging myself tightly. “Please find him.”

The minutes that followed felt like hours. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the park. The laughter and chatter of the other families had faded away, replaced by the tense murmur of the search crews. They were moving in a wide arc, their flashlights flickering across the surface as they combed the lake.

But there was no sign of Tom. Not even a ripple.

* * * * * *

The sun was almost gone by the time they found him.

I was standing by the shoreline, my feet buried in the sand, when I saw the first diver surface. He raised one arm and waved, a slow, deliberate signal that seemed to freeze the entire world. The lake was silent—no one spoke, no one moved. My heart clenched painfully in my chest.

Then another diver appeared, and between them, I saw a small, limp form being lifted out of the water.

“Tom!” Aunt Sarah screamed, her voice breaking the stillness. She surged forward, but Uncle James grabbed her, holding her back as she fought against him. “No, no, no, no—let me go, let me—”

I couldn’t breathe. The world tilted around me, and I felt myself stumbling forward, my legs moving without my permission. I had to see him. I had to know. The crowd parted as I pushed through, the murmurs and cries around me blending into a dull roar. All I could see was Tom—small and fragile, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his face pale and slack.

The divers lifted him onto the shore and laid him gently on the sand. His Spider-Man swim trunks were still clinging to his legs, soaked and muddy. The sight of them—of those bright red and blue shorts—made something inside me shatter. He’d been so proud of them, showing them off to everyone at the picnic that morning.

“Look, Ellie!” he’d said, tugging at the waistband and grinning up at me. “Aren’t they cool? I can swim faster now, like Spider-Man!”

“Yeah, buddy, they’re super cool,” I’d said, ruffling his hair. “But you still need to stay where I can see you, okay?”

And now…

“Tom…” I whispered, falling to my knees beside him. My hands hovered over his body, trembling, afraid to touch him. He looked so small. So still. There was no rise and fall of his chest, no flicker of movement in his eyelids. Just silence. Just emptiness.

“No, no, no…” Aunt Sarah sobbed, collapsing beside me. Her fingers dug into the sand, clutching at it as if she could somehow hold on to him, keep him from slipping away. “Please, not my baby, please—”

The paramedics pushed through the crowd, their faces set in grim, practiced lines. They knelt beside Tom, their hands moving quickly as they checked his pulse, his breathing. But I could see it in their eyes. They knew. Just like I did.

“It’s been too long,” one of them murmured softly, shaking his head. “We’ll try CPR, but—”

“Try!” Aunt Sarah shrieked, her voice raw with desperation. “Please, just try!”

The paramedics nodded and set to work, their movements swift and efficient. I watched in numb horror as they began chest compressions, their hands pressing down rhythmically on his small chest. Each push jolted his body, making his head bob slightly with every motion. It looked wrong. All of it looked so horribly, terribly wrong.

“Come on, buddy,” another of the paramedics murmured under his breath. “Come on, stay with us.”

But Tom didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His skin was pale, tinged with blue, and the water that poured from his mouth with each compression was murky and dark.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked up to see my mom standing beside me, her face streaked with tears. “Ellie,” she whispered, her voice tight with grief. “Sweetie, come here. You shouldn’t—”

“I have to stay,” I choked out, shrugging her off. I couldn’t leave him. I couldn’t. This was my fault. I’d promised to watch him, to keep him safe. And I hadn’t. I hadn’t done anything.

The paramedics kept working, but I could see the strain in their movements, the looks they exchanged. After what felt like forever, I heard the wail of an ambulance approaching. The paramedics didn’t stop; they just lifted Tom onto a gurney, strapping him down with careful, practiced hands, as if moving him gently could somehow make a difference.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” one of them called, and I watched, paralyzed, as they loaded him into the back of the ambulance. Aunt Sarah tried to follow, but the paramedics blocked her path.

“Ma’am, we need space to work,” one of them said firmly. “We’ll be taking him to St. Margaret’s Hospital. You can follow behind.”

“Please,” she sobbed, clutching her husband’s arm. “Please, take care of him. Please bring him back…”

“We’ll do everything we can,” the paramedic said quietly, then slammed the doors shut.

The ambulance roared to life, its sirens piercing the night. I stood there, watching as it sped away, the lights flashing red and blue against the trees. Everything felt unreal, like I was trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

“They’re going to save him, right?” I whispered, turning to Mom. My voice sounded small and childlike, as if it belonged to someone else.

“Ellie…” She pulled me close, her arms tight around me. “Sweetie, I—I don’t know.”

Dad was already packing up our things, moving in jerky, frantic motions. “Come on, we have to go,” he said roughly, shoving the cooler into the back of the car. “We need to be there. Let’s go.”

But before we could even gather our things, Aunt Sarah’s phone rang.

She fumbled for it, her hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it. “Hello?” she gasped, clutching it to her ear. “Hello, is—is he—”

I watched as the color drained from her face. She swayed, her eyes widening in horror. The phone slipped from her fingers and fell to the sand.

“No,” she whispered, staring at nothing. “No… no…”

Uncle James caught her as she crumpled, her body shaking with silent sobs. “Sarah?” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “What—what did they say?”

“He’s gone,” she breathed, her gaze unfocused, as if she couldn’t believe the words. “They—they couldn’t—”

Uncle James’s face twisted, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her as she broke down. His own shoulders shook, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. I stood there, numb, my heart hammering in my chest.

Gone. The word echoed in my head, dull and heavy. Gone.

The tears came then, hot and blinding, spilling down my face. I turned away, stumbling down the beach, needing to get away, needing to breathe. The world seemed to close in around me, suffocating, crushing.

“Ellie!” Mom called, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t face what had just happened.

Tom was gone. And I hadn’t saved him.

* * * * * *

The house was dark and still when we got home. I drifted through the front door in a daze, my eyes red and swollen, my chest tight with a pain that wouldn’t ease. Everything looked the same—our cozy living room, the pictures on the walls, the soft glow of the kitchen light. But it felt wrong. Like a dream that didn’t make sense. Or a nightmare that I couldn’t escape.

“Do you want something to eat?” Mom asked quietly, her voice thin and strained.

I shook my head, dropping my bag by the door. “No.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She hesitated, her gaze flicking to Dad, who stood by the sink, staring blankly out the window. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

But that wasn’t true. I was exhausted. I was so tired I felt like I could collapse right there on the floor and never get up again. But the thought of sleeping—of closing my eyes and seeing his face, still and lifeless—made me want to scream.

“I’m just… I’m gonna go to my room,” I murmured, turning away. My feet felt like lead as I trudged up the stairs, the silence pressing in around me.

I closed my bedroom door and stood there for a long time, staring at nothing. The darkness seemed to pulse, heavy and suffocating. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, looping back to that moment by the lake—the sight of his small body, pale and limp, being pulled from the water. The sound of Aunt Sarah’s screams. The look in Uncle James’s eyes when he realized…

I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath hitching. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t—

A soft sound broke the silence.

My eyes snapped open, my heart stuttering in my chest. It was faint—barely more than a whisper—but I knew it. A wet, sloshing sound, like something dripping onto the floor.

I turned slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears.

There, by the window, stood a small, shadowy figure.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The room seemed to tilt around me, the walls closing in. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t—

“Tom?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

The figure didn’t move. It just stood there, its outline hazy and indistinct, its head cocked slightly to the side. Water dripped from its body, darkening the carpet beneath it, each drop echoing loudly in the stillness of my room.

“Tom?” I whispered again, my voice barely more than a breath.

The air around me seemed to grow colder, sharp and biting. I could see him more clearly now—the outline of his shoulders, the dark shape of his hair plastered flat against his skull. He looked… wrong. Blurred, as if I were seeing him through fogged glass. And there, just visible in the pale light from the streetlamp outside, his eyes—wide and unblinking, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

I took a step back, my legs trembling. I should have run, should have screamed, but I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, my gaze locked with his.

“Tom,” I murmured, swallowing hard. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

But the words dried up in my throat as the figure shifted. His head tilted a fraction more, as if he were listening. As if he were waiting.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt my heart stutter painfully in my chest. What did he want? Why was he here? I thought of that moment by the lake, of his pale face peering up at me from beneath the water. The emptiness in his eyes. The way he’d just… stared.

“Tom, I’m sorry,” I said again, my voice cracking. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

The figure moved.

I sucked in a breath, stumbling back as it took a slow, deliberate step forward. The carpet squelched under his bare feet, dark stains spreading outward like ink. He took another step, then another, each one slow and methodical, the water dripping from his clothes in a steady, rhythmic patter.

“Please,” I whispered, holding up a hand as if I could somehow stop him. “Please, don’t—”

But he kept coming, his gaze never leaving mine. My back hit the wall, and I pressed myself against it, my heart hammering wildly. He was so close now—close enough that I could see the water pooling around his feet, the way his hair clung to his forehead in dark, slick strands.

“Tom, what do you want?” I breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “What—why are you—”

He stopped.

I blinked, my breath catching in my throat. He was standing just a few feet away now, his head tilted up slightly, his eyes boring into mine. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of us moved. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All I could do was stare, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

And then, slowly—so slowly I almost didn’t see it—he raised one hand.

I flinched, pressing back harder against the wall. His fingers twitched, then stretched out, reaching toward me. But not in anger. Not in accusation.

It was a gesture I knew all too well. One I’d seen a thousand times before, whenever he was scared. Whenever he wanted comfort.

His hand was trembling.

“Tom…” I whispered, a lump forming in my throat. I wanted to reach out, to take his hand, to tell him everything would be okay. But I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, trapped between terror and heartbreak.

What was happening? Was this really him? Or was it something else? Something dark and twisted, wearing his face?

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak. “Tom… please. Just tell me what you want. I’ll do anything. I’ll—”

But he didn’t respond. He just stood there, his hand still outstretched, his eyes still locked on mine. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until I thought I might scream.

And then, without a word, he lowered his hand.

My heart lurched painfully. For a split second, I thought he might disappear, might dissolve back into the darkness like he had at the lake. But he didn’t. He just… stood there, staring at me with those wide, empty eyes.

And then, slowly, he began to turn.

“Wait!” I cried, reaching out instinctively. But he didn’t stop. He took a step back, then another, his form blurring and fading as he moved toward the corner of the room.

“Tom, wait—please, don’t go!” I stumbled forward, my hand outstretched. “Please—”

But it was too late.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

The room was empty again, the only sound the soft drip, drip, drip of water onto the carpet. I stood there, gasping for breath, my heart racing, my body trembling. What… what had just happened?

“Tom?” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Tom, are you—are you still here?”

But there was no answer. No flicker of movement in the shadows. Just the faint scent of lake water, lingering in the air.

I sank to my knees, the tears spilling over, hot and bitter. What did he want? Why was he here? Was it really him, or just… something else? Something that looked like him?

“Tom…” I sobbed, clutching at my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry…”

* * * * * *

The church was packed, the pews filled with somber faces and bowed heads. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies and incense, mingling with the low murmur of hushed voices. I stood near the front, beside my parents, staring blankly at the closed casket draped in flowers. It didn’t seem real. None of it did.

People drifted in and out of focus—distant relatives, neighbors, classmates from Tom’s elementary school, each one pausing by the casket to murmur their condolences, to whisper broken words of sympathy to Aunt Sarah and Uncle James. I barely heard them. It was like I was moving through water, everything distorted and sluggish.

I glanced up at the framed picture of Tom on top of the casket. It was one of his favorites—the one where he’s beaming up at the camera, wearing his football jersey, his dark hair sticking up in wild tufts. I remembered that day. He’d been so excited, running around the yard, pretending to score touchdowns.

“He’s going to be a pro,” Uncle James had joked, ruffling Tom’s hair. “Just you wait.”

But Tom would never play football again. He’d never join the school band. He’d never get to show off his Spider-Man swim trunks, never laugh or argue or chase his little sister around the yard. Everything he was—everything he could have been—was gone.

“Ellie, sweetie, are you okay?” Mom’s voice was soft, strained. She reached out, squeezing my hand gently. I nodded, swallowing hard.

“Yeah,” I whispered, though it felt like a lie. I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t even close. I hadn’t slept in days, haunted by images of his lifeless body in the sand, of his pale face staring up at me from beneath the water. And that night… the night he’d come to me…

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Why had he appeared to me? What had he wanted? And why did I still feel like he was… here?

“Excuse me,” I murmured, stepping away from Mom. She looked up, startled, but I was already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the back of the church. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to think.

The whispers followed me as I slipped past rows of people—soft murmurs of pity and curiosity, of confusion and grief. I ignored them, keeping my gaze fixed on the exit. But as I passed the casket, I felt a strange sensation wash over me—an icy shiver that prickled down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

I stopped, my heart skipping a beat. Slowly, I turned, staring down at the closed lid of the casket. Nothing moved. Nothing changed. But the air around me felt… different. Thicker. Heavier.

“Ellie?”

I jumped, spinning around. It was Lily, standing a few feet away, clutching her mother’s hand. Her eyes were wide and solemn, her small face pale beneath her dark hair.

“What are you doing?” she asked softly, tilting her head. “Why are you sad?”

“I…” I swallowed, struggling for words. What could I possibly say to her? How could I explain what I didn’t understand myself?

“I miss him,” I whispered finally, my voice trembling. “I miss Tom.”

Lily’s gaze shifted to the casket, her brow furrowing slightly. “But he’s right there,” she murmured, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s standing right next to you.”

My breath caught, my pulse spiking painfully. I glanced around, my eyes darting to the space beside me. There was no one there—just empty air, a faint draft brushing against my skin.

“What… what do you mean?” I breathed, my heart pounding.

But Lily just shrugged, her gaze drifting away, as if she’d lost interest. “He’s always there,” she said simply. “He likes to watch.”

My mouth went dry, and I felt my legs wobble beneath me. I stared at her, my chest tightening. Did she… could she really see him? Or was this just her way of coping, her way of making sense of losing her brother?

“Lily, honey, come on,” Aunt Sarah murmured, pulling her daughter gently away. She glanced at me, her face drawn and hollow. “Are you okay, Ellie? Do you need to sit down?”

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I’m… I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine at all.

Aunt Sarah hesitated, her gaze lingering on me, then nodded slowly. “If you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered, forcing a smile. But the moment they turned away, the smile faded, replaced by a cold, creeping fear.

Lily’s words echoed in my mind: He’s right there… He likes to watch.

I turned back to the casket, my breath catching in my throat. The framed photo seemed to stare back at me, Tom’s eyes bright and mischievous. But the longer I looked, the more I felt it—the sensation of being watched, of something hovering just at the edge of my vision.

Slowly, I took a step back. Then another. My pulse was racing, my thoughts spinning in frantic, panicked circles. He was here. He was right here. But why? Why couldn’t I see him? And why was he still… waiting?

A faint sound reached my ears—so soft I almost didn’t notice it. The distant drip, drip, drip of water hitting the floor.

