We gave our rifles womanly names. A tradition that made no sense, but there was an ineffable magic to it. Turning those old things into totems or talismans against fear and the dark shadows of our inevitable deaths. We were boys playing soldiers. Training was filled with schoolyard nonsense and magic. Mumbo jumbo magic words and chants. We gave each other nicknames and created rituals. Sitting in circles, polishing our boots, we told each other stories. I cradled my rifle as I slept. I named it Ukkyo, after a cute cartoon character. There was no way to know how old that rifle was, no way to know how many recruits had used it. I liked to pretend it was old enough to vote, and convinced myself it was true. We were only allowed to read training manuals and scripture. I won't pretend they blurred into each other, that's nonsense. I will say that even though Ukkyo would never save my life, it became a dear friend, who was there in the sweltering Missouri nights when I was otherwise alone. I was sad to part ways, another of the childish things put away when I became a man. Long gone, like my pocket Bible and my old nickname. Like the voices of my brothers. All of these things are lost and worth nothing at all to anyone but me. They are my treasures.

In the daytime, it’s just an empty lot. 

Nothing but a rich collection of dirt, weeds and tall grasses that stretch all the way to the trees.

But every now and then, when the moon is just right, and when the air is so cold it hurts to breathe—the house appears at night.

It’s always the same: a dark, 19th-century Victorian mansion, complete with spires and enormous windows, the kind of place you would never see out here in the boonies.

I had trouble believing it was real the first time .

One of my college-mates played a prank and gave me a cookie which was a potent edible. I was up all night at home, waiting for the unexpected high to pass. That’s when I first noticed the house, fully built, standing some odd thirty yards away.

It was quite an experience, seeing a magical haunted mansion while thoroughly tripping. I thought it was just the THC playing tricks on me, but by the time I sobered up around 4:00 AM…  the house was still there. 

It was too real to be a hallucination, and too vivid to be a trick of the light. 

I took pictures on my phone from the living room, bathroom and even the balcony. The house was a real structure. A real, creepy, pitch black-looking abode that gave an indisputable bad vibe. And then as soon as dawn broke, it faded away.

Over breakfast, I explained to my grandma what I had seen, and even showed her photos. But she waved away all my “nonsense”.

“Ain’t been anythin’ there for sixty years,” she would say. “Don’t conjure what isn’t.”

I brought it up a few more times, but grandma would always shut it down. “We’re the only ones that live on this road, Robert. Don’t be ridiculous. Are you on drugs?”

***

Maybe I was just ‘on drugs’. The house didn’t reappear any night after that, so I went back to focusing on school. The whole reason I moved out to live with Grandma was because her place was only an hour-long bus ride to college.

But then came another evening when I stayed up late finishing an essay. When I went to grab some juice from the fridge, I saw it peering from the large kitchen window. 

The house. It was back.

This time it appeared much more alive than before. A glowing fuchsia color shined out from its innards, and there appeared to be movement behind its windows.

I knew I wasn’t tripping again because I was writing my schoolwork. I was sober AF. Closing my laptop, I excitedly unboxed some binoculars.

That’s how I saw the shadows inside. 

It was way too dark to make out anything past silhouettes, but I definitely saw the tops of heads and shoulders pass by the windows and settle in various spots in the house. They moved with a casual, low-key energy, as if everyone was worn out but still awake. Restless.

Who were these people? And how were they inside this place?

Then my attention turned to the trees ruffling behind the house—where a tall figure emerged from the woods. 

An immediate knot tied itself in my stomach. I had never seen anything like this person. He wore a velvet-looking frock, above an embroidered vest, and waist high trousers, which were all somehow tailor-made to fit his eight-foot long arms and legs.

He moved like some anthropoid stick bug, shuffling and ambling, often using one of his long arms as another leg.  Eventually this bizarre 19th century aristocrat spider hunched over the door, took a glance at me and raised his arm.

I wanted to turn away, but I couldn’t. I was frozen. The figure’s hollow eyes, even from that distance, felt like they were staring directly at me.

His skeletal fingers made the “come hither” motion. He recognized my fascination.

He knew I was being drawn to the house. 

He knew I was watching.

He knew  … I wanted a deeper peek.

***

The next morning, my grandma handed me a letter in a brown envelope with no return address. She said it must have come from my parents.

I opened the letter and knew right away that it didn’t.

There was only a single piece of parchment inside, withered and worn. In thick black ink, only two words were written in very old cursive: You’re Invited.

“Where did you get this letter?”

“Where do you think?” My grandma poured herself coffee. The mailbox.”

“Who dropped it off?”

“Who do you think?” My grandma burnt her lips on the coffee. “The mailman.”

“The mailman? You saw him?”

“Jesus Christ, Robert. Yes, the mailman. He comes every morning ‘round eight when there’s mail. How do you think mail works? Are you on drugs?”

Full disclosure: back with my parents, I did go through a phase where I was smoking a lot of pot. They told my grandma there would be zero tolerance if I was ever caught blazing. They threatened with military school, community service, etc. 

(So I’ve been careful only to blaze on the school grounds. Never near grandma’s.)

“No grandma, I was just wondering about the letter is all.”

“Nothing else to wonder about. Now eat your breakfast.”

***

That night, after grams went to bed, I played some Civ 6 to pass the time, eagerly awaiting midnight.

Every ten minutes I’d check to see if that empty lot sprouted anything. But It stayed empty. By about 12:30 AM, the house still hadn’t arrived and I was disappointed.

In a last ditch effort, I put on several layers and brought one of my secret blunts with me. The first night I had seen the mansion when I was accidentally high, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to smoke a little now and see what would happen. 

After quietly closing the front door, I walked several feet away to make sure the light in grandma’s room was still off.

It was. She was sleeping.

With utmost secrecy, I brought the blunt and lighter to my lips—when a chill wind snuffed out the flame. My fingers went cold, my stomach formed a knot.

The house had returned.

And this time it was standing closer than ever before, barely three car lengths separated my grandma’s place from its front doors.

It’s like it was presenting itself.

I walked toward it, driven by an impulse I couldn’t explain. The air was thick, almost electric. I just had to take a peek.

The normally untamed weeds and bushes were now suddenly pruned and lining a cobblestone path toward the house. I walked along the polished granite pieces until I reached the first wooden step. My heart slowed.

The shadows inside seemed to shift, like something was moving toward the door. I inched backward ever so slightly, keeping my eyes on the knob.

A figure—tall and thin, like the one I’d seen before—stepped behind the frosted glass. Within moments, the front door swung open and his strange limbs came clambering beneath the wooden frame. The second I made eye contact, I met the strangest, most disarming smile I've ever seen in my entire life

For a moment, it felt like I had known this man for a long time, like this guy was the uncle I used to visit each year… only I knew that couldn’t be true. 

The smile had some kind of aura. Something that emanated a fake nostalgia. I couldn’t really put it in words when it was happening but I am telling you now in retrospect—this guy had a powerful charm in between his gleaming teeth.

“My boy! My lad! It would appear as though you have accepted my invitation! Yes indeed!” The 19th century aristocrat spidered over to me at a somewhat alarming speed.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself, I am Reginald Beddingfield Hollows, Esquire —the proprietor of this fine estate.” His left hand effortlessly brushed the ceiling of the awning high above us. "And you my lad, simply must come inside, we have been dying to meet you! The demand is insatiable, my good boy.”

Inching away, I responded in a hushed tone. “Uh… Who’s been dying to meet me?”

“Your friends! Inside the house!” He tried to follow my gaze. “They all know you dear lad, they’ve been watching you for a long time! Come in! Come in!”

I could hear faint voices coming from deeper inside, it did kind of sound like a low-key house party. Somebody was delicately playing the piano.

“Umm… can I think about it?”

“Think about it?” Reginald laughed a perfectly pitched, high society laugh. “What’s there to think about my boy? You’ve already accepted by arriving at my doorstep. You want to come in!”

My stomach was tensing up into some kind of triple knot, I was finding it hard to walk backwards.

“In fact, it would be quite rude not to come in. Quite rude indeed. ” Reginald’s smile slowly dissipated. “Especially after all the effort we put in. Today was going to be your night, Robert, They’re all going to be so disappointed.”

How did he know my name?

Like some kind of flexible insect, he scooped his head down low to meet my line of sight. His teeth beamed at me with a glossy shimmer. “You want to come in, Robert, we both know that. It’ll be fun.”

Although I could feel my stomach contort itself further, an immense feeling of trust also breezed through my chest. It’s like this was the five hundredth time I’ve met Reginald.

“It’ll be fun?”

“Riotous, Robert! A fête in your honour! A feast! A dance! The string quartet has been practicing for ages!”

Again, that feeling of trust. I went from being merely tipsy, to fully drunk on Reginald’s nostalgia magic. His arm lightly rested on my back, guiding me through the front doors.

I entered the house. 

The air was cold. Freezing, in fact. I could see my breath in the dim light. The flickering purple glow came from several gas-lit sconces on the ceiling. The walls seemed to stretch and warp, like the house wasn’t quite real. Like it was bending around me, enclosing me.

I wasn’t alone either. Figures moved in the shadows, their forms indistinct, their heads tilted in my direction. They looked human, but just barely. They watching me without blinking, staring with wide eyes.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But I couldn’t. All the walls and doors bended away from my touch. It felt like the house had a grip on my very soul, like it was pulling me deeper into its endless corridors.

One of the figures stepped forward—a girl, also about my age, her face was pale and stretched like a mask. She wore clothes that may have been in fashion about twenty years ago.

“You don’t belong out there anymore,” she said softly, his voice almost tender. “You belong here now. You’re one of us now.”

It was a mistake to step inside. Once you’ve seen what’s behind those purple-lit windows, there’s no escaping.

The house never lets you go.

***

I’ve had loads of time trapped in this house where nothing changes. 

I don’t get hungry. 

I don’t get sleepy. 

The police can’t see the house, and they’ve blocked me for calling them too many times with my “wild stories”.

My phone has been permanently stuck at 23 percent battery for god knows how long. Time doesn't seem to exist here. Only warping corridors and college kids who all say the same thing.

“I came out here to live with grandma. It was only an hour long bus-ride to school.”

Across one of the ever-shifting hallways I once discovered a painting of my “grandma” wearing the same kind of aristocratic clothing as Reginald. She stared out with the same passive face. Those same disinterested eyes.

I’ve typed this story out on my phone, searching for help. I wish I could tell you where to look, but I have no idea where I am, the windows stretch away from me.

If you ever see a mansion that only appears at night, and you come across a tall, spidery man that looks like Reginald, tell him that you are inviting me, Robert, to come outside.