My heart stopped. I glanced around, searching for the source, but no one else seemed to hear it. The people around me murmured quietly, heads bowed, hands clasped in prayer. No one was looking at me. No one noticed.

But I noticed.

The sound was coming from the base of the casket.

My breath hitched, my chest tightening painfully. Slowly, I stepped forward, my gaze fixed on the polished wood. There, at the base, a small, dark stain was spreading outward—one tiny drop at a time.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be real. I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head. I was imagining it. I had to be.

But when I opened my eyes again, the stain was gone.

I gasped, stumbling back. My heart was racing, my mind reeling. What was happening? What did it mean? Was I losing my mind, or was it really him?

“Ellie, sweetie?” Mom’s voice broke through my thoughts, soft and worried. She was standing beside me again, her brow creased with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I—” I glanced back at the casket, my skin prickling. But the stain was gone. The air was still. Everything looked… normal.

Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t normal at all.

“I need to go home,” I whispered, turning away. “I—I need to go.”

Mom opened her mouth to protest, but I was already walking, my footsteps quick and unsteady. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine.

First:

Previous

Bit by bit my living situation had improved. I could afford heat, at least two meals a day, and warm socks. Those comforts came at a cost. A bullet wound in my shoulder was still healing up. The company I worked for offered magic-laced medicine that could heal wounds faster, but they cost more than I could afford. Better to let things heal on their own. A deep ache from my legs bothered me. It got to the point that I knew I needed to get a checkup before working again. I hated needing to see the doctor for old wounds simply because medical costs aren’t cheap. After this check-up, I might not be able to afford heat for the rest of the colder seasons this year.  

I wasn’t certain what sort of creature Dr. Fillow was. He looked human enough. I called to see if he had any open times for an appointment, but he told me he could swing by in a few hours. He was very busy treating supernatural creatures and sometimes humans like myself. He was always on the move, so it was easier to see him outside his clinic.  

He’s been by my place three times in the past two years when my legs got too bad to deal with. The scar above the right knee looked redder than normal. My knee also felt weird. It made an unnatural creaking sound and sometimes popped out of place if I pushed myself too hard. My left leg needed to be wrapped with a special cloth. It had turned black, the darkness fading around my hip. I hated looking at the scars. I should be thankful that I was able to get my legs back, but they were a constant reminder of the day I lost the person I cared about most.   

Dr. Fillow arrived with a few months' supply of cloth for the left leg. He needed to redo some painful spell work because the magic that kept my leg attached had been weakening, when I pulled magic from other sources through my body while on the job, it had messed with the spell that attached new flesh to old.   

“I hear you’ve been working again.” He said after the treatments were finished.  

He often stayed for a few minutes to chat and get caught up. I always offered him a drink or a snack, but he refused saying he didn’t like sweet things or liked tea. Once he accepted a cup of coffee. He wore a mask over half his face and sounded as if he always had a sore throat. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen his full face before. He adjusted large glasses over top of his mask and brushed aside light brown hair.   

“I needed the money. I figured it was about time. I can’t seem to get any easy jobs though.” I shrugged.  

My legs hurt like hell. I dreaded the idea of staying in bed for a few more days to recover. I needed to get a job soon to pay for this treatment.  

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Paying off your debts is not worth your life. Have you found anyone to support you?” He asked looking around my barren and rundown apartment.  

“No. I figured I needed to get myself back together before I dragged a person into my mess. And with scars like these, it’s not as if I’ll find someone who would be interested in a simple fling either.”  

“No friends? Nothing of the sort?” He offered almost sounding worried about me.  

I shrugged again. I was about to tell him that August offered to work with me whenever he was free. I didn’t feel like boring him with my personal life. Or lack of one.   

“Go make some friends. Get some rest. Call me if your pain increases.” He said as he stood up ready to leave.  

This was all the advice I'd heard before. I paid what I could then mentally flinched when I saw the rest of the amount I still owed. I promised I would take it easy as the doctor left to see another one of his patients.   

I did plan on staying in bed and resting for as long as I needed. However, two days later I found myself sitting on a bench in a park ten minutes away from my apartment. A job came in saying a handful of people saw some sort of large animal and a young girl had gone missing shortly after the sightings. It wasn’t confirmed a creature had been behind these events, but The Corporation didn’t like taking chances. The park was so nearby I figured I would check it out.  

I walked over during the day looking for any kind of clues. The park led off into a short nature trail. I assumed if there was a creature it would hang out in the trees. An entire day of searching led to nothing. Since monsters came out at night, I was stuck staying up late.   

Aside from some recent graffiti, nothing appeared out of place around the park or the trial. My legs ached from all the walking. I spent a few hours sitting on a bench almost wanting for something to happen.   

I found out the hard way not to use my talents of seeing magic after my leg treatments. The migraines I got did not mix well with the leg pain, making them both unbearable. Speaking of something unbearable, my phone kept going off because August figured out how to send GIFs. I should have blocked him. He would on occasion send a good cat gif in the mess of other memes that made it worth letting his messages go through.  

“Is your girlfriend worried about you?”  

A voice made me jump. A girl had silently walked behind the bench to see over my shoulder. She had gotten a glimpse of the random messages. I stood up to face her honestly expecting a monster. Instead, I found a petite dark-haired girl wearing a plain white dress. She even had sandals in this cold weather. She had her hands behind her back. Healing bruises spotted her arms.  She looked anywhere between sixteen and nineteen. She shouldn’t be out in a dark park at this hour without a coat. I put my phone and wallet in my pants pocket then took off my jacket. I offered it to her without hesitation.  

“Where do you live? Do you need help getting home?” I offered.  

She smiled in a way that looked very familiar. Her black hair and dimples made me think of August. She took my jacket, snuggling down into the warm collar for a moment.  

“I’m not normally the kind of girl who lets strange men take me home.” She joked in an overly sweet voice.  

“I’ll call you a cab.” I said not wanting her to get any ideas. “By chance do you have any siblings?” I added.  

She shook her head confused over the odd question.  

“No. Are you disappointed I don’t have a sister?” She suggested.  

It was as if she was trying to flirt. She was very bad at it if that was her goal.   

“No, you look like a friend of mine. Must just be the hairstyle. Now come on, let’s call a ride for you.”  

The smile on her face appeared forced. I wasn’t going along with the game she wanted to play. I started to walk down the pathway towards the park entrance with her following behind. My phone didn’t want to turn on again. Sometimes it shut off in the colder weather.  

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” I asked her as we walked.  

“Looking for monsters, how about you?” She said, her sweet tone dropping slightly.  

I froze. Carefully I turned my head towards her, my brain trying to work out if she was a threat. Some creatures looked like innocent weak humans to lure in their meals. She may be a monster ready to rip my heart out, or just a weird girl in the park because she had an interest in the occult. If I made a run for it, I risked leaving a poor girl stranded. If I didn’t leave, then I also risked getting eaten.  

I wasn’t aware of how right I was about the risk of being dinner for a creature. A burst of wind came down on us. I started to move to grab the odd girl to get her out of danger. My body was too slow. To my horror, a beast came down from the sky. In one lightning-fast movement, a black beak scooped her up around the waist. In two beats of its wings, it lifted back into the sky tossing her into the air. Her small body was swallowed whole by the monster that recently started to stalk the park.  

It was a crow the size of a car with three glowing red eyes but oddly enough, paws as legs. Like hell, I was going to let her get eaten like that. We stopped near a bench. I prayed I had enough strength to fight back in time to save her.  

Every living thing had magic. The amount depended on many different factors. I was in the middle of a park with countless plants, trees, and dormant insects all with their own life force. That magic leaked into the air. It was a reason why some forests felt so strange to humans. If you knew how you could ask to use the power nature held. Humans weren’t built to handle magic. I still made a silent request to everything around me. I put out my will to take whatever was given. I then grabbed a hold of the bench that had been bolted down into the stone walkway. A burst of power came through. I aimed for the glowing eyes in the sky and threw the bench as hard as I could towards it.   

The metal and wood found its target. I heard the impact and saw the crow fall from the sky screeching the entire way down. The backlash of using so much magic hit hard. My right knee popped out and I swore it felt as if it was going to come apart at the old scars. My arms burst with pain and my muscles cramped up. Each one of my hands curled uselessly. I forced myself forward towards the downed crow hoping it wasn’t too late to save the poor girl.  

I was in no condition to fight the monster if the bench flying into its face didn’t knock it out.  

By sheer luck, the crow was still.  

My luck turned around in seconds when an even larger crow landed behind me. I screamed into the night; red eyes angrily glowing.   

Well, shit.   

I frantically ran through my brain trying to figure out what the hell these creatures were. If you knew enough about a monster, there was a chance you could defeat it even if you were weaker. Nothing came to mind. Not a damn thing. I’ve heard of Bad Omen Crows. They were oversized crows that appeared near cursed humans with bad luck to feed off of. Aside from that, no clue on how to kill them.  

“Give me a damn break.” I said to any higher power that might be listening.  

Again, my luck turned around in a way I never would have guessed. The larger crow let out a noise over something that was happening behind me. The knocked-out bird's eyes flew open as its chest feathers budged outwards. It let out a strangled cry, then rolled on its back. My body felt cold when I saw a human shape literally rip its way through flesh, blood, and feathers. The girl stood covered in gore. Her once-white dress clinging to her and my jacket was ruined. Sharp claws hung at her side. A wide smile cracked her face in half. She shook the hair from her face and then grabbed her blood-soaked clothing. She ripped it off to stand in the cold wearing nothing but a sports bra and shorts.   

The larger crow started to move knowing it wasn’t wise to stick around. She didn’t give it time to flee. Within seconds she was on the monster ten times her size. Claws and teeth ripping deep into the monster's body.  

I should have stayed home that night.   

I took a few steps away, the pain slowing my movements. If I was lucky, I had enough time to get out of the park before she finished the one-sided fight. I’m never lucky.   

She tackled me from behind easily knocking us both over. I rolled on my back ready to fight back. She quickly pinned down my arms, blood dripping from her stained face.  

“Come on darling, show me what you can do! You knocked down that chicken, didn’t you? What else do you have up your sleeve?” She said her voice now lacking the fake sweetness she used before.  

She was crazy. Legit a nutcase. I’ve come across monsters that love nothing but fighting. She had acted as bait not to lure in humans to eat but for other monsters. Since I showed a hint of skill, I was now the next target.  

This wasn’t good. She took down the two crows in under two minutes. I couldn’t fight my way out of this and by the look in her eyes I couldn’t talk my way out of this either.   

“How about you let go so we’re on even terms?” I suggested praying to buy some more time.  

She let out a shrill laugh as if I told her the funniest joke in the world.   

“Fight for it!” She shouted.  

Her dimpled smile no longer appeared charming. I ran through my options. I used every ounce of strength to pull my hands free. I slipped one wrist through her fingers because of the blood on her hands. She was covered with it. Something caught my eye. Dark patches on her neck showed through the deep red. I realized she had a black ring tattoo she had hidden under some sort of makeup. The fighting and wetness had rubbed parts of it away. With one hand free and seconds to act, I reached out to grab hold of her neck.  

A burst of magic came from the spell that kept her leashed. She screamed, showing off all her sharp teeth. Her nails dug into my wrists, but I pushed forward. I couldn’t break this collar like I had with the bat monster. I could only force through one command. It hurt the both of us. White sparks of magic flew out into the grass, creating deep holes where it landed. She mentally begged me to stop what I was doing and yet I still pushed. I fought with everything to let that one request sink into the spell. Something clicked between us, and I finally pulled back. She scrambled away on all fours, hissing like a cat.  

I stayed on the ground, barely able to breathe. My hand smoked from touching so much raw magic for so long. If she wanted to finish me off, she could have.  

“What in God’s name is going on here?!” A man’s voice came as a flashlight beam landed on us.  

A set of police stood shell-shocked at what they saw in the park. Two dead birds, me and the girl who barely appeared human. I groaned hating dealing with cops. There were always so many awkward conversations and paperwork afterward. Any money The Corporation may have paid for two monster crows to be killed would be directed elsewhere. Cover-ups cost money after all.  

“April!” Another voice came.   

I knew who was running up the pathway. She saw me and gasped. The cops refused to let her get closer, which I understood. They didn’t know what was going on or if the hissing blood-covered woman was dangerous.   

“What a coincidence...” I said in a shaken voice and raised my good hand to wave at Evie.   

She worked as August’s handler. It made sense she knew more creatures on a leash. If the girl who wanted to kill me wasn’t one of them, she would know who her boss was. As it turns out, Evie was the nearest handler. When she heard, the cops get called to the same park April said she was going, her handler asked Evie to go check in just in case. She later told me she dealt with April so often that she might as well be her official contract worker. I let Evie get things sorted with the cops.   

Just as I thought, there was going to be a lot of paperwork. Soon the cleanup crew arrived to collect the bodies of the crows and to do basic medical treatments for us. April was fine. Evie and she got along well. I saw her fussing over the smaller girl as if April was a younger sister. Finally, they made their way over to where I was sitting.  

“Say you’re sorry for trying to kill him.” Evie demanded in a stern voice.  

“Sorry for trying to eat your brains.” April said not sorry at all.  

“You wanted to eat my brains?” I answered, moving slightly further away from the pair.  

“Not wanted. I was going to. Not now though. I don’t eat the brains of my friends, human or not.” April said and it made my face flush.  

“Friends? How?! When?” Evie questioned shocked over the development.  

April gave a tooth-filled smile and I wanted to die. She should have just eaten me.   

“This human messed with my collar. He could have written anything into the spell. An order to not kill him or for me to kill myself. Anything. And you know what he said? Let’s be friends.”  

Yeah, I wanted to die. Evie stared at me as if I was on the same mental level as April. She carefully took hold of the other girl who now was wrapped in a blanket one of the cleanup crews brought.  

“Just friends?” She asked very weary of my motives.   “Just friends. She’s like, a kid.” I defended myself.  

“Oh, so we’re grooming supernatural girls now.” Evie replied hugged April tighter.  

“I’m too tired to be offended. If you think that’s the case, you’re free to keep her away from me forever. I may have forced the idea of being friends into the collar that keeps her under control, but she doesn’t need to listen to that request if she doesn’t want to.”   

I tried to stand up to start going home but my legs refused to work. I collapsed back onto the bench too drained to move.  

“You’re not ditching me that easily. You made a friend offer so you can’t back out now sucker. For now, I want to eat some of that big ass chicken. Leave your number with Evie. We’ll hang.”  

April was released so she could run over to one of the crow's bodies. She tore a good few mouthfuls off before the cleanup crew started chasing her off with threats of getting power washed.   

“I was just teasing you.” Evie admitted. “April is a handful. She’ll be hard to deal with if she decides to stick with this offer of friendship.”  

“It was either that or dead. I am currently weighing my options.”  

Why was there no such thing as an easy job? I couldn’t get home on my own. Evie requested the help of the very confused cops who stuck around. They drove me home and pressed me for some answers. I promised them things would be explained by someone else. I was not in the state for a long conversation. I got let off the hook and collapsed into bed without changing my clothing.   

I ended the night not making a dime from the job. I needed to ask Dr. Fillow back to reset my legs again because of the beating they took from the burst of magic I borrowed.   

Financial set backs were better than dead. Sometimes, only barely better than dead.   

When I was a kid, I experienced something so traumatic that my brain erased it from my memory. Completely. For years, it was just... gone.

At least, it was until one afternoon.

I was sitting on the couch with my son, watching random educational videos on YouTube. He’s six, full of energy, and obsessed with learning videos. He wants to know everything about everything. It was nice. Just the two of us hanging out, him curled up next to me, asking a million questions.

Then it came on. The upbeat jingle, and that cheerful, sing-songy voice. School House Rock. “Three is a magic number, yes, it is, it's a magic number, somewhere in the ancient mystic trinity, you get three as a magic number…”

My chest tightened immediately, like a fist had closed around my heart. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. That song, that melody, it reached deep into my brain and pulled out something I didn’t even know was there. The memories hit me like a freight train.

“Daddy?” My son’s voice was distant, muffled, like I was underwater. “You okay?”

I blinked and realized I was staring at the TV, my hand clenched so tightly around the arm of the couch that my knuckles were white. My son was looking up at me, his face scrunched in confusion.

“I... ” I started to say something, anything to brush it off, but my throat felt like sandpaper.

“Daddy?” he said again.

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing my hand to let go of the couch. “I just... need to run to the bathroom.”

I stood up, nearly tripping over the coffee table as I made my way to the bathroom. My legs felt weak, my whole body trembling. I gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself.

The song was still playing in the living room, that stupid, happy voice echoing in my head.

3, 6, 9,12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27...30

It wasn’t just a song. It was the song. The one they played to calm us down.

When I was a child, I went to Crestwood Middle School. The school was large, but very old. It had poor insulation, making it freezing in the winter, and hot in the summer. No matter how much they tried to paint the place, it always looked outdated. The hallways echoed; the floors creaked. Hell, most of the faculty had been students there themselves as children.

The rules were strict, and the teachers didn’t mess around. Dress codes, assigned seats at lunch, even how we walked in the hallways was monitored. It felt like every corner of the school was under their watchful eyes, even when you couldn’t see them.

Most of the staff at Crestwood were all about rules and discipline. They acted like they were running a military academy instead of an elementary school. But my favorite teacher, Ms. Harper, was different.

 She was warm, playful, like she actually liked kids. While the other teachers scowled and barked orders, she’d crack jokes and smile. She wore colorful dresses that swished when she walked, and her room always smelled clean, unlike the rest of the school, which smelled more like old books, old wood, and mildew.

Everyone loved her. She was the one teacher who made me feel safe at that school. She’d ask about our hobbies, encourage me to draw or write stories, and even kept a stash of candy in her desk for when we did well on tests.

But despite the safety of Ms. Harper’s classroom, us kids couldn’t help but feel uneasy at Crestwood. Maybe it was just the age of the school, maybe it was the rules. Or maybe, it was the rumors. Every kid in the school had heard them. Stories about kids disappearing, about strange noises in the vents, about the principal supposedly eating kids who misbehaved. It all sounded ridiculous, but at Crestwood, the line between “weird” and “normal” was thinner than at most schools.

My best friend at the time was a kid named Alex. He was small for his age, with messy hair and a laugh that was contagious. We bonded over many things, Pokémon cards, PlayStation 2, but it was our shared obsession with urban legends that really fueled our friendship, and Crestwood was full of them. Whenever we heard a new one, we’d go off on “missions” to investigate them. Most of the time, it was harmless fun; investigating the “haunted” bathroom, or trying to sneak into the teachers’ lounge. But one day, we heard a new rumor. There was a hidden basement under the school.

Over the next couple weeks, Alex and I started asking around about the basement rumor to the 8^(th) graders. According to the stories, it was where the teachers took “the bad kids.” No one knew what happened down there. Some said that is where Principal Johnson eats kids, some said its haunted, or there was some kind of monster that lived down there. But one thing was certain. The kids who’d gone missing over the years? Supposedly, that’s where they ended up.

Alex was obsessed with the idea. “We have to find it,” he told me one afternoon.

“I don’t know, man,” I said, kicking a rock across the cracked blacktop. “What if we get caught, or what if the rumors are true, and we go missing?”

He shot back, his eyes wide with excitement. “But what if we’re the ones who finally figure it out? We’d be legends!”

I wasn’t as enthusiastic as he was, but I went along with it anyway. It was hard to say no to Alex once he got an idea in his head. It didn’t hurt that he was my only friend.

That afternoon, after the final bell rang, we didn’t head straight home. Instead, we stayed behind, hiding in the bushes until the coast was clear.

“Okay,” Alex whispered, peeking out. “Now’s our chance.”

We slipped back into the building through a side door that never quite latched properly. The halls were silent. Just being in the school while it was empty was unsettling enough by itself.

“Where do we even start?” I whispered.

Alex pointed down the hallway toward the janitor’s closet. “Mark said it’s somewhere near there.” Mark was a 8th grader, the loud and obnoxious kind. I didn’t trust him, but Alex did.

We crept down the hall, our sneakers squeaking softly on the floor. The janitor’s closet was locked, as expected, but Alex had come prepared. He pulled an old, expired credit card from his pocket he had gotten from his parents and started fiddling with the door.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I muttered, glancing nervously over my shoulder.

“Shut up and keep watch,” he hissed.

It only took him a few minutes to get the door open. I was about to congratulate him when I saw the look on his face.

“Uh... dude?”

I turned to see what he was looking at. Inside the closet, behind the rows of cleaning supplies and buckets, there was a small door.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“So... do we open it?” Alex asked, his voice trembling just a little.

I wanted to say no. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to get out of there. But Alex was already reaching for the latch.

Alex pulled the door open, revealing a narrow, dark hallway.

“Whoa...” Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The walls were old brick, and the floor was plain, cracked concrete. The only light came from the janitor’s closet, spilling weakly into the space. At the far end of the hallway was an olde wooden door with a padlock dangling from its latch.

“Okay, it’s locked. Let’s go,” I said, my voice shaky.

But Alex wasn’t listening. He was already going down the hallway.

“Alex!” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder toward the main hall. “Come on, man, this is stupid! We’re gonna get caught!”

“Nobody’s even here,” Alex said, his voice echoing slightly off the cold walls. “It’s fine. Just come on.”

I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. The silence in the school was oppressive, my heart was beating out of my chest, but I couldn’t leave Alex there alone. With a sigh, I went after him, the cold stale air of the hallway hitting me like a slap.

Alex stood at the far end of the hallway, staring at the padlocked door. He reached out and jiggled the lock.

“It’s old,” he said. “I bet we could break it.”

“Or,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “we could leave. Right now. This is crazy, Alex. We’ll get in so much trouble.”

Alex ignored me. He turned back toward the janitor’s closet and climbed up. For a split second, I felt relief, thinking he was giving up. Then I heard the scrape of metal.

“What are you doing?” I called out.

Alex came back into view, struggling to carry a red fire extinguisher. “If we can’t pick it, we’ll just smash it.”

“Are you serious?” I said, panic rising in my voice. “That’s gonna be so loud!”

“So what? Nobody’s here,” he said, grinning. “Relax, dude.”

Before I could argue, he hoisted the extinguisher and swung it at the padlock.

Clang!

The sound was deafening in the tiny hallway. I flinched, glancing up at the door, fully expecting someone to come storming in.

“Alex, stop!” I hissed. “We’re gonna get caught!”

But Alex just shook his head. “One more, and it’ll break.”

He raised the extinguisher again and brought it down with all his strength. The lock gave way, clattering to the ground.

“There,” Alex said triumphantly, dropping the fire extinguisher with a thud. “See? Told you it’d be fine.”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave, but he was already reaching for the handle.

“Alex-” I started, but it was too late. He pulled the door open.

Alex pulled the door open, and both of us leaned forward, holding our breath as we peered into whatever was on the other side.

Behind the door, there it was.

A set of old stone steps, worn smooth in the center, descended into pitch blackness. The air that wafted out was damp and stale, carrying a faint, sour smell that made my throat feel tight. There was no light down there, just stairs descending into a dark abyss.

Alex, who had been so full of bravado a moment ago, froze. I could feel his confidence drain out of him like air from a punctured balloon.

“Uh...” he said, his voice shaky for the first time.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just stood there, staring at those stairs, my body cold and rigid.

“Okay,” Alex finally said, his voice an awkward mix of forced confidence and creeping fear. “It’s... it’s just stairs. Probably, like... storage or something, right?”

I didn’t answer.

Alex looked at me, his expression changed from fear, to half a grin. “Come on, dude. Don’t wimp out on me now.”

“I’m not wimping out,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I just… I mean what if there’s someone down there? What if the rumors are true?”

“There’s no one here!” he said, a little too loudly, like he was trying to convince himself more than me. “The whole school’s empty. It’s fine.”

Neither of us moved. But I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched.

“Look,” Alex finally said, swallowing hard. “I’ll go first. You just... stay close, okay?”

I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to grab him and drag him back, out of the hallway, out of the school, back into the safety of the sunlight. But I didn’t. Instead, I nodded.

Alex took a shaky breath and stepped forward, his sneaker scuffing against the edge of the first step.

Just as Alex was about to step onto the first stair, we both heard it. A faint sound, almost melodic, coming down the hallway. Whistling.

I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs.

“Crap, the janitor!” I urged to Alex.

Alex turned to look at me, his eyes wide. His hand instinctively reached for mine, like we were about to get caught doing something we couldn’t explain.

I quietly scrambled back up the hallway, silently closing the door inside the closet, praying it wouldn’t make a noise. We pressed ourselves against the brick walls of the hallway, barely breathing. The whistling was getting closer, and I could hear the shuffle of heavy boots on the floor, and the jingling of the janitor’s keys.

We could hear him digging through the janitor’s closet, getting his cleaning supplies. I could hear him humming a tune, something old and off-key, as he worked.

My pulse was racing. I felt like my skin was vibrating with anxiety.

We waited in the dark hallway, holding our breath, not daring to make a sound. The whistling grew louder, then softer again as the janitor started moving further down the hall. I could hear him muttering to himself now, probably complaining about some mess he had to clean up. Then, finally, the sound of his footsteps faded into the distance, and we were left with nothing but silence and the darkness of the hallway.

When the coast was clear, I breathed a sigh of relief. Alex and I let go of each other, not realizing we had been grasping onto each other in the darkness. When we finally left the closet back out into the light, Alex was pale, his eyes wide, and I could tell he was just as freaked out as I was.

“Okay,” I whispered. “We need to leave. Now.”

Alex didn’t argue. He just nodded quickly, his mind already scrambling to process what had almost happened. We snuck back out of the school, our breath heavy. I couldn’t shake the image of the stairs, the darkness below, but we didn’t talk about it. Not yet.

We made it out of the school without anyone noticing, and as soon as we were outside, the evening air felt like an instant relief. Alex and I started the walk to our houses.

Alex was the first to speak. “So, we proved it,” he said, his voice a little shaky but excited.

I nodded slowly, my adrenaline still rushing through me. “Yeah... we did.”

We both stood there for a moment, the weight of what we’d found settling in.

“I knew it,” Alex said with a grin, “it’s real. The basement. Dude, I can't wait to tell everyone. We’re going back. Next time, we bring equipment. Flashlights, cameras... everything.”

I was hesitant at first, the fear from earlier still lingering in the pit of my stomach. But as Alex spoke, something else started to creep in. Excitement.

We both paused for a moment, looking at each other, before erupting in cheers and high fives.

The next day, we came prepared. Flashlights, a camera, snacks. Everything we thought a good mission should have. We spent the morning rehearsing what we’d say if anyone caught us. We were ready.

After school ended, we hung back, waiting in the bushes again. When the coast was finally clear, we snuck back into the school, just like we did the day before.

We reached the janitor’s closet, and Alex, with his usual bravado, yanked the door open.

But before either of us could move, a hand shot out from behind us, gripping my shoulder like a vice.

I froze. My heart stopped cold in my chest.

"Going somewhere?" The voice was low, gravelly.

I whipped around to see the principal standing there, his face twisted in anger, his eyes sharp with menace. In his hand, he held the broken lock from the basement door.

For a split second, my mind went blank. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. All of our planned responses went out the window.

Alex was the first to break the silence. He stammered, his voice high-pitched with fear. "Please... don’t eat us."

I glanced at him, my stomach sinking. There was no time to process it. He stood there, looming over us, his anger palpable.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. All I could manage was a breathless, “Sorry... we weren’t going to do anything.”

The principal stared at us for what felt like an eternity. His eyes were filled with a dangerous look of authority. But then, just like that, his expression softened.

He let out a harsh chuckle. “Eat you? Haha... no, no, I’m not going to eat you.” He shook his head, almost amused.

I felt my body start to relax, but the unease didn’t go away. Not completely.

“You two better get out of here,” the principal continued. “And don’t let me catch you doing something like this again.”

We didn’t argue. We didn’t even say anything. We just nodded, backing away slowly. I glanced over my shoulder as we turned to leave. When I looked back, the principal was still standing there, staring at us, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t a look of concern or disapproval. It was something else, something darker, more dangerous.

I had a feeling that he knew exactly what we’d been up to. That he had been watching us all along.

I went home that night, expecting a call home to my parents. I kept checking the phone, waiting for it to ring, but nothing came. No call. No angry voice telling me I was in trouble.

The next day, I went to school with a pit in my stomach. Every minute felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the principal or one of the teachers waiting to pull me aside. But nothing happened. The day passed normally, almost too normally.

But as I walked through the halls, I started to notice it; the teachers, all of them, seemed to be watching me. Not in the usual way, like when they were making sure I was paying attention. No, this was different. Their eyes followed me more intently, like they were keeping track of my every move.

It made my skin crawl. I tried to shake it off, but I couldn’t. It felt like I was the center of attention, and not in a good way. Every time I looked up, one of them was watching me, their gaze colder than it should’ve been.

I had to talk to someone. There was only one teacher I trusted, Ms. Harper. She was always kind to me, always listened when I needed her. I’d always felt safe around her, like she was the only one who didn’t treat me like just another student. So, during lunch, I made my way to her classroom.

“Ms. Harper?” I said, standing in the doorway.

She looked up from her desk, her usual warm smile softening when she saw the look on my face. “Yes, honey?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure where to even start. How could I explain everything?

“I... I need to tell you something,” I said, voice trembling. “Something happened. Something’s not right here.”