I believe there might be some kind of magic in the use of invitation. Some kind of sanctuary. At least I hope so. It’s my only chance of escape.

If someone who reads this does find a way to free me from this limbo, I promise you my everlasting thanks. 

As a bonus, I’ll give you this joint that never seems to run out.

I lost my phone and I was onto the phone company straight away. It is a contract phone and I was hoping that they would replace it, as lost phone was part of the cover. I managed to get a human to talk to me without waiting and I told the guy about how I had lost my phone. Now the guy on the other end started to go on about how it was my fault that I had lost my phone and that I don't qualify for a free replacement. I started arguing as that is part of the policy and the guy then told me that he was going to put me on hold.

As I was put on hold while the guy on the other end of the phone talked with the manager, I expected cheesy music but instead I got someone who was desperate for survival on the other end of the phone. The person had been kidnapped and placed in some cabin in the forest. She was desperate for me to help her but I told her that I was just looking for a new phone. She started to cry and beg me to help her.

As I tried to collect her number and contact details, I was no longer on hold and the guy who was the customer service rep for the phone company came back on. He told me that I wasn't qualified for a free replacement, but I angrily told him that I was qualified for a free replacement as I paid extra every month for this kind of insurance. He started rummaging through my phone contract and then put me on hold again. As I was put on hold again, i was expecting cheesy music but I had gotten another desperate person wanting my help.

"Please help me! A group of people have broken into my home and they have murdered everyone apart from me"

I told the person that he should call the police and he himself doesn't why his call went to me. He kept begging me to help him but I was like that I am only here for a new phone. Then he started to cry and that's when I relented and just as when I had tried to get his details, I wasn't on hold anymore. The phone customer service person finally saw that my contract gave me the right to a new replacement phone, whether or not I was responsible. I was happy and I told him the make of my phone and all the other details of it.

Then the phone customer service rep had to put me on hold again to see whether that phone was available anymore. As I was put on hold again I became terrified. I didn't know who was going to be begging for my help. Then when I voice started asking for my help, because he was buried alive in a coffin with a mobile phone that was running out of charge.

To make it even more terrifying, the voice on the other end of the phone was my voice and it was me asking for help. As I tried to get more information from myself, I was no longer on hold and the phone customer rep said that they were sending me an upgraded replacement phone.

I was four years old the first time I saw the God in the Gutter. The memory didn’t form until my mother mentioned that one summer I started shrieking while on a walk. When prompted I pointed to a storm drain and said I didn’t like the man peeking out. This freaked her out understandably but when she went to take a look there was no one there. Beyond the storm grate was a space far too small to fit a person. She thought it must have been a conjuration of an overactive child's mind, giving shape to the blurry darkness. But after she told me of this experience, what I know to be a false memory formed in my mind. I envisioned this strange being made of darkness, taking the rudimentary form of a human but the eyes gave it away. These crimson pits, iridescent and hateful, cleaving through shadow to gaze upon the world.

If you’d ask me how I knew what I saw was real I wouldn’t know how to answer. Memories after all are these fickle little malleable things that warp with time, never a fully accurate representation. If I said I was guided by a dream you’d think me insane. All I know is that there's an indentation left in my being that's so defined that these events cannot be anything else but real.

From then on I consciously avoided that sewer in my walks to and from school until the eve of my 12th birthday. I decided to confront what I thought was a childish fear. Dad had told me that I was about to transition to a young man and that I'd need to act like it, something I took to heart.

It rained the day I followed a stream running down the street gutter, eyes focused on the detritus it carried until I was face to face with the sewer grating that had caused a tinge of anxiety whenever I caught sight of it. Peering into it I saw nothing but the flow of rainwater and any fear I once had started to peter out. I blinked, looked away, wondered if the strange mixture of emotions I was feeling was the first taste of existential disappointment, and flicked my gaze back to the storm drain. I froze, a half-formed gasp caught in my throat and I let out a long wheeze at the sight. What had once been a regular, unassuming street gutter now was a black chasm. I tried commanding my body to move, will my mind out of its fear-induced stupor but the endless void I was staring into consumed all of my facilities.

“Hello,” it said.

And the spell was broken, within a heartbeat, my body slackened and tensed. This time I was ready to flee.

“Don’t run, please. You might not remember me, but I remember you.” It continued, whispering in a voice so frail it elicited a sense of pity. Against my better judgment, I looked back down at the gutter and followed the serene flow until that pit met my gaze. I peered into nothing. Curiosity had taken hold of me. This thing that had been an ever-present but subtle fear, now stood before me and the need for answers rose above all.

“You’ve seen me?” I asked

“Oh I’ve seen plenty from here, I can gaze out onto the world and a few other places but not for long. Can’t afford to get too distracted. But I’ve seen you and your parents, I’ve seen your neighbors, I’ve seen the years come and go, and you’ve grown older and stronger with them.”

“I have?”

“Oh yes, you’ve changed, things are always changing. It’s the way of the world. Even down here, things have changed and will change, long after I’m gone.”

A slight grimace spread across my face.

“What could possibly be changing down there? I can’t see anything.”

“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Down here there’s an entire world no one but me knows.”

“What’s it like?”

“Would you like to see? I could show you,” it said, voicing pitching in excitement.

A knot formed in my stomach, this thing had almost shed the malicious veneer I had painted over it all these years, but now its invitation dyed it once more with a shade of danger much more intense than I could have ever imagined. And yet curiosity gnawed at my being, dissolving mental failsafes. With each passing moment, the answer to its invitation grew louder within me.

“I can’t be gone for long…” I tried one final excuse.

“Time runs differently down here. You’ll find almost no time passing during your visit.”

“Well, then I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Excellent, all you need to do is come closer.”

Slowly I lowered myself towards the grating, peering deeper into the drain, seeing nothing but the static murk of pitch black.

“Closer, come face to face with grate,” It said.

I hesitated for a moment, weighing my options. I figured that if anything tried reaching through I’d be fast enough to get up and run. And even if it did catch me, I was in broad daylight, and a neighbor's house was directly in front of me should anything go awry. So I got down on all floors, wincing as rain soaked into the knees of my jeans, and peered as closely into the darkness as I physically could. Panic shot through me as the sensation of falling came over me, I tried to stand but it felt as if I was disconnected from my body, and I was only a head plummeting into the void. Like those dreams of falling and falling into an abyss, a sea of nothing. And then there was light.

I had never seen a supernova, no human alive had ever seen one in the midst of its desolation. The intensity of the final flicker of a star's life, all we have is the aftermath of its death throes. But here in this place, I saw it, saw what I could only describe as the birth of a universe. Darkness and then a spark, a connection made, synapses firing, conception, creation, brilliance. And in the fading afterglow, as the cosmic dust settles, all that exists and can exist takes form.

“What… was that?” I asked.

From somewhere still shrouded in dark, the Gutter God answered, voice now stronger than ever before, but exhaustion still pervaded every syllable.

“Your consciousness gives shape to all that exists down here. Though I created it, a new version of it is created within your mind to see. Don’t worry. The broad shape and form of this world is the same to you as it is to me, you just perceive some of the creations… relatively.”

“I don’t understand what is this?”

I looked around, still disembodied but somehow able to move, seemingly without limitation. It was a vision of space, but much more vibrant and whimsical. A cosmos of various celestial bodies scattered about. There was a massive bubblegum-colored gas cloud whose expanse must have been a hundred thousand light-years across. It was dwarfed by a strange neighboring planet. It had rings like Saturn but these rings encapsulated the entirety of the sphere. Spaced out radially in a clock-like formation, giving the impression that the world was imprisoned by a cage made of planetary rings.

Elsewhere there was what seemed like a solar system composed entirely of cubes. Cube planets with cube moons, all orbiting a cuboid star, the light shining off of it was strange, contorted in ways my mind couldn’t begin to unravel. I cast my look away and saw a tear in a portion of space itself, a claw mark raked across a spattering of galaxy clusters and quasars. Within this wound lay a void, darker than black, and I couldn’t help but have my gaze drawn into it. I strained my vision, wondering if the shifting masses within were real or conjured by my mind. As I approached the certainty that something stirred within, the Gutter God’s voice spoke once more, booming and yet frail.

“No, not there, never there.”

I shifted around and saw nothing but the strange cosmic realm he had drawn me into. An unease still lingered, at what could elicit such fear from a God.

“Where are you?”

“I’m too weak to manifest a form now, and cannot interact with anything here, I’m just as powerless as you, and am condemned to mere observations of my creation.”

“So you made all this?”

“Of course. When I crawled into that dark recess, I had nothing but time, so I made something… something to pass the time, or maybe something to ease the pain. But enough of me, here look.”

The world in the gutter shifted as we shot through it at such dizzying speeds that stars became streaks of light. And then there was stillness as I now gazed upon a planetoid floating in empty space, a third of it was consumed by the trunk of a tree that reached far into the atmosphere.

My perspective shifted once more and I saw my field of vision closing in on the strange planet, crossing through a thick layer of violet and blue clouds into the landscape below. From a bird's eye view, I gazed upon a gathering of strange chubby creatures within a sea of fuzzy pink grass. These beings seemed to be stubby-limbed bone-white puffballs. There was no distinction between the torso and head, just a rounded mass with black beady eyes. A horizontal mouth lined with rounded triangular teeth split its face in half. In between their eyes, a horn sprouted, with the gnarled, curled patterning seen in popular depictions of unicorns. The creatures reminded me of a child’s interpretation of what a fictional animal might look like, but they stood there. Vocalizing and puttering about, physical and real. At least by the metrics that governed this place.

“These are my first attempts at creating life. I didn’t do a good job. All sorts of structural maladies plague them. They strip the bark from the tree but it provides them no sustenance, eventually, they’ll strip it to its core and it’ll collapse taking the whole planet with it and all these creatures will fall into the void of space. Since I didn’t imbue them with the concept of death they’ll be left to drift endlessly until the end of time itself.”

I felt something then more existential than I had ever known. A God abandoning his creations, not out of spite, or anger, but despair. Anguish at his own failures. “Why can’t he just fix them? Or make the tree grow faster than they can eat it?” Before I could voice my thoughts he spoke.

“There’s more to see, let’s not ponder on my first creations. I was nascent then, we must move ever forward.”

The planet and its strange inhabitants fell away from us, shrinking to a distant speck and then to nothing as we moved through this bizarre world. The cosmos darkened to a starless inky murk, unbroken for several minutes until a blinding beam of deep violet light cleaved through the shadowed veil. Tracing it to its source settled my gaze upon a vantablack sphere. A quasar. A thin magenta outline was the only thing that defined it against the stark black.

Staring at the massive celestial body an image forced itself to the surface of my consciousness. It flashed over the quasar, superimposed for a moment, and was gone. A massive orb of flesh, covered with countless gnashing mouths lined with massive serrated dagger-like teeth. Occasionally a tongue could be seen drooping out of one of the mouths, hungry and drooling. Chains extending from somewhere beyond sight converged onto the beast, hooking deep into its flesh, anchoring it in place. An echo of its ravenous groan lingered as its visage faded back into the quasar. The God sensed my fear of the beast and assured me that the quasar was not our destination.

Instead, we were drawn to its edge, and there, hidden by the cosmic body, was a small planet. We plummeted through its atmosphere, gazing upon great scars gouging the landscape. A smattering of orange-red specks within these crevices glimmered like embers or stars.

When we finally came to rest it was within a great ravine. A murky sky swirled above, lit only by dim violet light, but here an inferno raged and threw light and shadows across the many rock faces. I watched as a procession of curious creatures circled the fire in a graceful, rapturous dance. In the flickering light their angularity hid much of their detail, save for the many spindly limbs. It was only until one cast itself into the fire that I made out its full form in the second before it was engulfed. Crystalline serpentine beings conjoined into a branch-like mass, its “flesh” was obsidian, made of countless glossy black shards.

A shrill cry arose from the being. I didn’t know if it was agony or the sound of its blood boiling and venting like steam. The others danced with increased fervor as they let out tinny ear-splitting vocalizations, an alien song. The being emerged from the flames, reborn anew. Now it was jagged shards of iridescence sculpted into the rudimentary form of a human. Opalescent light cast out on the ground before it, a living prism. Its hands rose to the purple sky with a cry. Its voice now is like that of a thousand shattering panes of glass, or a rain of diamonds. Something like a cheer resounded out through the chasm and the dance continued.

“I named them Cyrranids. It means nothing to my knowledge, it simply sounded right.”

He flew us to another ravine, one where the fire was but a smoldering wreckage. Light gleamed off countless fragments of dull dark crystals scattered about. They hummed, trembled, and inched ever closer towards the dying flame.

“They start as crystal shards that vibrate at the same frequency and use that to locate and move towards each other. Then they merge and form long chains. This is their juvenile state, these crystalline ouroboros then seek each other out to join together in their next stage of life. When the time is right and the embers spark into an inferno they feed themselves to the flame and fully mature.”

In an instant we were back at the pyre, watching the Cyrranids revel in their ritual.

“They have culture,” I said.

“In a sense, they can also grow and change…”

“But?”

“They cannot create and lack sentience. It is more like a process, but one that is inefficient, they have no purpose but to exist. I can hardly call them life. I wanted to make something beautiful. Something greater than I. The sin of my first creation plagued me so when I saw the fruit of my failure here, I tried giving them mercy.”

“That’s why you made the devouring beast.”

“Yes, but that too is flawed, it cannot scour them from existence, and neither can I.”

Something like anxiety came over me, deepening as the sky grew brighter with intense violet light. Looking up I saw the silhouette of the great devouring moon spread out across the horizon. A flash of white lightning split the sky and revealed a sky full of flesh and teeth. A great maw parted and revealed a chasm of gluttony, gaping and throaty. Immediately the creature's dance ceased but they did not flee. I understood then that the process had been interrupted but they did not recognize what halted it, nor did they have the instinct to survive.

“The beast!” I cried.

“We must go. This is not something to dwell on,” the God said.

“If the beast does not consume them what does it do to them?”

The earth shook with the beast's roar and the wind whipped into a vortex pulling dust towards the sky. Looking up I saw the beast's gullet within a gaping mouth and sucking in all below it. The dust cyclone crossed over the great inferno and sparked into a tower of raging flame, bridging the gap between heaven and earth and feeding the chained beast. The Cyrranids stood still as they could until the force of the vortex sent them spiraling into the tempest and launched up the ladder of flames and into the belly of the beast.

I screamed at the God to do something but he pulled us away and into the atmosphere once more, past the veiled planet, and that unholy quasar and back to space. I was solemn for several moments before the God spoke once more.

“The beast can only grind the Cyrranids back to their nascent form and spit them back out as a crystal rain, the cycle continues endlessly. I thought once to extinguish the fires that forge them into their adult forms. But that would leave them scattered and aimless. This way at least they have an endless menial cycle of existence.”

“Death and rebirth,” I said. A concept I had barely grasped this year.

“Let us move on,” he said and the world darkened to near pitch before a cyan tint swirled through and an ocean stood before us. Light reflected and refracted until gold shimmered on the tide and in the distance, swaddled in radiance, land.

In an instant, it was before us and a sea of emerald leaves and ruby landscapes eclipsed the blue. We moved through the air, at mach speeds, watching the landscape transition to a desert waste made of pale violet sand, then a murky green lake the size of a continent, and then cycle back to the lush greens and reds that started it all. I was about to ask the point of it all until I saw the mountains in the distance shift and clarify into something else; towers, temples, unnatural edifices formed with intent and sentiment. My previous apprehension was shattered by curiosity.

“You made these?”

“No, I made their makers.”

“Makers?”

“My greatest creation, and my greatest failure.”

How could it be both, I wondered but didn’t voice. The city was upon us now. A Babylon that had never fallen, never been shattered by the wrath of God. Towers, segmented and cuboid rose to greet us on high. And as we descended beneath their shadow I saw the architectural genius of their design. Patterns and masonry interwoven with support beams and arches. Perfect functionality but not at the sacrifice of beauty. Devotion was evident in every single detail of the structures here, represented as rays of light shining down on a cold and dark world. The colors had faded now but a phantom of their previous splendor flashed in my mind and I knew at once the adoration and desperation of their construction.

“They worshiped you,” I said.

“Naturally, observe.”

We were on the streets now. Smooth stone pathways that at one point must have been polished to brilliance were now dull and worn. Holes pockmarked the ground-level buildings and in the passing moments, they emerged. Ribbons made of something between flesh and fabric, long and flat swirls coalesced around a spherical base. The beings were orange-red with pinkish hues, and along the underside of their appendages ran a dark crimson line that split and formed a diamond pattern only to rejoin into a seam flowing to the red-tipped ends. Something like fingers, a dozen, adorned each tendril. The sphere that these limbs connected to had a triangular alignment of three beady eyes just above the center of its mass and in the direct center a larger eye, pale grey and pupilled. Tens of dozens moved about on their appendages, something between a walk and a slither. Their gait was languid and graceful, and none noticed our presence.

“They do not see us. They do not see me. Though I am everywhere and my essence is distilled into every facet of this reality, they do not notice. Once, they knew this, once they communed with me in any way they could. It is the reason these structures exist. But that was long ago and now only a few send their words my way. So I faded from their lives, and I am only an intangible now.” The God said with a leaking sorrow.

“It’ll appear here now. The abyssal gate. As I’ve told you before, do not look into the threshold beyond this reality, but observe what emerges carefully,” He continued.

And so I watched the sky darken as a shadow passed over the firmament of this world. The beings stopped in their tracks and though their forms were alien, the emotion that stilled them was not. Fear.

A keening rose from somewhere, a wildly pitching fragmented whistle, and the mad scramble began. The beings panicked and rushed towards their dens. Some staggered and stumbled and some were trampled or tripped. Black dots began to stain a space above a plaza and the screams rose to a crescendo. The space burst open, like the puncturing of an amniotic sac. Tears in reality raked by some unforeseen hand operating in the beyond. I could only avert my gaze.

I looked downward, at the space directly beneath. The first wave brought something feral and quadrupedal. Its form was blurred and vaguely amorphous as if a living ink stain in perpetual motion. The first casualty was an unfortunate creature that had fallen in a nearby alleyway. The thing from the abyss was upon it in the blink of an eye, folding the space between them away in an instant, no it devoured what existed between it and its prey.

I reeled in panic watching the strider being torn asunder by the abyssal hound. A rain of black-green blood peppered the ground and its scent was sweet and sickly.

Why would a creature that could scrape away space itself stop to maul one lone strider? And then it dawned on me, sadism. I stepped back, ready to run when it spoke again.

“They cannot see you. They cannot harm you.”

“What-“

“Just watch, this is important.”

A dozen more abyssal hounds emerged from the tear and in an instant, the city had been gouged out into near nothing. The monolithic towers were torn asunder and fell in heaps of rubble before me and I instinctively tried to flinch away. But with no physical body and no eyes, I was forced to watch as an entire section of earth blinked out of existence, and within the craters, the striders screamed and tried to scramble to safety.

A sound, high, shrill, and piercing, rose. The unmistakable shriek of a child. A cove of infant striders scattered and squealed but the hounds were upon them. One was caught between the maws of two abyssal dogs who pulled at it in opposite directions until it ruptured with a roar of agony and its blood flooded the earth.

“Enough,” I said

“Not yet,” was the reply, and with it an ascent, raised to the sky so we could witness the carnage on a larger scale.

“It is not over yet, bear witness to absolution.”

From my vantage, I saw the expanse of the ravaged city, though its center lay in ruins the rest of it expanded out laterally for what seemed like an eternity. But the further we rose the perimeter of its end neared and the tear into the abyss shrunk until it was a mere pinprick of black. One moment there and the next splitting open and vomiting black veins across the horizon. Like bolts of lightning or a window shattering it spread across land and sky. Latching onto buildings and the air itself until I was looking at a black web all originating from the abyssal tear.

In a heartbeat, all that existed within the sphere of black veins collapsed. Matter was torn apart, sundered, and disintegrated into nothing. Space shrank towards the nexus and time itself ceased to have meaning. All unraveled and reformed into a point so infinitesimal it could hardly be said to exist until that too ceased to be. In the wake of the desolation nothing was left except for a continent-sized creator and quickly fading black vapor.

“Wha-“ I started to ask.

“I called them the priori, I wanted them to be my legacy, it took 7 iterations before I was satisfied.”

“And before them? How many living things did you create?”

“Hundreds? Thousands? Too innumerable for me to recall.”

I reeled, how many had been abandoned to the cold cosmos, or worse.

“I don’t understand this, or them, or why you would abandon them.”

A long moment passed before he spoke once more and when he did it was with a blossoming of a new location, the desolate crater fading and a fertile crescent of strange plants and valleys like scars took its place. From the strata, curious shapes arose.

“I wanted them to be functional, perfect, graceful. I wanted them to be better than me. So I made their biology as efficient as I could conceptualize, I had an intimate knowledge of biology once. But I failed to account for one harsh truth, a creator can not make something that transcends himself, instead, he must transcend through his creation.”