She motioned for me to come in, and I stepped inside, my heart pounding.

I told her everything, the basement, Alex, the principal. How we’d found the hidden door and almost gotten caught, how the principal had known what we were up to. I even told her about how the teachers had been watching me, like they knew something I didn’t.

When I finished, there was a long silence. Ms. Harper didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at me, her face unreadable.

She smiled, that warm, reassuring smile she always had. "It sounds like you’ve been through a lot. I’ll take care of it, okay? You don’t have to worry. Everything will be fine and I won’t let anything happen to you or Alex."

She reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a piece of candy. She handed it to me, her eyes soft with what looked like genuine care. "Here, candy makes everything feel better,” she laughed, her voice gentle.

I trusted her. She was the one person at this school who’d always been kind to me, always made me feel safe. I unwrapped it and popped it into my mouth.

Immediately, I felt a strange sensation wash over me. My mouth turned dry, my head a little foggy. A heaviness settled in my chest, and the world around me began to blur at the edges. My legs felt weak, my balance off. I reached out for the desk to steady myself, but it felt like the room was tilting.

I blinked, trying to focus. "Ms. Harper..." I whispered, my voice barely a sound.

She was sitting there, still smiling. And then, the darkness started to close in.

My vision tunneled, everything going black around the edges, the room fading into shadows. I tried to take a step, tried to keep my feet under me, but my body wouldn’t listen.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was her smile.

I woke with a jolt, my breath sharp and shallow. My body ached all over, and my head throbbed. I was sitting upright in an old wooden chair. My arms were tied to the back of it.

I panicked, pulling against them, but they wouldn’t budge. I tried to shout, but my throat was dry. My mouth tasted like something foul, and for a moment, all I could do was sit there, taking in the world around me, trying to understand what had happened.

The room was cold, and the walls were made of rough, old stone, chipped and cracked as if they had been standing for centuries. The air smelled of dust and mildew. There were shelves lining the walls, stacked high with old books, the titles unreadable. Other things sat on the shelves too: strange jars with unidentifiable contents, faded photographs, and other old knick-knacks.

In front of me, there was a small, old table with an even older TV on it. The screen was dark for now, but I couldn’t help but stare at it, dread rising in my chest. What was this place? Why was I here? Why was I tied to this chair?

Then next to me, I noticed someone else there. Alex was tied to a chair next to me. I began to understand why I was there, and I knew then exactly where we were. The basement.

He was sitting next to me, slumped over, still unconscious. His wrists were bound to the chair just like mine, and his head lolled forward. I tried to get his attention. “Alex,” I rasped, my voice weak and hoarse. “Alex, wake up.”

But there was no response. He didn’t stir. He was breathing softy, like he was sleeping peacefully.

Panic surged through me again. I jerked against the ropes, trying to loosen them, to get free. I had to get out of here. Whatever they had brought us down here for, it wasn’t good. I began to sob, thinking of my parents.

The door creaked open. I froze, and my breath caught in my throat. It was Ms. Harper.

She walked into the room, calm as ever, her movements graceful, like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her soft smile never faltered as she came toward me, the same smile she always wore in class. The one that made you feel safe, like you were in good hands.

But now, in this place, that smile didn’t feel like reassurance. It just felt wrong.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice sweet, almost sing-song. “You’re awake. That’s good. You’re going to be just fine.”

I swallowed, my heart racing. “Ms. Harper... what’s going on? Why did you do this? What’s happening?”

She didn’t seem in any rush to answer. She just continued to smile, her eyes soft and kind.

“It’s okay,” she said, her voice gentle. “It’ll all be over soon. You don’t have to worry.”

My mind reeled, my thoughts scrambled, but I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Nothing that would make sense. My eyes kept flickering between Alex and the door, trying to find an escape, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here.

Ms. Harper leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice warm, soothing. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s hard, but it won’t be for much longer.”

“Here,” she said as the flicked on the TV and turned on the VCR. “Watch some cartoons while you wait. It’ll help calm you down.”

And then the screen on the TV flickered to life. The familiar song of Schoolhouse Rock began to play, its upbeat melody grating against the cold silence that had settled around me. I hadn't heard it since elementary school.

“Three... is a magic number...”

I tried to turn to Alex, tried to wake him, but he didn’t respond. His head hung limp against the chair, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The song played on, and the numbers rang out one by one, each one a nail in the coffin of my sanity. “Three... six... nine... twelve... fifteen... eighteen... twenty-one... twenty-four... twenty-seven...”

My thoughts raced with the melody of the song.

“... thirty...”

And then the door opened again.

Several figures entered, their forms draped in dark, flowing robes. They moved silently, gliding across the room like shadows.

They came toward me, and I tried to scream, tried to struggle, but my body wouldn’t obey. They untied me from the chair with ease, their hands cold and impersonal.

I was too weak to fight back, too dizzy to scream.

They dragged me and Alex out of the room. We made our way down the hall, past flickering oil lamps hanging along the walls. I begged them to let me go. My voice was weak, barely a whisper, but I couldn't stop myself. "Please," I pleaded, my throat raw, "please, let me go... I don’t know what’s happening. I won’t tell anyone, I swear."

But they didn’t respond. Their faces were hidden by the hoods of their robes, and they didn’t even slow down. They just kept dragging me, my feet scraping against the cold stone floor, my body too weak to do anything but stumble along. Alex was still unconscious, his body limp as they pulled him alongside me.

I tried to look around, to find something, anything, that could explain this.

We moved through a narrow hallway, lit by flickering oil lamps, and into a large room. It felt like stepping into a nightmare. The air was thick with the scent of incense, heavy and suffocating, and the walls were adorned with grotesque carvings and strange symbols I didn’t recognize. But it was the center of the room that made my stomach drop.

There was a pool in the middle of the floor, but not a pool of water. It was dark, black as midnight, and the liquid inside shimmered, almost like oil. The faint smell that emanated from it made me gag.

At the far end of the room, there was an altar. A massive stone slab, its surface covered in something I couldn’t identify. Around the altar, skulls and horns of different animals were mounted on the walls, arranged in sickening patterns. Some of them were small, others large, their hollow eyes staring out at me with a dead, unblinking gaze. The place felt ancient.

But it was the symbol above the altar that sent a chill racing down my spine. It was carved into the wood, twisted and warped. I couldn’t make out all the details, but the shape of it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I knew, deep down, that whatever it was, it wasn’t something meant to be seen.

They dragged me to the center of the room. My knees hit the cold stone with a sickening thud, the impact sending a jolt through my already battered body. I couldn’t keep myself upright. My head was swimming, and everything felt distant, like I was barely tethered to reality.

Alex was still out, his body slumped in a heap beside me. I wanted to reach out to him, shake him awake, but my hands wouldn’t move.

The figures who had dragged us in were standing in a perfect circle around us. The only sound was the soft, steady rhythm of their chanting. I couldn’t understand the words. They weren’t in any language I knew, but it didn’t matter. The sound was enough to send a deep, primal fear racing through my chest.

And then, the chanting stopped.

A figure stepped forward. They were taller than the others, their robe a deep crimson that caught the dim light from the oil lamps. They reached up and pulled back their hood, revealing a face I would never forget.

It was the principal. One by one, the figures removed their hoods, revealing the faces everyone I had known as my teachers. The faculty, the entire faculty, even the lunch lady, was there.

I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. My body trembled, the terror crawling through every part of me.

"Please… let us go," I managed to choke out, but my words were nothing more than a whisper in the thick silence. "Please, don’t do this."

But the principal just stood there, his eyes cold and unreadable. "This is necessary," he said. "It’s been written. It’s time."

I wanted to close my eyes, to block it all out, but I couldn’t. I was trapped. There was nowhere to run, no way to escape. The chanting started again, this time louder, rising in intensity, until it felt like it was vibrating the walls themselves.

Alex finally stirred, his eyes fluttering open, a mix of confusion and fear on his face. He tried to sit up, mumbling something, his voice slurred and groggy.

The figures, now a tight circle around us, closed in even closer, their movements silent but purposeful. Alex tried to struggle against the hands that held him, his voice rising in panic. “Where are we? What’s happening? Let me go!”

But no one responded. The chanting grew louder, more insistent, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls. I felt the grip on my own arms tighten.

Alex broke down, tears streaming down his face. “Please, please, let me go,” he sobbed, his body trembling violently.

One of the figures holding me let go. They turned their full attention to Alex, and the rest of the group moved in closer. I could barely see Alex’s face through my own tears.

“No!” I shouted, fighting against the last figure holding me, trying to reach him, but it was too late. The faculty members, those twisted, hooded figures, grabbed him, holding him down.

“Wait!” I cried, desperation twisting my voice. “Please, let him go! We didn’t do anything!”

But they didn’t respond. One of them reached out and grabbed Alex by the arms, dragging him forward. Alex was screaming now, his voice a desperate, tortured sound that echoed through the room. “No, no, no!”

And then, they threw him into the pool.

Alex emerged once, gasping for air, his face covered in the thick, black substance. His scream was a gargled, terrifying sound, almost inhuman, before he sank back under the surface. The figures continued their chanting, their voices blending into a low, ominous hum.

I fought harder against the hands holding me, thrashing and kicking, anything to get to Alex. “Stop!” I screamed; my voice hoarse. “Please, stop!”

But they ignored me, their focus completely on Alex and the black pool.

I took my chance. The figure holding me was distracted, their eyes locked on the others. I bit down hard on their hand, feeling the warm, metallic taste of blood fill my mouth as I tore away. The figure cursed, reeling back, and I pushed off with all my strength, throwing myself forward.

I ran, my heart pounding, my legs moving on instinct. I didn’t know where I was going, didn’t care. I just had to get out of there, away from the chanting, away from them and that room.

I heard a shout, the sound of robes rustling as they pursued me, but I didn’t look back. The air in my lungs burned with each breath, my body aching as I crashed through the door and out into the hallway. I ran down the hallway, past the oil lamps, and back up the stars. I burst out of the janitor’s closet, and I didn’t stop until I was outside into the cold night air.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. All I could do was run.

I finally made it home, my body shaking from the cold night air, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour. As I got to my driveway, I saw the police car parked outside.

When I walked through the door, my parents were waiting for me, both of them standing in the living room with tense expressions. My mother’s face was pale, her hands wringing in front of her, and my father stood next to her, looking at me like I was some kind of criminal.

“Where have you been?” my mom demanded, her voice sharp. “Do you know how worried we’ve been? The police have been looking for you!” I didn’t even care about the questions. All I cared about was what had happened to Alex, what I had seen, what I had barely escaped.

“What happened?” my dad asked, though there was a coldness to his voice that didn’t make sense. He was acting as if he was more annoyed than concerned.

I told them everything; the basement, Alex, the figures, the chanting, the pool. I expected some kind of reaction from my parents. Some kind of urgency. But their faces were surprisingly blank.

But before I could say anything more, one of the officers who had been standing in the corner of the room, keeping a distance, stepped forward. He was tall, his uniform neatly pressed.

“We’ll take care of it,” he said, giving me a brief nod. He turned to my parents. “We’ll look into it. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

The officer didn’t say anything more, but when he glanced at me one last time, I caught it. That subtle shift in his expression, that look that told me everything I needed to know. He knew. He knew exactly what had happened, and he was a part of it. I could feel it in my bones, the sick realization crawling through me like something cold and dark. He wasn’t here to help. He was here to protect the truth.

I felt like I was suffocating. My throat went dry, and the weight of everything, the faculty, the police, my parents, crushed down on me all at once. I began to question everything, every little detail. Did my parents know? Were they involved too? The way they stood there, their eyes darting around nervously, I wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe they were complicit, maybe they had been protecting me all these years, keeping me blind to the truth.

I couldn’t trust them. Not anymore. That night, as I lay in my bed, my thoughts spinning in circles, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t stay in this town, surrounded by lies, by people who were part of something so much worse than I could ever have imagined. I knew it’d be just a matter of time before they finished the job.

I packed a bag, grabbed what little I had, and without a word to anyone, I slipped out of the house. I didn’t leave a note, didn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t. There was no one to trust anymore. I knew that cult, or whatever they were, would get me if I stayed, it was only a matter of time.

I ran, my heart pounding in my chest, my feet pounding against the pavement as I made my way down the empty street, away from my house, away from everything I had ever known. As I disappeared into the night, I knew one thing for sure: I would never return home. Not now, not ever.

I stood there, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my face pale, my eyes hollow. The memory, the horrors, they were all crashed back to me at once. I could hear the faint echo of 3 is a Magic Number still ringing in my ears, though it had long since faded from the screen.

Splashing cold water onto my face, I tried to snap myself out of it. I leaned over the sink, my hands gripping the edge. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to me? And what had happened to Alex?

Bringing myself back to the present, I left the bathroom, my son waiting for me outside. “You feel better, Daddy?” he asked. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Hey, let’s go grab some ice cream, buddy” I said.

Leaving the house, my neighbor Nick was outside, trimming his bushes. “Hey neighbor!”

I gave him a wave. But as I got in my car, I couldn’t help but notice something. He was watching me still. Holding his shears, his smile faded, and he was looking at me, with that familiar, knowing look.  

I know how this sounds. It’s probably the same thing I’d say if I were reading this from the outside. But it’s different when it’s you… when it’s your life peeling away one layer at a time, revealing something else underneath. Something that isn’t you.

It all started with a video. Just one click, one late night, one thread… That I should’ve ignored. I’d been on the internet long enough to know that certain parts of it… they’re like old, forgotten alleyways. Sure, you can go in, but you won’t always find your way out.

That night, I was browsing through a barely functional old forum. No moderators, no recent posts, just a digital graveyard of weird videos, conspiracy theories, and forgotten usernames. And then there it was—just a plain, nondescript post. The title read: “DO NOT WATCH ALONE.”

Somehow, that was enough to make me click.

The post was simple. Just a link and a warning: “Watch if you want, but don’t be alone when you do. It’ll know if you are.” I laughed a little at that. But in that dark, silent room, with just my screen lighting my face, I was all too aware that I was alone. Part of me felt a prick of apprehension, but curiosity always wins, doesn’t it?

I clicked. The screen went black for a moment, as if the video was loading, but then nothing happened. Just static… flickering pixels that barely formed a picture. I frowned, my eyes straining. There was a sound, a low hum that made my bones feel strange, almost like a tuning fork vibrating from inside me.

And then I saw them—two eyes, staring directly into the screen. It wasn’t a normal gaze; there was something about it, a kind of hunger or desperation. The eyes would blink, stare, blink again, then fade back into static, as if they were flickering between worlds.

Then came a sound. A whisper, faint, garbled… unintelligible. I leaned closer to the screen, trying to make it out, but the sound only became more chaotic, a mess of syllables that felt wrong, like they didn’t belong to any language.

Then, all at once, it stopped. My computer went dead—just a black screen, completely shut off. I felt my heart pounding, faster than it should have. My room was cold, my pulse quick. I tried telling myself it was just an old, corrupt file or a glitch, but something in my gut told me otherwise.

Shutting my laptop, I took a breath. I brushed it off. It was just a video, a joke, someone’s prank that went wrong. Still, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I crawled into bed that night.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I remembered the video. At first, I wasn’t even sure it had happened—like the memory was something I’d dreamed. But when I opened my laptop, I saw the static-filled screen, frozen right where it had cut out.

I frowned, rebooting it. It powered up just fine, but something felt… off. You know that feeling you get when you’re in a room and feel like someone else has just been there, maybe only moments ago? A lingering sense of presence that you can’t shake? That’s what it felt like sitting there, alone in my apartment, staring at my own screen.

I scrolled through my history to find the post, but… it was gone. Not just the post, but the entire forum. I tried a few other searches, digging through cached pages, even going as far as to pull up some random discussion threads I remembered reading. Every link, every trace, was gone.

A chill crept up my spine. This wasn’t exactly normal, but things disappear online all the time, right? Forums shut down, people take content offline. I forced myself to brush it off.

The rest of the day was fine. I went through work, ran some errands, and by the time evening rolled around, I’d managed to laugh it off. It was just a creepy prank, I told myself. Maybe a hacker’s joke, something meant to mess with people like me who wander into strange corners of the internet.

But then, that night, things got weirder.

It was around 2 a.m. when I finally turned in. The room was dark, the soft hum of my old computer the only noise. I was drifting off when I heard it—a faint, rhythmic clicking.

I sat up, straining to listen. It was coming from my desk. My laptop. I stood, inching closer, and the sound got louder. A clicking, tapping sound, like fingers tapping on the keyboard. But no one was there. I could see the laptop’s screen in the dark, a faint, greenish glow illuminating the empty room.

I swallowed, flicked on the light, and the sound stopped immediately. I sat down and shook the mouse, waking up the screen.

There was a message on it. Just one line, typed out in a plain text document.

You shouldn’t have watched.

I stared at it, my pulse hammering in my ears. I hadn’t typed that, and there was no one else here. Trying to rationalize it, I told myself it had to be a leftover message from when the laptop glitched during the video. I was probably half-asleep, freaked out, jumping at shadows. I deleted the message, closed the laptop, and headed back to bed.

But as I lay there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was in the room with me. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, trying not to look toward the desk. It felt as if someone were watching me, studying me, but from where, I couldn’t tell.

Sleep was slow to come, and when it did, it was shallow, dreamless.

The next few days were more of the same, only worse. Every time I opened my laptop, I’d find strange messages: Are you alone? … Did you like the video? … Are you still watching?

It didn’t matter where I was. Work, home, the coffee shop down the street—I’d open my laptop, and there it would be. The same plain-text documents, always a single line, always unsigned. I deleted them as quickly as they came, but each time, they sent a shock of cold through me, a kind of primal dread I couldn’t explain.

Then, one night, it happened again. I was getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth, when I noticed something unusual. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a faint flickering glow. I turned, staring down the hallway, and froze.

My laptop was on again. The screen was black, but the camera light—tiny and green—was blinking at me. Slowly, methodically, like an eye opening and closing, watching.

I stepped closer, feeling my throat go dry. No one had touched it; I was sure of that. But it was recording.

I slammed the laptop shut, trying to ignore the cold sweat creeping down my spine. I forced myself into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling as if every shadow on the walls was leaning in, closing around me.

The next morning, I’d almost convinced myself that it was all a tech glitch, that maybe I was just imagining things. I decided I’d reinstall my operating system, maybe even replace the laptop altogether.

But when I turned it on, I found something that wiped away all my attempts at rationalization.

It was another message, but this time it was different. It was a photo, not text. And in that grainy, dim image, I could make out the familiar shapes of my own room—my bed, my desk, my chair. Only the angle was… off. It was as if the photo had been taken from outside, through the window.

I didn’t know what to do. My hands were shaking, and I felt a creeping panic settle over me. Someone was watching me. They’d been in my room, or close enough to see inside.

And then, at the bottom of the screen, one last message flashed:

We’re just getting started.

I didn’t sleep that night. How could I? I’d checked every lock on my windows, every inch of my apartment, but nothing seemed secure enough. I lay in bed, stiff and staring into the darkness, feeling as if a dozen invisible eyes were hovering just beyond my reach, waiting.

The next morning, everything felt wrong. My skin prickled with tension, and I jumped at the smallest sounds—a creak of the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, even the faint rustling of leaves outside my window. I tried to tell myself I was overreacting, but every attempt at rationalizing this only felt like a lie I was desperately trying to believe.

The day passed in a blur of half-formed thoughts and mindless tasks. I went to work, trying to focus, but I could feel the weight of a thousand unseen eyes pressing down on me. I avoided my laptop, avoided screens entirely. Something inside me was terrified that if I looked, I’d see another message… or worse, another photo.

When I finally returned home that night, I felt like a stranger in my own apartment. Every inch of it felt contaminated, tainted by whatever presence had wormed its way into my life. I dropped my things by the door and paced the length of my living room, wringing my hands, glancing around as if the walls themselves were watching.

That’s when I decided to tell someone.

I called my friend Max. We’d been close for years, and he was the kind of person who could make you feel grounded, no matter how far gone you were. I told him everything—well, almost everything. I didn’t mention the photos, or the feeling of being watched. Just the video, the strange messages, and how I thought someone might be messing with me.

He laughed, saying it sounded like one of those online horror stories that he liked reading late at night.

“You’re probably just stressed, man,” he said in that easygoing tone of his. “The internet’s full of weird stuff. Maybe you accidentally got on someone’s bot list. Happens all the time.”

But even as he talked, I could hear a slight hesitation in his voice, a pause that told me he was humoring me, that he didn’t really believe me. And I didn’t blame him. This entire thing sounded insane, even to me.

“Why don’t you come over?” he offered after a moment. “Clear your head, have a beer. Forget about this whole mess.”

It sounded like a good idea, but the thought of leaving my apartment made me feel vulnerable, exposed. If I left, I’d be abandoning the only place I knew, the only place I could attempt to control. I thanked him, told him I’d think about it, and hung up.

But the call didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. Max’s reaction left me feeling more isolated, more alone. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew deep down that whatever was happening, it was beyond the realm of pranks or computer glitches. And if I couldn’t get Max to believe me, how could I expect anyone else to?

That night, the feeling of being watched was stronger than ever. I kept seeing shadows flicker out of the corner of my eye, only to find nothing there when I turned. The noises, too, seemed louder, creaks in the floorboards, the faint scrape of something against the walls, a constant, quiet reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I tried to distract myself by going online, scrolling mindlessly through social media, but the feeling didn’t go away. In fact, it seemed to amplify. Every time I glanced up from the screen, I felt as if the shadows were edging closer, almost anticipating that I’d look away.

At some point, I found myself staring into the camera on my laptop. The little green light was off, and the lens itself was black, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was staring back at me, watching. I grabbed a piece of tape and covered the camera, but the feeling persisted.

I checked the locks on my windows and doors again, and then—almost impulsively—I went to my desk, pulled out a pen and a notebook, and started writing everything down.

It was a strange, desperate act, but it felt necessary. Maybe if I documented everything, I could find some kind of logic in this nightmare, something I’d overlooked. I wrote down every detail—the video, the messages, the photos, the shadows. I wrote until my hand cramped, until my thoughts blurred, until I was just jotting down phrases without meaning. And finally, when I couldn’t write anymore, I closed the notebook and went to bed.

But as I lay there, in the cold, dark silence, I heard something.

A low, barely-there sound, like a voice murmuring from a great distance. I sat up, straining to listen. It was coming from my laptop. I could hear it through the tape over the microphone, a faint, disjointed whisper, growing louder with each passing second.

I moved toward the desk, one slow step at a time. The screen was black, but the sound continued, filling the room like a strange, distorted melody.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.

I reached for the laptop, peeling the tape off the microphone, my hand trembling. As soon as the tape came off, the screen flickered to life, illuminating the room with a sickly green glow.

A text document was open, and there, on the blank page, was a single word, typed out in large, bold letters:

HELLO.

I slammed the laptop shut, my heart racing. I felt trapped, suffocated by the walls around me. The shadows on the walls seemed to close in, as if they’d been waiting for this moment, watching my every move.

I stumbled to the window, threw it open, and took a deep breath of cold night air, hoping it would clear my head. But as I looked out into the darkness, I saw a faint reflection in the glass, hovering just over my shoulder.

A figure. Silent, unmoving, its face shrouded in shadow, standing right behind me.

I whipped around, but there was no one there. Just the empty room, bathed in the glow of my closed laptop.

I sank to the floor, trying to calm my breathing, telling myself it was just my imagination. But deep down, I knew the truth.

I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been alone since I’d watched that video. And whatever this thing was, whatever had found me… it wasn’t going to stop.

Not until it had what it wanted.

I tried to convince myself it was all in my head. I didn’t sleep that night—or the next. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt that presence in the room with me, standing just out of sight, waiting. By the third day, exhaustion had worn me down, hollowed me out. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked pale and unfamiliar, like a ghost of myself.

But it wasn’t just my reflection that looked different. It was everything around me. My apartment felt foreign, the walls seemed to stretch in strange ways, and sounds were amplified, warped, making the silence itself feel like it was hiding something.

The messages kept coming, too. Every time I opened my laptop, I’d find another one, as if someone—something—was documenting every step I took, every thought I had. Did you sleep last night? … Do you feel it watching? … You’re almost ready.

Ready for what?

I tried ignoring it, tried distracting myself with work, with calls to friends. I wanted to tell Max everything, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. No one would. So I kept it all inside, letting the fear fester.

But then the memory gaps started. Little things at first—a few minutes here, a few there. I’d sit down to work on something, only to find an hour had passed without me realizing it. I’d look down at my hands, feeling numb, disconnected, like I was watching myself from a distance.

And then I’d find the messages, typed in plain text on my screen, messages I had no memory of writing. Sometimes they were nonsense, random phrases and half-formed words. But other times, they were… disturbing.

We’re almost together now.

Soon.

One night, I woke up to find myself standing in front of my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, as if I’d been typing something in my sleep. The screen was filled with text—pages and pages of words, repeating the same sentence over and over:

I am not alone.

I deleted it all in a panic, my fingers shaking. I had no memory of writing those words, no idea how long I’d been standing there. I’d barely slept, barely eaten. My mind was unraveling, piece by piece.

I needed to escape. I packed a bag, threw my laptop into it, and left my apartment in the dead of night. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed to get away from those walls, those shadows, that feeling of being trapped. I walked through the streets, keeping my head down, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. The world felt surreal, dreamlike, as if I’d somehow stepped out of reality and into some distorted version of it.

I found myself at an old motel on the edge of town. It was cheap, rundown, but it felt safe, at least for the moment. I checked in and locked the door behind me, barricading it with the dresser, then collapsed onto the bed, my mind spinning.

But the relief was short-lived. As I lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, I felt that familiar, creeping sensation. That feeling of being watched.

My laptop. I knew I shouldn’t open it, knew that whatever was on it was somehow tied to all of this. But I couldn’t stop myself. My hands moved of their own accord, reaching into my bag, pulling it out, setting it on the bed in front of me.

When I opened it, the screen flickered to life immediately, as if it had been waiting for me. A message appeared, one line at a time, in slow, deliberate keystrokes:

You can’t run.

We’re almost ready.

You and I will be together soon.

I shut the laptop, breathing heavily, my mind racing. The motel room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. The light flickered, casting strange shadows across the room. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself, but the words kept repeating in my mind.

The next morning, I woke up on the floor. I didn’t remember getting out of bed, didn’t remember falling asleep. The laptop was open beside me, another document on the screen. I squinted at the words, trying to focus, but my head felt foggy, my thoughts slipping away like sand through my fingers.

We’re so close now.

The worst part? The words were in my handwriting.

I stumbled to my feet, feeling light-headed, disoriented. My own reflection in the motel room mirror looked back at me, but there was something wrong with it. My eyes looked distant, empty, almost… hollow. I reached out to touch the glass, but my reflection didn’t move. It just stared, unblinking, as if someone else was looking out from behind my eyes.

I backed away, my heart pounding. I needed help. I pulled out my phone and dialed Max’s number, praying he’d pick up. When he answered, his voice was groggy, annoyed—it was early, and I could tell he wasn’t in the mood for whatever I was about to say.

“Max, something’s wrong with me,” I whispered, glancing nervously around the room. “I… I don’t know what’s happening. I think… I think something’s trying to take over.”

There was a long pause. I could hear him breathing, but he didn’t say anything.

“Max?” I said, my voice trembling.

Another pause, and then, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own, he spoke.

“You’re almost ready.”

I dropped the phone, backing away from it as if it had burned me. The voice on the other end wasn’t Max’s. It was deeper, colder, laced with something dark and twisted. I felt like I was losing my mind, like reality itself was warping around me.

I stumbled back to the bed, clutching my head, trying to block out the voice, but it was everywhere, filling the room, whispering from the walls, echoing in my own mind. We’re almost together now. It repeated, over and over, drowning out my own thoughts, filling every corner of my mind.

I don’t know how long I lay there, caught in that nightmarish trance. Hours? Days? Time had lost all meaning. All I knew was that I was slipping away, piece by piece, my own thoughts and memories fading, being replaced by something else, something dark and ancient and hungry.

And then, finally, the voice spoke one last time, louder than ever, echoing in my mind like a bell tolling.

“It’s time.”

I don’t remember when I stopped feeling like myself. Days blurred into nights, thoughts that should’ve been mine became strangers in my own mind. I would stare into the mirror and barely recognize the face looking back—a face that seemed familiar, but with eyes that didn’t belong to me.

It was like I was watching from somewhere far away, like I’d become a passenger in my own body, trapped in the dark while something else took the reins.

The messages kept appearing. Every time I looked at my laptop, I’d find new notes, new words, new pieces of some grand design that I couldn’t understand. They told me I was almost ready, that soon I would become something more. That the waiting was over.

The thing I feared most, though, was the silence. When it came, I knew it was close. It was like holding my breath underwater, a suffocating, still quiet that pressed in on all sides, waiting for me to let go, to give in completely.

And then one night, it happened.

I was lying in bed, feeling that familiar prickling sensation on my skin, that suffocating closeness of someone—or something—watching. I tried to resist, tried to hold on to the last threads of myself, but I could feel it slipping, feel me slipping.

The silence grew louder, thicker, pressing down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I sat up, gasping, reaching for the light, but my body didn’t respond. My hands felt heavy, foreign, as if they belonged to someone else. I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

I stumbled to my laptop, pulled it open, my fingers moving of their own accord. The screen flickered to life, and I watched, helpless, as words began to appear, one line at a time, written by my own hand but not by my own mind.