The forms collapsed to dust, then faded to nothing.

“What was that?” I asked

“A desperate grasp at a new genesis, but I am old and tired.”

“You can’t create anymore?”

“I can create fragments of things. But It's been ages since I’ve seen anything through to completion. Once it was so easy to dream up an entire world from nothing, spend eons on the details, and bring it into existence. I loved to dream once, wander in the endless possibilities. Now I can only dream a figment of a whole form, the drive and ability seem to have fled from me a long time ago. Totality evades me.”

“Then… this place is dying.”

“No. it’s stagnant. A world of relics. When the time comes it will be my crypt. What happens to my creations I cannot say, likely they’ll fade with me. But with you maybe… For now, it lives in a state of limbo”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“So someone can bear witness to all that I am. There’s one more thing I must show you. Come.”

The planet we stood on gradually faded away in a translucent haze until we were adrift in space once more. Again we rocketed through the cosmos, a quiet tension trailing close behind. The marvelous wonder of his cosmos now shaded with the revelation of the underlying rot of his indifference. That and his unwillingness to be active in its maintenance. A lump formed in my chest as we crossed the expanse of a familiar pink cloud. I averted my gaze the second we came to a halt once I realized where the Gutter God had brought us. The Rift I had been warned to never let my gaze wander towards.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could bury this sin. But if you are to be the observer you must see all I have made. Even this. Stay close, the horrors you will witness will be unrelenting.” He said.

The rift was before us now, drawing us into its murky swirling depths. Panic rose as we crossed its threshold but with nowhere or way to run, I could only endure.

Dark mist was all I saw at first. It was thick and shimmering, shifting as we progressed through it. The miasma only parted when we reached the first marker of our journey through the abyss. An island floating in the void, inhabited by a single dead tree. Flesh was stretched across its trunk, human flesh. Faces pocked every inch of its surface, stitched together in a horrid amalgam of agony. Their mouths wrenched open in an eternal scream, their eyes long gouged out leaving black pits that too shrieked their suffering.

The Gutter God knew what my reaction was before I could give it voice and he spoke. “Not yet, this is only the beginning. Steel yourself, it will only get worse from here on out.”

We moved past the tree, its abrupt silence causing a deep unease to creep over me. “Why did it stop screaming?”

The floor transitioned from the tar-black pitch of the abyss to an angry fleshy beige. If I had the physicality to scream I would have, if I could run, if I could cry, if only I could close my eyes… The stitched faces now stretched out like a rug of skin, an ocean of pain. It was a pattern, repeating infinitely. The depths of their mouths and eyes felt darker than anything I had ever experienced, descending endlessly as they drank light itself. But the horror was just beginning, I realized this as they twitched alive and their maws gaped even louder with the deafening roar of a billion cries. The mass of flesh vibrated and shifted with chaos, it was like a surging crowd in hell and instantly I knew what this place was. Before I could ask why the God forced us through, passing through the pandemonium for what seemed like hours. It never got better, I never acclimated to the screaming sea, and my only grounding force was the momentary shock that would set it at irregular intervals.

The scene was broken by another escalation in the profane. So far the carpet of flesh had only been confined to the floor of this place. But now archways and architecture piled high on top of itself. Intricate pillars supported bridges and walkways, castles and towers rising high into the blood-hued sky and all of it was made of screaming, thrashing, human-faced flesh. Passing through an overpass I saw misery was woven into every facet, every angle, every corner. No salvation, no mercy, no hope. Still, there was more to see, weaving through structures of biblical proportions the dread only deepened until I broke.

“Stop, please. Why are you showing me this? How could you-”

“No, not yet. We must see this through. You must bear witness to the apex. We’re almost there.”

I wanted to argue back with some reason to turn around, to rebel, or just lash out in anger. But the will to resist dissipated the moment it was born, replaced with morbid, horrid curiosity. Solemnly I accepted my fate as we left behind the city of screams and entered a massive spherical chamber. The faces were now laid in a grid pattern and a new detail was added to the design. A spire rose from every intersection of the pattern and thinned to a sharp point. The room expanded outward, growing to gargantuan proportions and I saw the true purpose of this place. Atop the spires they writhed. Lifeforms of all shapes and sizes squirmed against their impalement. I saw what looked like an infant cyclops with antlers grasp at the air and shriek. Hundreds of Priori flailed their ribbon-like appendages and were about to let loose their keening. Bleeding blue spheres hummed and vibrated the torture they endured. Countless others, too varied to recall with accurate detail all were here in this hell.

I hadn’t seen it at first, maybe it was hidden by the sensory overload of this hell. Maybe it didn’t manifest until now, but the chained pyre burned with hateful incandescence. A miniature sun levitated at the center, grouting white-hot flames. Chains attached and melded to its corona and held it in place, they themselves anchored to the flesh of the floor by hooks, digging painfully and drawing blood. From the screaming gaping mouths surrounding the star strange beings flooded out. They were ghast-like, flowing ragged forms without features, like billowing, torn sheets. They flowed towards the sun and fed themselves to the flame, letting it grow in intensity. All while the damned of this world charred but did not die in its unyielding heat. Hell. This was the greatest of hells. I needed to look away, I needed to escape this place, return to my world. If I could shed tears then I would have been bawling my eyes out at the sheer immensity of this cruelty. And it was not over.

A pinprick of black manifested at the center of the star. It grew to a black ink stain consuming a third of the star's surface, spreading out radially. Lines of white split the surface of the black stain and I realized what it was, an egg. It shattered with an uproarious fury and the things within spilled out in a mass of dark shapes. They quickly oriented themselves, let out a snarling howl at the base of the star, showing their devotion, and sprinted out of the chamber. I had witnessed the birth of the abyssal hounds and knew they’d go out and hunt for new flesh to add drag to this hell, they did not truly consume the reality beyond this realm. They abducted it. Hell was made of the discarded refuse of a God.

A stirring began within the room, the impaled crying out all at once and letting their tone shift towards a hysterical pleading. Those who had arms to raise flung them to the open air, grasping at something they could not see but knew was there.

“They sense us?” I asked.

“They sense me. This is the first time I’ve been here in eons, and they reach out for me.”

“Why don’t you answer? Why do you condemn them to this hell?”

“It is as you’ve surmised. This is hell, or more precisely, I call this Tehom. And this process is the scouring. It is my attempt to wipe away what I’ve made, to clean myself of my mistakes. But what has been dreamt cannot be undreamed. There is no respite for them for they cannot be unmade. Once I walked among them, but when my creation grew beyond manageable scale much of it was left forgotten and so they forgot me in return. That could be forgiven, I was to blame. But then the ones that resented my touch grew and declared the world for themselves, claiming that I could not exist. Should not exist. I cannot even manifest a physical form myself, I cannot save them. And they cannot save themselves, this is the vision of the world they wanted. I merely used my meager power left to deliver them that vision. Now we can only look and despair. ”

“So you made this Hell, and you tell me you can’t do anything to save them?”

“It grew out of the wound that was delivered upon me by them. Festering like an infection it spread out, defiling this space and asserting itself as an autonomous domain onto itself. A nightmare manifesting from my resentment towards my creations. The only part I had a hand in actively making is this room, this process, these hounds, they are called Pleroma. Instilled with my will and the totality of my remaining power they seek to devour the whole of creation. Now I know it’s a fruitless effort, even here, creation persists.”

“I don’t understand how you could dream of something so evil.”

“Because I wanted to give them perspective. For when all I had made had been bested and conquered by them they fell into indulgence and lost the perceptive that fueled their wills. So then they grew petty and vindictive and turned what should have been an epoch of peace into another valley of tragedy in the timeline of their existence. So I gave them horrors, endless horrors so that they might stand in solidarity once more. They did, for an infinitesimal period before they fell back into their vices, the arrogance from the previous era now a core element of their being, and all they knew was how to splinter themselves into smaller and smaller groups bound by flimsy ideals. They knew nothing but contempt for those who fell outside their spheres of influence. This was the culmination of the Priori’s existence. I cannot blame them entirely, however, for they were born from me and what I knew. I cursed them with free will. This is the creator's greatest folly. The only thing I’ve made that is greater than myself is this dream of hell.”

“Transcendence,” I said, almost whispering.

“Tehom and the Pleroma were the only things transcending my limitations. Birthing out and growing beyond my control, I could only guide the vision of their form and purpose. That they were born from despair is the only shame I hold for them, but now, I think something has changed, because of you.”

“What are you?”

“I was just a man like you once. I didn’t have much time to live, I was being ravaged by a malady that decays the very sense of self we hold dear. I felt everything slipping away from me and my grasp was growing weaker by the day. So I slinked away to this isolated recess and wrapped myself in shadow, wishing to fade painlessly into nothing. Then I dreamt this endless dream and bore my first creations. Dreams are strange things, time warps around itself, slowing and sometimes running parallel to itself. But it still flows ever forward, nothing can stop that. Here unfathomable eons have passed but in your waking world, a few years at most. Come I must show you one last thing, my final creation.”

The scouring star dimmed and darkened, its surface once more staining with that inky dark that preceded the birth of a new horror. But this time the egg grew beyond the boundaries of the star itself, expanding out towards the edges of the room. The damned creations quieted for the first time this began as they too watched Genesis. Larger and larger it grew until it consumed the very room itself and plunged us into the true darkness of the void. An eon passed before a pinprick of light stood against the dark and in an instant, light. A supernova exploded and blinded us, radiant waves flowing out from this divine coalescence, overshadowing Tehom itself. Vision returned as the brilliance dimmed and revealed a new realm. A crater left in the whole of the God in the Gutter’s creation.

A sun rose here, brilliant but obscured by shadows, staining the world in the dying pink light of an eternal sunset. A shallow ocean like a mirror reflected the brilliance of the sky above. Geometric structures made of solidified light were scattered about, casting prismatic shadows. It was without life, for now. Without asking the God knew my curiosities and answered.

“Elysium. A place where they can dream. And hopefully, with time, a place where they might create worlds of their own. This is the last creation I can bestow upon them. Even the damned can dream of heaven. The paths they walk now are their own, where it takes them is their choice alone.”

“Your final creation?” I asked.

“Yes, I can dream no more. My end approaches, and with it the end of this very dream itself. When I am gone for a while longer the final vestiges of my being will anchor this place to existence. But that too will fade. So I cast it all to darkness, leaving all I have created to fend for itself within the maws of solitude. But I hope that from time to time, you can dream my dream and give all inhabitants a bit of your light, a moment of respite, something to cling to. Within you, I saw wonder and awe once more and I’ve come to realize that a creation does not belong to its maker alone. It is those who gaze upon our great work that allows it to grow beyond itself, new angles and paths born from a new observer. With time they too might let it color their dreams and the great work lives in the fragments of those dreams.”