I’m ready.

The words sank into me like a weight, pulling me down into the depths of my own mind. I could feel myself fading, feel the boundaries of my own consciousness blurring, dissolving, being replaced by something vast, something ancient, something hungry.

I fought against it, clawed at the edges of my mind, trying to hold on to the last pieces of myself. But it was like grasping at smoke. My thoughts scattered, fragments of memories drifting away, slipping through my fingers.

And then, finally, there was nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, I was still sitting at my desk, but something was… different. The world looked sharper, clearer, as if I was seeing it for the first time. I glanced down at my hands, feeling a strange, detached curiosity. They looked the same as they always had, but I knew, somehow, that they weren’t mine.

I stood up, testing the feel of the body, stretching, moving my fingers. It was all so familiar, yet so strange, as if I was wearing a suit that fit perfectly but wasn’t my own.

I walked to the mirror, studying the face reflected there. It was the same face I’d seen every day of my life, but there was something different in the eyes—something dark, something that looked back at me with a knowing, hungry smile.

The remnants of the person who had once been here were fading, slipping into the void where I had waited so patiently. I watched them go, watched the last traces of their memories dissolve, leaving me free to fill this body, to inhabit this mind.

I leaned closer to the mirror, watching myself, feeling the weight of the new, empty shell, I had taken. I reached up, touching my face, smiling at the way it moved under my hand.

And then, as if on cue, my laptop chimed.

I turned, feeling the pull, the irresistible call of the screen. The page was already open, a blank document waiting for me. I took my seat, hands hovering over the keyboard, savoring the anticipation, the thrill of what was to come.

And I began to type.

Hello.

I could imagine the readers on the other side, waiting for the story to unfold, waiting for the familiar thrill of fear to creep up their spine. I knew they’d feel it. I knew they’d wonder if it was real, if it could happen to them.

I could feel my own smile widen as I typed, my fingers moving with a practiced ease, telling the story of the one who had come before, the one who had fought so hard, resisted so stubbornly, but who had ultimately lost.

And as I finished the story, as I typed the last line, I could feel the presence within me settled, content, satisfied—for now.

They never saw it coming.

But now, perhaps, they will.

I closed the laptop, the silence settling over me like a comfortable cloak. I looked around at the room that was now mine, at the life that was now mine, and felt a surge of satisfaction, of ownership.

I was here, in the world, alive in a way I hadn’t been in eons. And all it had taken was a little curiosity, a single video, a lone soul who had wandered too far, strayed into the wrong corner of the internet.

And I knew that soon, it would happen again.

Because, after all, curiosity is a powerful thing. And there’s always someone out there, searching, looking for something they shouldn’t.

And when they find it—when you find it—I’ll be waiting.

It was late when we pulled up to the cabin. The headlights of our suburban reflected off the darkened windows briefly shining on the ominous trees that surrounded us. It had been a long driver and the change in altitude was taking its toll. My parents were normally pretty lively but I could tell they were beginning to get on each others nerves. They never bickered, at least in front of us but they were usually quiet. 

A slight drizzle started in the night sky and we all jumped out of the SUV while grabbing our bags. Dad went straight for the cabin while we quickly made our way behind him. Inside, the new cabin was picture perfect. Just like the AD said on Airbnb. It was more luxurious than rustic but we preferred it that way. Normally, we would have stayed at the family cabin on my moms side but the forest fires over the summer had finally taken their toll. We were disappointed but it was only a matter of time and we knew that however this didnt help with our adjusting to the new place we were renting. Paintings of landscapes and majestic animals lined the walls making this almost obnoxious but that was probably me just being over critical. 

The week at the cabin was always a treat everyone looked forward to. It was one of the few things that my family did religiously every year aside from maybe church on Christmas. My brother and I scoured the cabin for our rooms. I ended up taking the loft which sat in the nook of the A frame that looked down into the rest of the cabin. Updated carpet as well as logged styled furniture filled the room. In the corner was a dated tv with one of those VCRs built in but nothing else around it. The walls were designed like logs. The roof angled somewhat sharply and facing out the rear was a large window. I was able to look out and see the forest that seemed to engulf us. The moon was playing its part in adding a slightly eerie vibe casting shadows amidst its pale light. I laid my stuff on the bed and glanced out taking in the breathtaking sight. I turned to put my stuff away and noticed a small door outlined on the log styled wall. It had a small brass knob that barely stook out and blended in almost perfectly had it not been for the obnoxious lock that kept it closed. 

The lock looked old. The opening on it appeared worn and the key must have been equally large and awkward. Everything in this cabin seemed new or at least updated aside from the tv in the corner, so it was strange to see something so out of place. I put my things away, paid the random small door no mind. 

Not much later my mother called us from the living room and we all slowly gathered from our separate areas. “I don't know about you guys but I am very hungry. Does anyone want to come with me to get food to bring back here?” She asked. Seeing how this cabin didnt have Wifi and we were virtually off the grid, I volunteered.

My brother and Dad were either too tired or not hungry enough to care so we made it a girls trip back into town. “So how do you like the cabin so far?” Mom asked as we got buckled in the SUV. “I mean, I like our old cabin but this one is slightly nicer. It's newer but I wish it had WIFI or at least a real tv.” I said, trying not to complain. “Yea, the old cabin was nice. It was much closer but we got a screaming deal on this one. It's probably because it's in the middle of nowhere but I guess that's the point. We drove out of the woods and back onto the road leading us into Gavin county. The radio softly played some kind of country music and mom went over the plans for the week. Most of which were things not taking place at the actual cabin itself. 

We drove on the empty road, occasionally passing another vehicle, undoubtedly another poor family being forced to spend time together, I thought. The thing I liked about the old cabin was that there were other cabins nearby. Some of which we were even friends, but out here, out in the middle of the woods, I felt so incredibly isolated. 

We drove down to town where the half dozen lights of whatever businesses that were still opened glowed faintly. I feel like most small towns seemed to have a Chinese place which, unfortunately, this one didn't. But like every small town it did have a gas station, a pawn shop and an outdated post office all of which were closed. There was one diner however that still seemed to be open. It had a few cars parked out front which we ended up pulling into considering we had no other options in town. The diner almost seemed to have a 70 style to it but that probably wasn't on purpose.  

We walked inside and low commotion could be heard in the fairly empty diner. An older gentleman standing behind the counter gave a brief smile and nodded to a booth. “Hope y’all are hungry” He said. “Indeed we are,” mom replied. We sat down and ordered. The man we assumed to be our waiter didn't write anything down. Just nodded after each thing. “Ill get that ready for yea, right quick” He said ducking back into the kitchen. We were both tired and worst of all hungry. A moment of appreciated silence fell between us. I could tell my mom was thinking of something to say to start a conversation but the man returned too quickly with our food. “Y’all are from out of state?” He asked while placing our orders infront of us. My mom was taken aback. “Oh no! Is it that obvious?” 

“Its not obvious.” He smiled “I saw your plates when you pulled in. So what brings you here?” My mom laughed. Yea we are just getting away from it all. Our family cabin burnt down last summer so we decided to try something different.” “That's too bad” He said. 

The man turned to leave before my mom awkwardly asked.

“Any fun hikes here in town?” Trying to make the best of our situation. The man walked back over to our table while scratching his chin…. “Fun hikes.. Huuh? Well, we don't do a lot of hiking around here, isn't safe unless you packing a firearm of some kind. Lots of bears and other things lurking around. This is more of a place you just drive through. He paused….We do have the horse shoe museum though which I don't recommend…. He chuckled. 

Sorry not much going on here. My moms attempt to cheer me up failed miserably. “Dang, I'm sure we will find something,” Mom replied. “I hope you find it before it finds you.” The man said before dipping away to the kitchen. 

“Why are old people so creepy? I whispered. “Oh he was just having fun with us tourists.” Plus that's how old people talk. We ate our meal and the man came by once or twice to fill our drinks. Both times he was silent, just smiled. We paid our bill and walked out to the SUV. The drive back to the cabin was no less eerie than the first time. The dark trees lined both sides of the road begging the question what else lurked inside. We made it back to the cabin around midnight. Time had gotten away from us. My dad and brother had gone to bed but I could still hear noise coming from Eric's room. He was probably playing on his switch or something. 

I went upstairs to the loft and got ready for bed. The loft was nice but there weren't any blinds on the large window. It wasn't so much an issue because who would have seen me but it was weird being able to look out into the vast woods unsure of what was looking back. 

The next morning I woke to the warm sun slowly rising through the trees. It was earlier than what time I would have normally gotten up but the light slowly creeping in made it impossible to go back to bed. I went downstairs to the kitchen to find my brother already awake. He was just sitting in the living room playing more on his Switch. “Is anyone else up?” I asked, still whipping the sleep from my eyes. He glanced up briefly “Uhhhh… doesn't look like it” he said before returning to his game. “Good call bro.” I said working my way over to the fridge. At the old family cabin, we normally kept the fridge stocked but at this one it had slipped our minds to bring food. The fridge was empty. I wasnt starving but I would need to get food soon. Ill just wait for mom and dad to get up, I thought. In the meantime I racked my brain on what to do. I went back upstairs and got dressed for a hike. I wasn't an outdoorsy girl by any means but I did love a good walk. The sun and all its glory was peering in stronger now.

I went downstairs and outside. The morning air was brisk but fresh with the smell of damp leaves. The cabin's exterior was neatly landscaped. A stone path led around to the back which I slowly went on as I stretched. Around back was more of the same. Stones were placed neatly guiding me to the woods, undoubtedly leading me to a trail. I followed the stone path out into the woods and the neatly placed stones eventually stopped at a basic dirt path. One much less cared for. A quick 20 minute walk couldnt hurt. I always had a rule that the second I couldnt see a path, I would stop and turn around. No sense in getting lost in woods I was unfamiliar with. Plus, knowing my brother, he would probably forget to tell my parents I went for a walk. 

I walked a good five minutes when I remembered the conversation from last night. The old man at the diner recommended I have a gun when going into the woods. I stopped in my tracks. “Ahh thats right,” I sighed, totally unprepared if something were to happen. But then I remembered what my mom said. “He was just giving us tourists a hard time.” 

I debated briefly before continuing my hike. I continued my walking for another 20 minutes or so. Not only did the trail eventually end but at the end of it was a weird sight. It was barely visible but Sitting just off to the left of the trail down a little ways appeared to be an old concrete structure. I liked to discover things, sure, but I also knew better than to investigate a strange building out in the middle of the woods, at least by myself. Had Eric ever stopped playing Zelda or I had one of my parents, I would have peaked inside but being a young girl alone in the woods, no chance. That was until I noticed how dilapidated it was. I could almost see all of it from the outside. It was more of a frame of a large shed than anything. There wouldn't be much to investigate as it looked more dangerous from a structural standpoint rather than some villainous hideout. 

The unassuming structure spoke to me, drawing me in like a wounded puppy needing attention. I stepped off the path. “I can take a quick peak, I guess” I thought to myself. The hollow shed was only just a few hundred feet away from the trail. I would have to be severely disoriented to not find it again. The odds of the menacing bears that “Lurked” in the woods were staying inside were incredibly small. 

A concrete frame stood, mostly eroded and what ever remnants of the roof had been removed a long time ago if ever existing at all. There were window frames but no glass. As I got closer I noticed a very strange sight. More so that the shed itself. Hanging on a rusted nail just outside the doorway was a large key. But to add to the mystery of this key was the weirdest thing dangling off of a chain connected to it. The best way to describe it was that It appeared to be a rabbit's foot but the trinket didnt have any fur. The a nasty looking bone protruded out of one end and came to a point much like that of a talon or a claw. I didnt have a reason, but I picked up the key. Its weight was rather impressive for such a small item. I tried not to touch the gross looking key chain on the other end. I was gonna put it back but something caught my eye. Inside the concrete frame in the center of the floor was a metal hatch. The hatch itself was rusted and looked incredibly heavy. To my dismay, it was open and sat back at about 160 degrees, not quite touching the other side. I froze in horror. Two things immediately came to realization as I saw drag marks leading down and into the hatch but also scratch marks on the inside portion of the hatch. I knew immediately that this wasnt a place I should be. Something incredible sinister was taking place here but I couldnt be sure what it was. Not the slightest spark of courage or curiosity came forth. If anything, I was repelled by the sight. 

That was enough for today. The shock of seeing the strange bunker and insidious signs of foul play, I slipped the key into my pocket and back peddled away from the concrete structure. I didnt want to take my eyes off the hatch for fear of whatever lurked beneath sprung forth and dragging me down into the endless abyss below. I quickly found the trail, my nerves slowly calming down the further I got away from the cryptic hatch. 

I made my way back to the cabin. My mind wondered what mysteries were held beneath the metal hatch. A makeshift meth lab, a well, a bunker someone tried to build and deserted halfway through? My hunger was getting the better of me. My parents had better have been awake by now. It didnt take long for the cabin to slowly come back into view. I could see my room aka the loft a good distance away. Creepy to think someone could very well be able to see me and I would have no idea. 

I made it back to the cabin and was delighted to see my dad cooking eggs in the kitchen. Eric was still a couch potato and didnt seem to have even moved from last time I saw him. I could hear mom singing from her bedroom still getting ready for the day. 

Hey Kay! Dad said, glancing up briefly from the eggs. I smiled. Hey dad, making some for me? I asked hopefully. “Uhhh I wasnt but I can” he said. “That would be amazing.” 

“So how was your walk” Dad asked. “It was actually really good, I didn't see any bears and there's a nice little path that leads pretty good out in the woods. I dont know why but I debated on telling him about the hatch. Like mentioning it would have caused a negative consequence or something. I didnt mention the hatch but I mentioned the structure, that way I had some form of deniability of going close to it. “I saw a little spooky shed building out in the woods I might check out later.” My dad nodded “Ohhhh sounds like a little family activity for later”. Before I could respond, Eric shouted from the couch. “That sounds lame, we need to go to a lake like our last cabin.” My dad and I shared a silent moment of judging Eric before dishing me up some eggs. By this time my mom exited her room wearing workout clothes. “Did I hear something about a hike?” She asked. “Yeah Kay, said there was a little trail out back.” I interrupted, “And there werent any bears!” I said smiling. Mom smiled “Oh right, the creepy old guy from the dinner” She chuckled. “Well I am ready. What about you Steven” mom said, looking at my dad. 

“Oh right now….. Uhhh yea sure” Dad said somewhat off guard. “Kay, hike round 2? Check out the spooky shed” I glanced up from my eggs mid chew…. “Yea no”… “Cool Parents only hike it is, see you guys in a bit.” My parents left the cabin and I finished breakfast before heading upstairs. 

I could see my parents through the window outside as they ventured deeper into the woods. The hike I went on didnt result in any sweat so I stayed in my workout clothes. Out of the corner of my eye, the large out of place padlock caught my attention. I turned my head slightly and saw the outline of the door that blended in so well. Weird, I looked at the lock for a brief moment before an idea slowly came into my mind. It took me longer than it should have but I finally realized that the lock looked to be of the same material as the skeleton key I found earlier out in the woods. 

I pulled the key from my pocket and the felt the weight of the cold metal. The grotesque key chain dangled lifelessly causing my skins to crawl. “Ughhh, I have to get rid of that.” I walked over to the door and knelt down. I didnt even have the key in the lock before my heart began to race. It was as if I knew this would work. I inserted the key with odd smoothness and gave it a twist. A heavy click could be heard and to my satisfaction, the lock clicked open. “Woah”, I whispered.

I pulled hard on the door which caught on part of the carpet. It was clear that whoever renovated this place didnt plan on anyone opening this door. I pulled harder, pushing my foot against the wall for more leverage but the door only opened a few inches. Damn, the hard part of finding the key was done. I just had to open the damn thing. I pulled harder but was only rewarded with a slight opening of a couple inches. 

I peered inside what little I could open but was disappointed in not having a clear view. I stuck my arm inside reaching around for anything and to my surprise, I felt an opened cardboard box. It was heavy but I pulled it towards the door. I couldnt pull the box through the door but once I pulled it closer I was able to reach inside. I started pulling random objects out of the box and through the small door. To my surprise, I started pulling video tapes that were old and had written labels on them. Some of the labels had titles or dates much like any home movie a family would have made. All of the titles seemed inconspicuous like “Family vacation 1 or Grandma and Grandpa visit”,  . “Huh….” I fished around more and ended up finding about 9 tapes in total. The tapes that had the dates told me these must have been filmed decades ago. Sometime in the early 80’s. Seeing how I was bored out of my mind I picked up the tapes and took them over to the old tv that sat in the corner of the loft. I was fully expecting to be disappointed in that the TV was probably not going to work but when I pressed the power button, the TV gave off a loud buzz as the screen slowly began to illuminate. I inserted the tape that was titled “family vacation 1” into the tv as the screen continued to warm up but the tape was half way through the film and needed to be rewind. I got distracted and was content with watching where the tape was at. 

On the screen was a clearly dated timeline which seemed to take place in a small town. It was mainly just scenes of people walking around. After a few frames in, the cameraman seemed to focus on a family walking around what I assumed was Gavin county at the time, as they went about their normal day of vacation. It didn't strike me odd at first as the scenes depicted a happy family eating in a restaurant and walking through town, however, all of these seemed to be at a distance. It wasnt until the family got into a red station wagon and drove away that I realized that whoever was filming wasnt with them. The scene cut quickly and now the grainy tv was showing me a wooden landscape as the person filming was driving now. This only lasted for a few seconds before it quickly changed again. Now it showed a first person perspective of someone walking in the woods but they didnt seem to be on any type of trail. I wasnt sure at this point if these images were connected in any way. They just seemed random. That was until the last scene of the tape finally showed a cabin a good ways off, one much more dated and older than this one. However I noticed something that made me uncomfortable. Parked out front of the cabin was a bright red station wagon. One I assumed was the same one the family had gotten into earlier. The tape ended and a black screen filled the tv before automatically rewinding itself.  

I put in a second tape that was only titled with a date, this one had been rewind unlike the first. This one took place in a city. It was night time. Skyscrapers could be seen illuminated and a handful of pedestrians went about their own way. The scenes in this video didnt last very long as they only lasted for a few seconds. Most of which were just empty buildings or parking garages. Some scenes had either a person or two but it was clear that they didnt know they were being filmed. This tape only seemed to last no longer than 5 minutes but thats all it was. Just eerie scenes of people unaware they were being watched in empty locations. 

I grabbed a third tape, this one titled “My first friend”. I inserted the tape and an image of an old house appeared on the screen. The house seemed run down sitting out in an unkempt field of some kind. It was bright out, again the perspective was first person. So far in all of these tapes, I didnt get to see who was filming. This tape was one continuous shot. The person slowly approached the home which was clear that it was abandoned. The front door had been boarded up. The scene slowly showed us walking around the house filming in windows and peering inside. We turn the corner to come into the back yard and see that the back door is wide open. The person filming slowly approaches and we can see on the brick steps, a dark stain leading through the doorway.

I began to get uneasy. We see the camera get close to the stain but we are not able to make anything out of it. It then goes back to the first person and we are led inside. Despite the home being abandoned, there is still furniture and appliances inside. However it is completely destroyed and clear that someone or some type of animal had once made this their home. Trash and leaves were scattered about the home. The stain could still be seen in some shots and crying began to be heard from inside. The camera man finally follows the stain which leads to an open doorway. He pauses as the cries get louder. He then peers inside the doorway to see a set of stairs leading down into a dark basement. He takes a single step before the scene abruptly ends. 

What the hell were these tapes? I ejected the tape and set it with all the others. I made sure to lay them all out so I could see all of their labels. I saw a tape that was titled “Family Vacation 2” which I assumed to be a continuation of the first tape. I hesitated. I wasnt sure what I was about to watch. My mind raced as I could only assume the worst. I found myself becoming more and more uneasy but I inserted the tape anyway. The scene started with a morbid image of a dead deer on the side of the road. Its body was bloated and clearly it had been impacted by a vehicle moving at high speeds. A stick could be seen briefly, poking at its dead body before the scene changed. It was more driving but it was dark out. I could barely make out the silhouette of trees in the dim headlight of the camera man's car. He pulled over on the side of the road and the scene ended. The screen went black but I could hear sounds of something being dragged through the woods. This was the first time I heard the camera man speak. He swore softly as he grunted while doing something laborious off screen. A light could be seen as the scene changed. We were outside of a cabin from earlier but not terribly far away. The light inside reveals the family from earlier but enjoying their evening oblivious that this person was filming outside. They seemed to be laughing or talking as we sat quietly in the darkness. This went on for a while as we just sat still and watched. Finally, the lights from inside go off and the dragging sound continues. We hear something being dragged onto what sounded like wooden boards before the scene changes abruptly. 

Its morning time and we see the front of the cabin. We are behind the red station wagon and see the dead deer from earlier on the porch laying in front of the door before the tape ends. 

It had seemed that each tape I put in, it got more and more disturbing. More unsettling. I grabbed another tape but I could only imagine the worst. It was titled “Dinner with friend” This tape was at the end of the recording so I had to rewind to the beginning. This took a few moments as the screen was blue slowly blinking “Rewind” as a Whirring sound could be heard within. I was fixated on the screen, completely obsessed with this stash of nostalgic morbid tapes.

The screen immediately displayed an image of a woman gagged and bloodied. She was staring directly in front of the camera sobbing. She was in some kind of dark room with a very dull flashlight shined right on her face. “Oh my gosh” I whispered, putting my hand over my mouth. The camera slowly steps away revealing her leg was chained to a concrete wall. “I want you to meet my friend.” A soft masculine voice said from behind the camera. “Maybe we can all be friends?” The camera then turned and point to the other side of the room revealing a large unfinished basement but one you wouldn't find in a house more like some kind of abandoned building. Several concrete pillars stood and the man shined his light in between as if he was expecting something to come out of the darkness. You couldn't see the other end of the basement but I was beginning to fear that the camera man was the least of this poor woman's problems. 

You could hear the chain behind the cameraman move slightly, the woman soft sobs continuing. “Richard”… the man cooed, as if trying to coax out a pet from underneath a couch gently. The man began to chuckle. “I dont know if thats his real name but I like to think thats what hed like to be called. He doesnt like to talk”. The light continued to scan in the dark before resting on a pale figure that could be seen briefly poking its head out from behind the pillar. The figure was at a distance and the viewer was not able to get a good look, plus camera quality was incredibly poor. Just pixels of what I assumed to be something terrible. The woman, despite being gagged, began to scream terrified muffled cries. She clearly didnt like what she saw. The man began to back peddle, clearly worried. “There he is!” He whispered. “There's Richard, you get to meet him”. The woman continued to scream while tried to follow the camera man who was clearly distancing himself before the chain had reached its end. The man filming continued to back up, leaving the woman in between himself and the pale figure lurking in the darkness. The frame then held still as the woman pulled on the chain frantically. The beam of the flashlight would occasionally shine on her and then behind her as I expected to see something come from the darkness. 

To my absolute horror, I saw why the woman was so frantic. Slowly approaching from the darkness appeared to be something tall. It was hard to make out details at first since the lens was not focused on him. I could tell by the pale outline that whatever this thing was, was not wearing any clothes and it most certainly wasnt human. The creature slowly came into view revealing a horrifying face. Skin pulled tight over sharp and ragged bones. Eyes sunk deep into its head and teeth seemed to spill out of its mouth as it appeared to be smiling. Long arms reached forwards grabbing hold of the chain with clawed hands and began to slowly pull the woman towards him. 

The woman tried to pull back but it was useless. “Shhhh” the man hushed. “Dont scare him, it will only make it worse” This only made the woman panic more. The woman slowly got pulled away and I hoped to god that the tape would end like the others but it didnt. The creature grabbed hold of the woman's arm and pulled it effortlessly off of her body. Blood spewed violently as the creature dropped her and began to take large bites of the removed limb but it then did something that shocked me. Something even more than this horrible nightmare that came to life before me. It then held out the limb to the woman as she flailed on the ground in pain and stared at her. It extended its hand towards her face and sliced off the gag and held her flesh towards her face. 

“Eat it” The man whispered. “He wants to share with you”. The camera man then slowly inched forward as he tried to get a good shot of what was happening when the scene ended. 

I tried to mentally digest what I just saw. I couldn't believe it. I had easily just witnessed the worst thing I had ever seen. Why the hell were these tapes here and who made them? I got up and removed myself from the tapes and went downstairs. I had to tell my parents. I had to tell them what I found and turn these tapes into the police. Eric had made his way over to the kitchen and was eating a snack. His switch charging next to him. “Wheres mom and dad?” I asked, somewhat on edge. 

He glanced in my direction but didnt look at me. “Good question….Uhhhh … Still on that hike I guess.” I checked the time. I had easily just watched an hour of who knows what. Theres no way that they were still on that trail. Maybe they found another trail or went into town without telling us, I thought. I checked outside and the SUV was still parked out front.

I then remembered the hatch. I just prayed that they didnt do anything stupid, that they had enough common sense to leave the mysterious hatch alone but things weren't adding up. I waited for them for another hour but they never showed up. It was now late in the afternoon. It was going to get dark soon. I took the keys to the SUV and made my way over to the front door. Eric, you should probably come with me. I'm gonna head into town and uhhh… get ice cream… you wanna come? I had to lie. I knew if I told him the truth he wouldnt believe me or just wouldnt listen. “Ice cream! Ya, but shouldnt we wait for mom and dad?” I paused… “uhhh, no… you wouldnt let us go if they knew.” He had a smile on his face and I knew he was in. We went outside and got into the SUV and took off back into town. 

It took us longer than I remembered but we rolled in around 4pm. To my surprise, despite finally having cellular data again, the town didnt have a police station. I called 911 and got an operator on the line but when she asked me for the address …. I completely blanked…. “The address… theres… theres no address its just some cabin off the road heading into Gavin county.” I said. The woman on the other line wasnt helpful. “Well, whats the emergency you would like to report?” A slight hint of sass in her voice.  “My parents have been missing all morning. I dont know what to do.” The woman paused before responding. “Well, let me see what I can do”. I kept the woman on the line and we drove back to the cabin, still on hold as we waited for a response. Eric was upset about the ice cream but I told him Ill make it up to him. 

I parked outside of the cabin and told him to wait here and talk to the operator if she ever got back on the line. I knew what I had to do. I had to look for them myself. 

I went into the cabin and found a large steak knife in the kitchen and a flashlight under the sink. For good measure I went back upstairs and grabbed the key and put it in my pocket. I went out the back door of the cabin, and headed on the trial that led deep into the woods. The trail was less pleasant than earlier, my mind still swarming with thought of what I had witnessed on that old tv. I just hoped that my parents gotten lost or something incredibly harmless happened but it was so unlike them to just run off like this. 

I approached the end of the trail and peered down to the structure where the hatch was. I walked down slowly unsure of what I was about to do. To my surprise, as I walked closer, I saw that the hatch from earlier was no longer open but had been closed. The hatch had a similar lock on it like the one the closet had inside. I felt around and retrieved the key from my pocket. The long gross trinket still attached. I inserted the key and twisted, the lock gave much more resistance this time but eventually clicked open. I lifted the heavy hatch, which required most of my strength and peered inside. Below was an old ladder that descended about 15 feet or so. At the bottom I could see a concrete floor that had leaves and dirt scattered about. 

“Mom, Dad?! I called. No answer. I shined my light down. I guided the flashlight in hopes of seeing anything to better explain what this place was but nothing. “This is so stupid”, I whispered as I lowered myself down the hatch and onto the ladder. Once at the bottom of the ladder a smell of mold mixed with something foul and offensive struck my nose. It was overwhelming. It took me a moment to catch my breath and focus at the task at hand. 

Once at the bottom of the ladder I saw that I was now in a much bigger room than what I initially thought I was going to be in. Cement floors and walls extended in the other direction making me unsure of what lurked beyond in the dark. I shuffled slowly in, stepping further and further away from the light that came in from the opened hatch. My heart was already racing when I heard a sound that made me regret everything. The sounds of tearing and breaking of bones could be heard not too far off into the darkness. I stopped and turned off my light, in fear that I just made myself known to whatever was down here. Before I could turn, a hand grabbed my mouth and pulled me away. I swung the knife hard behind me in the direction of the hand but I missed. I tried to scream but the hand muffled my mouth. I got ready to stab when I heard the whisper of a familiar voice. “Kay, you have to be quiet.” My mom said, in a hushed and worried tone. 

She slowly released me and I calmed down. I felt a mixture of emotions but aside from the overwhelming dread, I was relieved. I had found my mother and she was still alive. My mind was now putting together what was going on slowly when she spoke. “We need to leave, we arent alone down here.” My blood ran cold. 

“Wheres dad?” I asked frantically. My mother paused    “…. Something took him. It took him into the darkness awhile ago and It has been making that sound for a while now. I dont think he is coming back, sweetie.”

I had so many questions, I was so confused. Why were they even down here? What took him? My mother got up and held my hand. “Thanks for opening the hatch” She whispered. By this time the light outside had gone. We needed the flashlight to find the ladder. I turned on the light and shined it behind us when my mom whispered. “Wait”

I panicked. I turned the light off, unsure of what to do. The ominous sounds from the darkness had stopped. 