“A creator can only transcend through their work. You are a God in my eyes, great and terrible. Brilliant and monstrous. You’re more than just a dying old man, you are a totality of an existence. Thank you, for sharing this dream of yours with me.”

“So you see now, young one? My dream dies with you. I cannot set things right, but I can give them a chance, for someone else to come along and dream something greater than I could have ever imagined. Maybe that was my purpose all along. Goodbye, young dreamer. I’m glad you bore witness to my creation.”

I was spat back out to empty space, left adrift in this cosmos, no longer able to feel the presence of the God in the Gutter. But in my mind, I saw the silhouette of a feeble, hunched man. Years of suffering left him atrophied and exhausted. Rest was all he deserved now, and I wished it would be granted to him.

I let an unseen current guide me away from the abyssal tear. It looked smaller now. As if the claws that had raked it open had been retroactively imbued with restraint or fading resentment. It didn’t matter now. Unease faded as I drifted through now familiar astral bodies and nebulous clouds. Whimsical, beautiful things I had taken for granted at first, things beyond imaging. I longed to cling to them but knew that was impossible. So I swore I’d never forget the cuboid planets, the brilliant glassy stars, the curious creatures reaching out to a fading creator.

When I washed ashore and woke from this vision I found myself back at the sewer gate, still peering in. I lunged a hand into its depths, calling out “Hey!” but my hand met no one and nothing answered back. I trudged home that day, confused but certain I had seen something beyond this world. But as the years crawled by, that image dimmed and faded like neglected polaroids. The thought crept in that it was nothing but a fantastical but ultimately fabricated, child's dream.

That was until a few days ago when I dreamt of it again. It has faded in the last decade and a half, and the Tehom has grown to a gaping maw, eating away at the world of the Gutter God. But I also saw Elysium, inhabited by ruins. Ancient, fading but awing in their complexity and vision. A garden path made of solidified gold light weaved through temples imbued with the same reverence the Pirori once held for their maker. At the base of a monolithic altar, a half dozen of these ancient beings worshiped. This place still had dreamers. So I share this with you, in hopes that you too might dream this dream so that it might never die out.

I woke up, not remembering where I was or how I got there. But I did remember that I had drinks hours earlier. Really, really heavy drinks. So, it wasn’t uncommon for me to wake up hours later, not remembering where I was or how I got there, accompanied by a severe headache.

But this place was so damn weird.

I mean, I had countless experiences of being drunk and waking up in random places, but never a place like this. The room was quite small, about 2 x 2 meters, with all four walls painted gray, like concrete—or maybe they actually were concrete—and the ceiling was really low.

2 meters high for a ceiling? In a room made of concrete? No wonder it was so goddamn hot in there.

When I finally managed to deal with my headache and tried to get up, using my hands to push off the wall—damn! It was so hot! I was drenched in sweat and really needed cold water!

My sight was still a bit blurry, but I could see a hole, an open door, in one of the walls. As I walked toward the door, I knocked slightly on the wall, and the sound confirmed it was really made of solid concrete instead of bricks.

Who the hell made such a small room out of solid concrete? I mean, as stupid as I might be, I know how expensive that would be.

Then, there were more important questions I needed to answer: where was I, how did I get here, and how could I get out?

Right behind that room’s door was an alley. A corridor. As my sight became clearer, I could see the corridor stretched as far as my eyes could see. I could see a glimpse of a human figure standing about 100 meters from the room I had just exited.

I’ve never been trapped in a desert, but from what I saw in movies, everything seemed shadowy, wavy, and blurry due to the heat. That was exactly what I saw as I walked in that corridor, only 2 meters wide, 2 meters high, with concrete walls.

As I got closer to the shadowy figure, I could see clearly it wasn’t just one or two people. It was a line of humans, resting their backs on the walls on each side.

Far more surprising was that all the people I saw were women. Each one looked pretty, gorgeous, and had stunning bodies, wearing only bikinis.

As a normal guy, I'd normally be turned on seeing girls with stunning bodies, wearing only bikinis, right before my eyes. But not that day. I didn’t even remember what day it was to begin with. The extreme heat inside that place seriously disturbed me; I couldn’t even think clearly anymore.

“Water…,” I murmured faintly to one of the girls who stood on the right side of the wall, in front of the door closest to where I was.

“Sorry, mate, no water here,” the blonde girl replied, smiling calmly while staring back at me.

“But if you’re looking for flames, we’ve got plenty here,” another girl, a redhead, who stood across from the first one, said while laughing.

“You’re new here, I see?” the blonde girl asked me. Her question sounded like I was going to stay in that place, like in an apartment or something. I was just about to reply that I wasn’t staying there, but she quickly spoke again.

“Enjoy your stay.”

“I’m not staying!” I said loudly, upset.

“How do I get out of here?” I asked those girls again, staring swiftly between each of them, hoping for an answer.

“You don’t,” the redhead girl answered, still with a gorgeous smile on her face.

At that moment, I realized something really, really strange. I mentioned earlier that the place was so hot it felt like a desert in broad daylight. I was drenched in sweat, but not those girls. Every girl I saw lining the corridor didn’t even break a sweat. Not a bit. They didn’t seem to feel the heat of the place.

I continued walking past them, trying to approach another girl in the corridor, hoping one of them might give me a hint to a way out. That was when I heard the redhead speak again, half yelling.

“Enjoy your stay. The process will be over soon enough.”

“Process? What process?” I thought to myself. I stopped and slightly looked back at them over my shoulder. I was about to confront them, but I was too tired and exhausted. I really needed to get out of there immediately. So, I resumed my walk.

While walking forward, I was thinking. The place was a long corridor with doors lining each side, and gorgeous girls wearing only bikinis stood in front of each door. Was this place a brothel?

How did I end up stranded in a brothel?

“Hey, new guy,” another blonde girl with short hair, who stood in front of one of the doors ahead, greeted me.

“Welcome aboard,” she said again, with a soft voice and also a gorgeous smile on her face.

“How do I get out of here?” I asked her.

“You don’t, sadly,” she replied.

Same answer? I don’t? Okay. That was it. It started to irritate me. Theoretically, if there was a way in, there should be a way out. Just when I was about to confront her and force her to tell me the way out, she asked something back.

“It’s extremely hot here, yeah?”

I found it odd because she, as well as the other girls lining the corridor, didn’t seem to be suffering from the heat I felt.

“How can you tell? You don’t seem to feel it,” I told her, irritated, upset, and exhausted.

“I was once in your shoes too,” she said, “but after the process was done, I never felt the heat anymore.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. I promise,” she explained, with a smile on her face. Her smile was stunning, but I felt an eerie feeling from it. Something strange. It was as if she was trapped in that place because of a mistake she made herself, and she had to live with it. Because it was her only choice.

“Where are the other guys?” I asked her again.

“The guys?” she parroted.

“Yeah. The guys. You said you were once in my position too, so I assumed, so were all the other girls here,” I explained. “But I suppose there were also other guys here, right? I mean, other than me.”

“Oh,” she muttered, “yeah. The guys like you.”

“Yeah, where are they? Why do I only see girls here?”

“Well, there were guys like you,” she answered, “but they aren’t here anymore.”

After she finished her sentence, she suddenly stopped. And she looked like she was thinking and was about to correct something in her words.

“Well, technically speaking, they are still here… but not here… well… I don’t know how to put it,” she explained. She tilted her head a bit and giggled as she said it. Okay, that was it. That girl was cute and gorgeous, but she was stupid as hell. My patience started to run out, and I was about to grab her and beat her up. Force her to tell me a crystal clear answer to every question I asked.

I didn’t care anymore about being tired and exhausted. I needed to get out of that place right away, and I’d do anything for that!

When I was about to grab her, I heard a scream from the other side of the corridor.

When I turned back, I just realized it. Just like the first row of girls I walked by earlier, this row also had two doors, across from each other. The girl with short blonde hair stood in front of the doors on one side. But I didn’t see any other girl standing in front of the other door across from the blonde girl’s door.

But that scream I just heard was coming from inside that door that wasn’t guarded by any girl. I walked toward the door and peeked inside. The door was open. Inside, I saw a slightly transparent curtain covering something that looked like a bed. The curtain was only slightly transparent, so I couldn’t see the people inside clearly, just their silhouettes.

On the bed, inside the transparent curtain, I saw the silhouettes of two people having sex. The one on top seemed to be a guy, as he was huge and bulky.

What horrified me was the screaming that came from the girl on the bottom. Well, I couldn’t see them clearly, but it was clear the scream was a girl’s voice.

From their movements, it was clear they were having sex, so I was right in assuming this place was some sort of brothel. But the scream I heard from the girl wasn’t a scream of pleasure. It was a scream of pain. A lot of pain.

I couldn’t describe how horrifying the scream sounded. The only thing I could imagine causing such a horrifyingly painful scream was if the guy put a burning pipe inside the girl’s genitals and pushed it in and pulled it out. Over and over.

How horrifying was that scream? That horrifying.

But that doesn’t seem to be the situation. The guy’s movements, from where I stood, were clearly the movements of someone having sex. So, how did the girl make such an unbearably horrifying scream?

“What the hell is that?” I yelled at the girl with short blonde hair who stood across from that room.

“Don’t mind it,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What the fuck? Get used to what? That’s insane!” I yelled at her again.

"You heard that scream? That's horrifying! I could barely stand hearing it! That girl could probably die from whatever that guy is doing to her!"

The blonde girl chuckled.

"So you care about a girl now?" she asked, her smile seeming eerier than before.

"Why wouldn't I?" I snapped.

"You are here for a reason," the blonde girl told me, then raised her hand and pointed her forefinger at the room across from hers, "that reason."

Suddenly, I remembered something. I understood the blonde girl's reference.

But that didn't answer the basic questions: where was I, and how did I get here?

Out of horror and confusion, I turned my back to the corridor and ran. Fast. As I ran past the rooms, I saw some were guarded by different girls, all gorgeous and stunning. All of them were wearing only bikinis.

Other rooms that weren't guarded were exactly like the room I saw earlier. There were beds inside, covered by slightly transparent curtains, with silhouettes of a couple having sex inside. And the screams. I heard the exact same horrifyingly painful screams from the girls who were having sex in those rooms.