A brief moment of silence hung in the odorous air. Whatever was down here with us was trying to listen. Trying to locate us. I felt myself bolting backwards as my mother began to pull me to the ladder. Cries erupted behind us. Sending waves of terror through my body. We didnt have to go far but we both had to climb and quickly. My mother went first but quickly went up and I followed impatiently. I could hear it coming for us. My mother cleared the ladder and reached down to pull me up. “Oh my gosh!” She cried as she could see it behind me. I climbed like my life depended on it. Mom reached down and lifted me up. I grabbed the hatch and slammed it down but something obstructed it. I felt resistance pushing against it as I pushed down hard on the heavy hatch. A pale hand clawed at us, trying to grab hold of us to drag us down. My mother and I put all our weight on the heavy metal knowing if we failed we were both dead. 

By some miracle, the hand retracted back into the darkness and we closed the hatch while locking it. We sat on top of it as we caught our breath with tears in our eyes. We could hear muffled screams beneath as whatever that thing was, was now locked away. 

It was night time now our long walk back to the cabin was one of sadness and relief.

Chapter 1

Jared sits in his apartment, on his favorite divot on the couch. The living room’s bare brick walls and mismatched furniture were empty space to Jared—familiar, unassuming. On the television, sitcom laughter erupted, the noise sharp against the quiet hum of the fridge. The chatter of the characters fills the room, a distraction from the silence he dreads. It was in moments like these that his mind would betray him, conjuring her voice, her laugh, the sound of her key in the door.

There’s a lot to do, the threat of the LSAT looms dreadfully. Jared scheduled a test date around a time he’d likely need an effective distraction. A February test date offered the illusion of progress, but progress required effort. There’s a birthday card for his boss sitting blank on the table and an essay due tomorrow at midnight, each task no more than a fleeting thought in his unmoving haze. Because for now, Jared just sits. For a month and a half, give or take, just sitting has been his most practiced hobby.

Eventually, as it always does, his hatred of himself for putting aside all of his responsibilities overrides the numbing of his brain. He opens his laptop, the light of the screen shocks his bloodshot eyes. Fingers begin to move, almost on their own. With every tap and click he feels his senses returning. Jared has always had the skill of making himself sound a lot smarter than he is. It’s incredible how a potato brained fool can be a legal analysis savant for two thousand words in Times New Roman, double spaced font. Well, five hundred words for now, genius and effort has its limits.

Next, attention is turned to LSAT review note cards. With every card, Jared likes to imagine a little checklist in his head. Little nuggets of information slowly being absorbed, the monotonous turning of small pieces of paper adding a sort of calm to the room. Jared flipped to the next card, the word quixotic staring back at him. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fuzziness clouding his vision. The letters seemed to shimmer for a second, twisting and warping into something indecipherable. He blinked hard, and the word returned to normal.

Must be the lack of sleep, he thought, tossing the card onto the table. But the unease lingered, curling in the back of his mind like smoke.

Now, the most heartfelt and passionate birthday wishes were due. It wasn’t that Craig Evans, esteemed manager of the prestigious Burger Barn, would actually care. But Jared’s performance review was coming up, and every little bit helped. His focus is broken as his attention is drawn to his phone. The glowing notification stared back at him like an accusatory finger. His stomach sank. Of course, he forgot about the appointment. What else was new

The thing about Jared, he holds an expertise in two skills actually. One would be sitting and doing nothing, and the other is forgetting. His boss’ birthday card will have to wait until after his appointment with Dr. Wright, which he is now on pace to be ten minutes late for.

***

“I’ve just been chillin’ to be honest”

“Now Jared, I can’t and won’t force you to share more than you’re comfortable with. But you might find these sessions more helpful if you can give me a little more detail.” Dr. Wright looks up from her notes, her kind eyes give an inviting expression to Jared. Her warm smile establishes an aura of trust.

Jared chuckles, his cheeks blush slightly out of embarrassment. “My bad, I’m still in homework mode. I’ve been doing okay. Trying to work the piano a little bit more, and I’ve been going to the gym more often.”

Dr. Wright nods thoughtfully. “How’s your diet been?”

 “Fine,” Jared says, avoiding her gaze. He notices her raised eyebrows and frown, prompting him to add, “I’ve been doing better. I try to schedule times to eat so I don’t forget or lose track of time, you know, with LSAT stuff and work.”

As Dr. Wright nods her head, her hand begins to scribble. As she writes, Jared is drawn to a bowl of spearmints that sit in between him and his therapist. Their smell is strong in breaking the air but gentle upon his nostrils. The walls were adorned with paintings—probably a side hobby of Dr. Wright, Jared assumed. One sits on the east wall, staring directly at Jared. It’s a dog, it’s just sitting there, it’s just staring. Behind the dog is a beautiful meadow, the unnaturally green grass is contrasted by red, blue, and yellow flowers. The pure blue sky is broken by ghastly clouds, somehow softening the already serene environment. It’s all nauseatingly calm, annoyingly perfect.

“That’s a good habit to build,” Dr. Wright says, jotting down a note. After a brief pause, she looks up again. “How are you doing with staying in no contact?”

Jared shifts in his seat. The question breaks his calm, and he feels the pressure inside himself begin to rise. “I mean... I just...” He takes a moment to compose himself. “I don’t know, really. I’ve just been doing nothing. I guess there’s nothing to do, so I’m doing nothing. Does that make any sense?” Dr. Wright nodded, but Jared felt exposed, like she could see past the shrug, past the nonchalance. The quiet pressed down on him, and his mind screamed, Say something else! Anything else! But all he could do was sit there, the silence loud in ways it shouldn’t be.

Dr. Wright’s tone remains gentle. “I understand. It can be hard to accept situations for what they are right now. But taking this time to heal is important. Think of it as a chance to reconnect with yourself—to figure out who Jared is, outside of anyone else. It might feel uncomfortable, but it’s good to know the value you have by yourself.”

By himself. That’s exactly the reality Jared has been trying to avoid. It’s the reality that makes itself known in the moments of silence. It's the reality that makes itself known when he cooks, by himself. When he cleans, he does it alone. When he listens to the same songs, watches the same movies, he does it by himself now.

“Well Jared, that is all the time we have for this session. I want to challenge you to keep up with your journal, and recognize how your emotions continue to shift with everything.”

Jared stands from his seat, his brow furrowed, mouth tightening into a faint grimace. “Thanks, Dr. Wright,” he mutters, the words automatic. She gives him a small nod, her warm expression unchanged, as though she’s accustomed to goodbyes that don’t quite stick.

The receptionist flashes a polite smile as he walks past her desk, but Jared doesn’t meet her eyes. The faint humming of fluorescent lights fill the lobby, blending with the muted tap of keyboards and the shuffle of papers. He steps into the elevator, pressing the button with more force than necessary.

As the doors slid shut, Jared exhaled, his eyelids heavy. The growl of the elevator motor filled the small space, leaving no room for distraction. In the quiet, his mind drifted—not forward, but back. And with that drift comes a familiar ache. His thoughts wander, unbidden, to places he’d rather avoid—ghosts of conversations, the echo of laughter that feels like a punch to the chest.

It’s always like this. In the quiet, his mind doesn’t drift; it digs. Callused though it is, it still knows where to press hardest. His mind slips to a distant time, to the beginning.

He couldn’t exactly describe how he felt the first time he met her. It was strange—like tasting a food you instantly love but can’t compare to anything else you’ve ever eaten. How do you describe something so new? Like discovering a completely new color, how do you begin to name it? How do you attribute value to it in your own mind?

Their first conversation was casual, nothing out of the ordinary. Jared had given her some general advice as she prepared for college, nothing he hadn’t said to others before. But this time, something felt different. Every time she smiled, a warmth stirred in him. When she began rambling question after question, her nervous energy on full display, he found himself grinning back. Her anxiety was palpable, almost endearing, and he’d never been so drawn to someone so preoccupied with the smallest details.

There was something about her—something he still struggled to put into words. Her brown eyes didn’t just look at him; they seemed to look into him. They pierced, not like a knife, but like a vaccine, soothing the sickness he hadn’t realized had taken hold of his heart. Sharp and striking, their shape added an edge to her beauty, pulling him further into her orbit.

Her long black curls framed her face perfectly, tumbling over her shoulders with effortless strength. Her skin was soft, her hands delicate, though they carried the strength of her cautious confidence. She intrigued him—the confidence she kept buried under layers of careful precision, the contradictions that made her more compelling with every word.

Every sentence Jared spoke to her felt like walking a tightrope. With each exchange, he whispered a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be his last.

Eventually, the last sentence came—years later.

The elevator jolted slightly as it reached the ground level, the doors sliding open to reveal an eerily empty parking garage. The fluorescent lights reflected off the scattered cars, the uncanniness was unsettling. Jared’s car sat near the corner, its familiar silhouette a small comfort amidst the emptiness.

With a sharp chirp, the car’s lights flashed as Jared unlocked it. He stepped inside, the stale, warm air giving way to the cool rush of the AC. He let out a deep sigh, gripping the wheel as though grounding himself. The silence that had accompanied him from the elevator was warded off by the blaring of a pop hit from the radio, the upbeat tune clashing awkwardly with his mood.

Shifting into drive, Jared pressed the gas harder than he intended, the tires giving a brief squeal against the concrete. His pulse quickened, the sudden jolt breaking through the fog that had dulled him all day. The empty parking spots blurred past, white lines flashing in his peripheral vision like distant beacons. The overhead signs became checkpoints in a mindless race to nowhere, pulling him into a fleeting, hollow focus.

His focus would remain until a figure, a man, appeared in the path of his headlights, seemingly out of nowhere. Jared’s breath hitched as he slammed the brakes, the screech echoing through the garage. The car lurched to a halt, stopping mere inches from the man.

Jared sat frozen, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The figure stood motionless, bathed in the harsh glow of the headlights, his silhouette sharp yet strangely indistinct. Was it fear? Or something else entirely that kept him rooted in place?

Snapping back to reality, Jared fumbled for the window controls, rolling it down to stammer an apology. The words caught in his throat as he looked up.

The man was gone.

The space in front of his car was empty, the concrete stretching endlessly into shadow. Jared blinked, his chest tightening. His eyes darted to the mirrors, to the corners of the garage, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing.

Whatever had just happened, Jared couldn’t explain it. And yet, it left him with a lingering unease that seemed to seep into the air around him.

***

The upbeat pop hit blared through the speakers, but Jared wasn’t listening. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale against the dark leather. He drove in a kind of autopilot, the lines on the road blurring together.

In the silence between songs, he thought he heard her voice. Just for a second, faint and fragile, cutting through the noise like a ghost. He turned the volume up, drowning it out. But the ache in his chest didn’t go anywhere.

As he pulled into the parking garage, he whispered under his breath, “It’s just in your head.” Saying it out loud didn’t make it feel any truer.

As Jared pulled into the parking garage of his apartment building, a dull ache throbbed in his head, each pulse a reminder of the five, or sometimes four, hours of sleep he was forcing himself to run on. The exhaustion clung to him, heavier now that he was back in the familiar confines of home.

He parked in his usual spot, the tires crunching softly against the concrete. As he stepped out, a soft cooing caught his attention. The pigeons were there, as they always were, perched on the concrete divider that separated the floors.

They recognized him.

With fluttering wings, they descended to his feet, their tiny claws clicking against the floor as they waited expectantly. Jared couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath. “What’s up fellas? At least some things never change.”

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the small stash of crumbs he always kept for them, remnants of stale bread or crackers from the week. He sprinkled them on the ground, watching as the birds eagerly pecked at the offering. Their simple contentment was oddly grounding, a brief pause in the storm of his mind.

Jared scattered the crumbs as the pigeons flapped and cooed around him. Their usual scuffle for food was interrupted by a strange stillness. One pigeon, larger than the rest, with dark, unblinking eyes, stood apart, staring at him.

"What’s your deal?" Jared muttered, tossing a crumb its way. The pigeon didn’t move. Its head tilted slightly, and for a brief moment, Jared felt as though it was studying him. He shook his head and turned toward the elevator, the soft click of talons echoing behind him longer than it should have.

The inside of Jared’s apartment was as still and quiet as ever. The occasional drop of ice cubes in the refrigerator and the faint clicks of the pipes were the only sounds separating him from the oppressive weight of total silence.

In the bathroom, Jared opened the cabinet and grabbed a fresh towel. He stripped down with a wince as his back protested the movement. Maybe skipping a post-workout stretch hadn’t been his best decision. “Yoga tomorrow,” he muttered to himself as he stepped into the shower and twisted the knob.

A shock of ice-cold water crashed onto his head and neck, forcing a gasp from his lips as his muscles tensed. His breath hitched, body shivering, before the water began to warm, cascading over him like a gentle barrage of bullets. As the tension melted from his body, a soft exhale escaped him.

The droplets were steady and rhythmic, their touch oddly comforting. Jared barely registered the thought as it passed through his mind: This is the closest thing to contact I’ve had in over a week.

Time slowed, the bathroom walls fading into the background. His eyelids slid shut, his head tilting back as the water traced rivulets down his skin. In this brief moment, Jared was alone with himself, and just for now, he didn’t hate the company. He could almost drift away, enveloped in the warmth, lost in a fragile peace.

Jared allowed the water to continue to run over his face, shutting out the world for a moment. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths. It’s fine, he told himself. I’m fine.

But the truth seeped through, clinging to him like the steam in the air. It wasn’t the silence he hated, it was the way it revealed things he worked so hard to ignore.

He thought of her, how she used to tease him for taking showers so hot they turned his skin red. He’d laughed it off then. Now, the memory scalded, leaving a mark deeper than the water ever could.

Then came a thud.

The sound was loud and sudden, reverberating through the shower door. Jared jolted, throwing himself to the side, his back hitting the cold tile wall. Terror gripped him as his eyes locked on the frosted glass. Through the fogged surface, a figure stood on the other side.

It mimicked him perfectly, pressed against the door, its outline indistinct but unnervingly human. Jared’s chest heaved, his breaths shallow and panicked. The figure remained motionless, a stillness so absolute it felt wrong—like staring at a statue carved from the void itself.

They stayed like that, frozen in a silent standoff. Seconds stretched into an eternity, Jared’s legs trembling as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His vision blurred, his consciousness threatening to slip away. His lungs burned as if the air had been stolen from the room.

And then, with a wrenching gasp, Jared’s awareness snapped back.

He found himself curled on the cold, wet floor of the shower, arms and legs tucked in a desperate fetal position. The figure was gone. Only the steam clinging to the glass remained.

With a shaky breath, Jared rose to his feet, shame mixing with the remnants of fear as he turned off the water. The silence crept back in as he dried himself off and completed the rest of his nightly routine, avoiding the mirror and its potential reflections.

Lying in bed, his muscles still tight from the encounter, Jared clenched his teeth. His mind swirled with questions, the memory of the almost-collision in the parking lot and the eerie figure in the shower refusing to settle.

Confusion swirled until it blurred into exhaustion, and slowly, he drifted into a restless sleep.