I took a quick peek into the unguarded rooms as I ran past them. In one room, I saw the silhouette of a guy having sex with a girl who was guarding the room. It was probably just a hallucination, but it looked like one of the guys had horns on his head.

That was not the end of the horror for me.

As I ran past the girls guarding each room, they told me approximately the same things that the other girls had said to me earlier.

"You new here?"

"Welcome aboard."

"Enjoy your stay."

"You'll get used to it."

And the last thing I couldn't get out of my mind was this: "The process will be over soon enough."

Process? What process? Where was I? How did I get here?

As I ran through the seemingly endless corridor, which was getting hotter with each step, I started to feel weird. My head felt dizzy. I felt like I was about to throw up. I was still sweating, but my body felt cold. I could barely breathe.

I immediately fell to my knees, and my sight started fading out. Two girls who were standing not far in front of me just stood and stared. Not doing anything. One girl said, "Hey, the process is nearly over," while the other girl added, "Welcome aboard. Welcome."

Right after that, everything went black. I passed out.

I didn't remember how long I had been unconscious. When I woke up, I felt like I was lying on something plushy. I no longer felt the heat. Not at all. I looked around and tried to rub my surroundings. I thought I was lying on a bed.

When my eyes finally focused, I found myself lying on a bed, covered by a slightly transparent curtain. I tried to get up and sit. And when I finally managed to sit up, the horror resumed.

I looked down and saw that I had breasts. And I was wearing a bikini.

"What the hell?!" I shouted frantically.

I stared at my arms, legs, and body. They looked slim, clean, smooth, and girly. Almost like they belonged to one of the girls I saw in the corridor earlier.

In panic, I rubbed all over my body and my face. My hair was longer than it should be. Then I remembered something. I immediately pulled down the bikini bottoms and was horrified to see that my penis was gone. It wasn't just gone; my male genitalia was replaced by female genitalia. A vagina.

I freaked out. I tried to get off the bed in panic. As I turned around, there was a mirror hanging on the wall above the bed. I stared at the face in the mirror. My face. It should have been my face. But it wasn't.

I knew I was the one staring into the mirror, but the face reflected there wasn't mine. It wasn't even a male face. The face I saw in the mirror was a woman's face. The face looked like me in structure, hair color, and birthmark. But it was a woman's face. A gorgeous woman's face.

Just when I was stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened to me, I heard the sound of the curtain being pulled aside. I immediately turned around.

I was shocked to see a man standing there. He was huge and bulky. And he was red all over from head to toe. And, to add to the horror, he also had horns on each side of his head.

"Welcome aboard, new guy... Errr...," he quickly revised his words, sarcasm in his tone, "...girl."

I was shocked and stunned. I didn't know what to do or how to react. So I just sat there on the bed, frozen.

"So, here's the thing," the man started his explanation, "I'm a demon. And you're now in hell."

"Like I said, welcome aboard," his devilish laugh echoed throughout the room.

"Long story short, you're dead," the demon said.

"You know better than me that you've been raping countless women while you were alive. And if you're at least a bit religious, which I believe you're not," he explained as he laughed again, "you'd know that it was considered a sin, a huge one, and that there would be a punishment for those acts."

"This place is the fifth level of hell, zone C, to be exact. A place for hardcore rapists like you, who rape for a living. Something like that."

"The punishment for rapists here is that you, just like those 'girls' out there lining the corridor, will be transformed into a gorgeous woman. Your kind of type. So, we hope you like how you transformed."

When the demon said that sentence, I remembered one of the things those girls said to me: "The process will be over soon enough."

"And your job here. I mean, the punishment," the demon continued, "is to sexually serve all the demons who work in hell."

"You probably didn't know, but we demons work here in hell. Like you do in an office. And we need to refresh from our duty too, from time to time. So there is this brothell."

The demon stopped, staring deeply at me as he continued, "you know, BROTHELL, with double L, so there's HELL in it. BRO."

The demon laughed again. His devilish laugh was getting a lot creepier than before.

"If you refuse to serve these demons," the demon said again, with an emphasis on the word "refuse," "you will be raped by them."

"Of course, you wouldn't mind, right? Since you did the same thing to countless innocent girls while you were alive."

Just when the demon finished his words, the curtain suddenly pulled aside wider from the other side of where the demon stood. Right there and then, I saw another guy standing there. Another demon. He was huge, bulky, red all over from head to toe, and had horns on each side of his head.

"Now, this," the first demon continued, "is your first customer."

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

I turned my head to the other demon who had just come in. I stared at him, below his stomach, at his crotch. There was a gigantic penis attached there.

And then I remembered why the girls who served them were screaming like that. It was exactly what I thought it was.

That second demon's penis wasn't just gigantic.

It was flaming.

Delve into the city’s eerie past with a guided tour of its most historic—and haunted!—locations. Real history. Real ghosts. Real scary.

The ad for the candlelight ghost tour was accompanied by a host of five-star reviews. I went out of curiosity. It was hokey, hoax-y, but not bad entertainment for an evening. Our guide arrived with a small battery-operated candle, not a real one. They were nerdy, nervous, and intensely knowledgeable about local history. Anytime someone on the tour asked about this old Victorian building or that old fountain or anything else in the historic district of our tour, the guide’s eyes would roll back like a computer loading screen and then out of their mouth would pop an answer. Like a human Wikipedia.

Still, it was entertaining. Especially the talk of murders in some of the stately mansions. I suppose every street has some history of crime. But usually you don’t have a tour guide narrating which rich person was pushed out of which window.

By the time we got to the park, though, my patience was wearing thin. It was a cold winter night, the snow slushy under our shoes, all of us shivering in our coats, hands and feet freezing.

What we really came to see, our guide informed us, was inside the park, just past the fountain that was currently closed for the weather. At the other side was an alcove where the park wall curved, and built along it was a stone bench. Above the bench, carved into the wall, was a relief sculpture of dancing figures. The guide’s flashlight beamed across the figures, tortured human shapes in strange poses.

“This park was founded over a hundred years ago," said the guide. "Originally, the sculpture was supposed to represent people enjoying themselves in the park. But as you can see, the figures are strangely contorted…”

By this point I was shivering so hard that I’d had about enough of the ghostly nonsense. I stopped listening to the guide and instead studied the relief sculpture with its six tortured figures. The last figure appeared to be sitting, pulling away from one of the dancers whose hand gripped their shoulder. The sitting figure had arms folded and appeared affronted at the dance. On impulse, to alleviate boredom and get my blood pumping, I jumped past our guide and into the alcove, sat on the bench by the relief sculpture, and mimicked the pose of the sitting figure, arms crossed, glaring at the dancers as if taken aback by their nonsense.

The crowd of tour goers laughed.

The guide blinked at me, goggle-eyed. “Oh,” they said. “Oh. I never go in the alcove.”

Some of the other tour goers had taken out their phones to snap pictures of me, so I held my pose, still miming the sitting figure. Our guide, meanwhile, prattled on about how sometimes people in the park feel the temperature drop, or find themselves shivering or their breath freezing.

My breath was freezing. Duh, it’s winter. It’d been freezing for awhile—

—someone’s hand gripped my shoulder, and I shot up off the bench.

I figured one of the other tour goers was pranking me, sneaking behind me while the guide babbled.

But it was just the wall behind me.

I skittered back out to the crowd where they all laughed, assuming I faked my startlement for effect. I was so surprised I didn't even try to make excuses for myself, just blurted out, “I felt a hand just now. On my shoulder.”

Some ooohs and aaaahs from the crowd. The tour guide pushed up their glasses and suggested we all check our phone pictures. All the pictures of me looked normal. I didn’t see any hand in any of them, though one person said they were sure they saw a shadow behind me (“Yeah, that’s my shadow,” I told them). I had them send me the picture anyway as a souvenir, and decided that I must've imagined the hand.

After another forty minutes trudging around in the cold past churches and cemeteries, hearing lectures on history and ghosts, the tour was over. I was frozen to the bone, and glad to go home.

But when I got home, after I shed my thick coat and boots and hurried into the hot shower to warm my frozen flesh, just as I was getting out, I felt it—the brush of fingers on my bare shoulder.

I actually screamed and jumped out of the shower.

There was nobody. Nothing. It felt so real though.

And for the next few days after, periodically, I’d notice it. A weight on my shoulder, as of a hand. Over the days it grew heavier, as if wanting me to notice it was there. And sometimes, when I’d forget about the grip, I’d be reminded when the fingers would squeeze.

When I found bruises one morning, after I woke screaming from a nightmare and felt the fingers gripping agonizingly hard, I finally went to the doctor. They said it looked like someone had definitely grabbed me, not a spirit but an actual person’s hand clenching. They asked if I’d been in a fight or if I felt safe at home. I didn’t know what to say.

Later, I went back to the park. I went and stared at the sculpture. At the sitting figure. I noticed again how the sitting figure seemed to be invited in—no, pulled in by the other dancers. How there was a hand on the sitting figure’s right shoulder, squeezing. That hand—that hand on the figure’s shoulder had to be what was on my shoulder. How could I make it let go?

When I turned to leave I stopped in my tracks. Because the invisible grip had tightened. It was so tight, almost like a vice. Tears sprang into my eyes from how much it hurt. “Leave me alone!” I shouted, wrenching free. I stumbled and fell out of the alcove to the pavement and snowy ground. A couple of passersby walking their dog looked over at me. I just scrambled up, embarrassed, and fled. As soon as I got out of the park the grip on my shoulder lightened, but then as I was at the corner, waiting to cross the street, something else happened. Something even more terrifying. A car was coming and I—

I felt it push me.

Next thing I knew, I was stumbling into the street, and the car slammed its brakes and screeched to a halt while the grip on my shoulder shoved me almost under its wheels. I finally broke loose, babbling apologies to the driver, and hurried home.

That’s when I called the tour guide. I left message after message on their voicemail. Finally they called me back.

“Help,” I sputtered. “I still feel it. The hand on my shoulder. I think it’s trying to kill me. What was the story behind that sculpture again? The dancing figures! Tell me!”

I hoped there might be some information that might free me. The tour guide was silent for some moments and I imagined their eyes rolling back as they sifted through their encyclopedic knowledge and brought up the entry on that relief sculpture.

“Oh yes,” they said. And explained the story again. How it was originally meant to represent parkgoers enjoying themselves. Nobody knows when, but at some point people began noticing that the dancing figures appeared contorted and agonized, and that the central figure looked especially demonic. Supposedly, the dancers are all people who went missing, and the central figure is a demonic spirit that haunts the park. He can be seen sometimes walking around the fountain, or in photographs behind those who are soon to disappear.

“But how do I make it let go?” I asked.

“Well to be honest I’ve never heard of anybody feeling its presence outside of the park,” said the guide. “And the figure didn’t show up in the photo with you. Just don’t go back to the park.”

“No—no! You don’t understand. I still feel it. It’s… it’s gripping my shoulder, right now.”

“Gripping your shoulder?” The guide sounded confused. More and more, I was beginning to feel like they didn’t ever get calls like this. Like maybe they, too, assumed it was all a hoax and didn’t buy into the things they told people. “What’s gripping your shoulder?”

“The hand! Just like in the sixth figure, the sitting one on the end—”

“Six?” The guide interrupted, and I could hear the encyclopedic riffling of their thoughts. “No. Five.”

“No, I was copying the pose of the sixth. The sitting one. It—”

“Five,” said the guide firmly. “Definitely five.”

“Listen, the one I was copying—”

“There are five, and they are all dancing. Do you remember my lecture from the park? I talked about the central figure. If there were six, there would be no central figure. It would be three and three split evenly. There are five, two on each side of the central figure. There is no sixth figure.” And then the guide, sounding thoughtful, added, “yet.”

I didn’t hear what they said after that. I was scouring through my phone until finally I found the picture with the “shadow” behind me that the other tour goer had sent. There I was, sitting posed with my arms crossed glaring at the relief sculpture.

But the guide was right. There were only five figures visible in the photograph, all dancing.

The hand is squeezing my shoulder now as I type this. I don’t know how long before I get pushed into traffic, or yanked off a bridge, or… held down in the bathtub. The hand squeezes almost constantly now. Nobody believes me. But I’m posting this for the record.

If you take the Candlelight Ghost Tour and see the alcove with the dancing parkgoers, count the figures.

You’ll know what happened to me if you count and there are six.

We’re at the ending now... So much more happens from here on. But I have to give you the short version, because... the long version will kill me... I barely have anything left in me to finish the story. But what comes next is the true horror of The Asili. It’s what I’ve been afraid to tell... So, I just have to tell it best I can... 

Me and Tye were in the hole. Terrified by the events of that night, we stayed awake until the dimness of the jungle’s daylight returned on the surface... It was still pitch black inside our hole, but at least from the dim circular light above us, we knew the horrors of the night had probably disappeared... Like I said, the two of us did manage to get out of that hole - but we didn’t escape from it... We were rescued... 

From out of nowhere, a long rope made from vines is thrown down into the hole. We yell out to whoever threw it down and a voice shouts back to us – an English-speaking voice! We get out the hole and what we see are two middle-aged white men, with thick moustaches and dressed like jungle explorers from the 1800’s. But they weren’t alone. With them were around twenty African men, dressed only in dark blue trousers and holding spears or arrows... 

The two white men introduce themselves to us. Their names were Jacob, an American from the southern states - and Ruben, a Belgian. Although I was at first relieved to be seeing white faces again, I then noticed their strange expressions... Something about these men scared me. They smiled at me with the most unnerving grins, and their voices were so old-fashioned I could barely understand them... There was something about their eyes that was dark – incredibly dark! And the African men with them, they were expressionless. They barely blinked or made any kind of gesture, like they were in some kind of trance. The American man, Jacob, he gets up close and is just staring at me, like he was amazed by my appearance. I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t help but feel pulled up into his gaze... Looking into this man’s eyes, I couldn’t help but feel terrified... and I didn’t even know why... 

When they were done with me, they turned their attention to Tye. Without even saying a word to them, Jacob and Ruben treat Tye as though he somehow offended them – as though just his appearance was enough to make them angry. Jacob orders something to the African men in a different language and they tackle Tye to the ground, like they were arresting him!... 

They brought us away with them, past the mutilated remains of the zombie-people from the night before. They tied Tye’s hands behind his back and were pulling him along a rope vine, like he was no better than a dog. They didn’t treat me this way. Jacob and Ruben seemed so happy to see me. They treated me as though they already knew me... Walking through the jungle for another day, they brought us to where they lived. From the distance, what we saw was a huge fortification of some kind – made from long wooden walls. The closer we get to this place, I began to see all the details... and it was horror!... 

Along the top of the walls, more African men in blue trousers were guarding – but above them, on long wooden spikes... were at least a dozen severed heads!... Worse than this, right outside the walls of the fort, were five wooden crosses - but on them – inside them, were decaying rotting corpses! A long wooden spike had been forced through one end and out the other – through the back of their skull, while another was shoved underneath their arms horizontally – making them into a cross. The crucified man!... 

Inside the walls of the fort was a whole army of African men, wearing the same identical dark blue trousers – and all with the same empty expressions. They lived in a village of thatched-roof huts – too many to count. Making our way through the village, towards the centre of the fort, we came across four large wooden cabins, decorated in pieces of white ivory...  

But I then saw something that was remotely familiar... Outside the wooden cabins, in a sort of courtyard... was a familiar face... It was the dead tree! The dead tree with the face! Only it had been carved to resemble a statue – an idol... and on top of that idol, staring down at me... was the very same face... The face from my dreams had finally shown itself to me... The worst was still yet to come. Even worse than the dead mutilated bodies. For what we found next was what we came here to find... We found the others... 

We found Naadia, and we found the other commune members. They were still alive... but they were all crammed inside of a small wooden cage. They were being held prisoners! Even worse, they were being held... I can’t say it... 

Jacob and Ruben weren’t the only two white people here. There was two more. One of them was a woman – a blonde Swedish woman. Her name was Ingrid. Dragging the bottom of her dirty white dress towards me, she seemed just as amazed to see me as Jacob and Ruben. Touching my face, she for some reason had tears in her eyes, like I was someone close to her she hadn’t seen for a long time. This woman, although I thought she was very beautiful... she was clearly insane... 

But then I met the last white face that lived here... Their leader... From the middle, larger of the cabins, an old man walked down to us. Like the other three, he wore white, Victorian-like clothing. He had a thick, grey beard and his body was round –and somehow... he looked how I always imagined God would look like... This man was called Lucien, and like the others, he spoke in an old-fashioned way, with a strong French accent. He came right up to me, up close to my face, and he stared at me with a serious expression, like there was no joy inside of him. But from his serious gaze, I saw he had the clearest blue eyes... and I realized... his eyes were very much like my own... Staring through me for a good while, the piercing look on his face quickly turned to joy. Uttering some words in French, Lucien pulled me into him and started hugging me as tight as he could... His arms around me were so strong and even though he was clearly happy to see me, whoever I was to him, he was squeezing me like he was intentionally trying to hurt me... 

I was so confused as to who these white people were, who seemed like they came from a hundred years ago. Even though they terrified me to my core, I knew they were the ones to give me the answers... The answers I’d been looking for... 

Lucien told me everything... He said this place, this dark, never-ending part of the jungle – The Asili... he said it was called the Undying Circle... People who entered the Circle could never leave. It would attract people to it – those chosen. The Circle was very old and was basically an ancient god – a sort of consciousness... 

The four of them, dressed in their white linen clothing, spoke like they were from the 1800’s because they were! They came to Africa at the end of the 19^(th) century. Wandering into the Undying Circle, they’d been here ever since. Stuck, frozen in time!... 

Jacob and Ruben were soldiers. When the Europeans were still colonizing Africa, they were hired by the king of Belgium to seize control of the Congo. They wandered into the Circle to conquer new territory or exploit whatever resources it had... But the Circle conquered them... 

Lucien and Ingrid came to Africa as Catholic missionaries. They came here to spread the word of God to the “uncivilized people”... They heard that a great evil existed inside the darkest regions of the jungle, and so they ventured inside to try and convert whatever savages lurked there... Now they were the savages...  

Lucien said they found people already living inside the Circle. He said they were stone-age savages who were more like beasts than men. Jacob and Ruben’s army went to war with them, and killed them all. They took their kingdom for themselves and made it their own. They chose Lucien as their leader and worshipped the Undying Circle as their new God... The God who’d allowed them to live forever... In this jungle, they were kings... and they could do whatever they wanted... 

But they still weren’t alone in this jungle... Whoever lived here before – the ones who survived Lucien’s army, they formed themselves into a new kingdom - a new tribe. Lucien’s army had killed all the men, but some of the women survived... They were a tribe of women... But Jacob said they weren’t women anymore – not even human. They were something else... Like them, they worshipped the Circle as a god, but believed it was female. Whatever it was they worshipped, Jacob said it turned them into some sort of creatures - who painted their skin red, head to toe in the blood of their enemies, were extremely tall, with long stretched-out limbs, and even had sharp teeth and talons...  Jacob said they were cannibals, who ate the flesh of men... This all sounded like racist bullshit to me - but in The Asili - in the Undying Circle... it seemed every nightmare was possible... 

The reason why they were so happy to find me – why they acted as though they already knew me... it wasn’t because of the colour of my skin or where I was from... it was because they knew the Circle would bring me here... In his dreams, Lucien said the Circle promised to bring him a son. Lucien believed I was his great, great, great something grandson, and that I was here to inherit his kingdom... I told him he was wrong. He was French and I was English, and even though we shared similar blue eyes, I told him it wasn’t possible... 

But Lucien told me something else... Before he came into the Undying Circle, he said he’d had a son... He broke his vows and gotten a native woman pregnant. He took the baby away from her and gave it to an English missionary. Whoever this missionary was, he brought the baby back with him to England to be raised and educated in the “civilized world”... I didn’t know if he was telling the truth. Was I really his descendent? I didn’t believe it... I chose not to believe it!... I wasn’t one of them! I would never be one of them!... 

They made me do things... They forced me to do things I didn’t want to do... They kept prisoners. They kept... Jacob forced me to beat them. He put his sword in my hands and made me kill the ones who were too weak to work. He made me cut off their hands. He wanted me to keep them as trophies...  

The female prisoners who the white men found attractive, they were allowed to roam free as concubines... Naadia was one of them... If she wasn’t, I would’ve been forced to hurt her... and even after everything she put me through. Cheating on me. Lying to me. Tricking me into coming to this place I never should’ve come to... I couldn’t do it... But I did it to the rest of them... 

What’s worse is that I enjoyed doing it to them. I enjoyed it!... It made me feel powerful! This group, that from day one, looked at me like I was unwanted, unaccepted. Made me feel guilty because of the colour of my skin. Every ounce of pain I put them through... I took pleasure from it... 

The one I wanted to hurt most of all was Tye. I hated him! I was jealous of him! He took Naadia away from me! I wanted to make him suffer... but I couldn’t... He wasn’t my prisoner. He was Ingrid’s... He was Ingrid’s concubine. I couldn’t touch him... and it infuriated me!...  

There’s something you need to understand... This place – the Undying Circle... The Asili... It brings out the darkest parts of you... Whatever darkness lies in your heart, the Circle brings it out of you. Allows it to overtake you... Jacob and Ruben came here as soldiers, and now they were tyrants. They were monsters... Ingrid was from a time where women were oppressed, and now she oppressed those who were seen as beneath her... Lucien came to spread the message of the God he loved... Now he’d denounced him... He now served another god – an evil god... In this place – in this jungle... he was God...  

I was a white guy from London. Diversity was all I knew. I accepted anyone and everyone... even if they never really accepted me... Is this what I truly am? In my darkest of hearts... am I a racist?... Of all the horrors I came across in that jungle... I feared myself the most... 

I was a god here. A king! I had power over life and death... I didn’t want it! I didn’t want any of it! Whatever part of me was still good, I called upon it... The man I was before... he wasn’t here anymore... He lived on the other side of The Asili... 

Beth and Chantal were dead. They died of weakness. The last I saw of them, they were just skin and bones... As long as Naadia was a concubine, at east she was being fed... As for Moses and Jerome, two young, strong “African men”... they became soldiers in Jacob and Ruben’s army... The things they did was almost as bad as me... Like me, the Circle preyed on their darkness... 

But they didn’t want to be soldiers – they didn’t want to be followers. They wanted to be free... They escaped the fortress and took their chances in the jungle... It didn’t take long for Jacob and Ruben to find them... They already killed Jerome - they put his head on top the wall with the others... But they gave Moses to me... 

They made me cut off his hands while he was still alive... I could hear Naadia screaming at me to stop, but I kept on beating him until he wasn’t screaming anymore... Moses loved God. He loved Jesus Christ - and even though he begged them in his final moments... no one was there... 

Moses looked for God in his final moments, but didn’t find him... I looked for that part of me that was supposed to be good – that once knew love and kindness... Every night, I woke only to see the darkness and the smell of death... But one night, through the surrounding black void of my cabin... I found him!... I saw him through the darkness... He told me what I needed to do - why I came here in the first place... 

That night, I went out of my cabin... The fort was quiet. Empty - but the torches were still lit all around. Tye was in the courtyard, tied to a wooden pole by his neck. I held out my knife to him. I wanted him to know that I had the power to kill him... but instead I was going to cut him free. Even though he had no reason to, I needed him to trust me... I told him we needed to save Naadia, and then the three of us were getting out of this place – that we’d take our chances in the jungle... Tye was expressionless. The Circle’s darkness had clearly gotten to him. He looked up at me, with murder in his eyes... But then he agreed... He was with me... 

As Tye went away in the direction of Ingrid’s cabin, I went into Ruben’s... I opened the door slowly. I couldn’t see but I could hear him breathing... I put my hand over the sound coming from his mouth – and with my knife, I pressed it into his neck! I heard him react under my hand and I pressed down even harder. I heard the blood gurgling inside his mouth and felt his nails scrape deep into my skin... But now Ruben was dead... I killed him while he slept, and in his final moments... he didn’t even know why... 

I leave Ruben’s cabin and I make my way towards Jacob’s. I found Tye there, waiting for me. I asked him if he did it, and he looked at me blankly and said... ‘I strangled her’... The way Tye looked at me, I was afraid of him... I now knew what he was capable of... but I needed him... 

We went inside Jacob’s cabin. He was sleeping with Naadia next to him. Naadia saw us through the glow of the outside torches and we gestured for her to be quiet. By the bedside was Jacob’s sword – the same one he’d made me use to do my killings... I took it. Standing over Jacob, Tye looked at me, waiting for me to give the signal. As I raised Jacob’s sword, Tye quickly put his hands over Jacob’s mouth. I saw Jacob’s eyes open wide! Looking up to Tye, he then instantly looked at me, seeing I was holding his own sword over him. I stuck it deep into his belly as hard as I could! I saw his eyes scrunch up as Tye kept his groans inside. I took out the blade and I kept on stabbing him! Covering me and Tye in Jacob’s own blood. Jacob tried grabbing the sword but it only sliced through his hands... By the time he was dead, his hands were still holding the blade... 

Having killed Jacob, the three of us left out the cabin. The fort was still quiet and no one had heard our actions... We knew we couldn’t just leave the fort – soldiers were still guarding the front entrance. We knew we had to create a distraction, and so we took one of the fire torches and we set Ingrid’s and Jacob’s cabins on fire! We hid in the darkest parts of the fort until the fire was so large, it woke up Lucien and all of Jacob’s soldiers. It seemed everyone had gathered round the burning cabins to try and put out the flames, and as they tried, we made our escape! The entrance was unguarded, and so we ran outside the fort and into the darkness of the jungle... 

We journeyed through the Circle’s jungle for days, unsure where it was we were even going. We knew we could never escape, but taking our chances out in this jungle was better than the hell that existed inside there!... I feared what we’d run into – what we’d find... I feared that Lucien and his army would be coming after us... I feared the predatory monsters we’d only seen glimpses of... and I feared that Jacob was telling the truth, and there was some tribe of man-eating creatures who could be stalking us... 

But just like when we first entered this jungle... we saw nothing. Again, we were trapped among the same identical trees and vegetation... before the Circle... The Asili... just seemed as though it spat us back out...We were free!...  

We found our way out of that place! We were still in the jungle – the real jungle. But whatever dangers the Congo had, it was nothing compared to the horrors in there! We found our way back to the river, back down to Kinshasa... and eventually, we found our way home... 

We never told the truth about what happened to us... We said we got lost – that the others had died of disease or hunger... It was easy for them to believe, because the truth wasn’t... 

I went back to London, and Naadia went home to her family... I tried to get in touch with her, but I couldn’t... She ignored my texts, my calls... She no longer wanted anything to do with me... To this day, I don’t even know where she is – if she went back to the States to be with Tye... For the past three years I’ve felt completely alone. I’ve had to live with what I’ve been through... alone... But it’s what I deserve! The Asili had turned me into a monster. A murderer!... It almost seems like just a bad dream - that it wasn’t really me that committed all those things... but it was... 

If you’re wondering how it was we got out of that place... I think The Asili allowed us to leave – like it wanted us to... Whatever The Asili was, it was evil! It had worshipers. Followers. It was basically a religion... Maybe it wanted us to tell the world what we’d seen and been through... Maybe it wanted more people to come here and bow to its will... Maybe I’m doing more damage than good by admitting its existence... 

We never found out what happened to Angela... I don’t even know if she’s still alive... Maybe she’s still out there somewhere, surviving... What if the tribe of women had found her? What if they weren’t the monsters Jacob said they were - that they were just survivors who fought against Lucien’s tyranny... Angela was a warrior – she knew how to survive... I’d almost like to think she became one of them... If she never escaped The Asili, like we did... I’d like to think that’s the best fate she could’ve had...  

I did my research. I tried to find whatever I could to explain what The Asili really is... I only came up with one answer... It’s the centre of evil... Evil leaks out of that place, slowly infecting the farthest corners of the world... The Congo has always been at war with itself... And anyone who goes there turns into that very same evil...  

The first white men who came to the Congo... they didn’t bring peace. They didn’t bring civilization. They murdered millions! They collected severed hands and traded them like they were currency!... Ten million Africans were murdered here when the first white men came to the Congo... But that’s what The Asili is... It isn’t the Undying Circle... It’s the Heart of Darkness itself...  

I don’t care if anyone doesn’t believe me... Just take my warning... Stay far away from the jungles of Africa! Just stay where you are and live in ignorance...   

For anyone who doesn’t listen. For whatever reason you go there, no matter how good your intentions are... take my warning... and burn it all to the ground! 

End of part IV 

The End  

I had this horrible dream and basically I see a world where all of the adults are gone, and there is only infant babies and kids up to 2 years old. At first there was a moment of silence until all of the infant babies started crying around the world. The kids up to 2 year olds are completely confused and they start to cry. They are calling out for their parents but all of the adults have vanished and it's just infant babies and kids up to 2 year olds. It's a loud noise and it's nerve wrecking to hear it and then I wake up.

Then I go to Carl's house and I am helping him stay calm when he is being mauled to death. As Carl is being mauled by a bunch of hyenas he is struggling to stay calm. I shout out to Carl that he needs to stay calm and as the hyenas are ripping him apart, he is screaming and shouting. I kept telling him to stay calm but he was screaming in pain. Carl couldn't stay calm and he died. I was devastated that Carl couldn't stay calm while being mauled by hyenas.

After a silent mourning I walked out of there. I had to walk out of Carl's house because my heart was beating fast. The reason why my heart was beating fast was because I have double amount of blood in my body, and not enough oxygen. How my blood in my body increased was because I allowed myself to be bitten by the crunken creatures. When the crunken creatures bite you and drink your blood, it doesn't decrease blood but increases it bit there will be some health set backs when blood amount increases in body. I have to go to oxygen therapy I step into a machine and I am blasted with loads of oxygen. I allow the crunken creatures to drink from my blood, as you experience the best high.

Then I go to sleep and I go back to that dream again and all of the infant babies are crying non stop. The children up to 2 years have been fighting amongst each other and some have broken their bones. Some have accidentally fell off bridges and cliffs. It's a hard thing to witness because it's natural instinct to wanting to look after them. The infant babies are crying so loud and there is nothing anyone can do.

Then I wake up and I go to yoels house and I try to help him to stay calm. As yeol is being mauled by a lion I shout out to yoel to remain calm. He was screaming and shouting and then he remained calm, while being torn apart by a lion. He just remained calm and then he got up and I hugged him, and the ritual allowed it for him to absorb all of excess blood in my system. The crunken creatures now will drink from him and not me.

I am terrified of sleeping as I will go back to that dream where all of the adults have vanished, and its just infant babies and kids up to 2 years old.

We were the unfit deformed babies of Sparta who were thrown over the cliffs at birth, because we were unfit and were going to bring down Sparta. How unlucky we were and I remember hearing all those cries for our mothers, but our mothers didn't care and only Sparta mattered. I was crying just like the rest of them and being thrown over the cliffs made us even more deformed. Then a witch who couldn't have babies walked in the middle of all of all the deformed babies of Sparta, and she decided that she was going to be our mother.

"My beautiful deformed babies of Sparta! Grow my babies grow!" And the powerful spell she was doing, it started to make us grow into something atrocious and even more hideous and terrifying. We were strong though and we had speed which could out do the fittest and toughest Spartan soldiers. Our deformities gave us strength and we could all remember what Sparta had done to us for being deformed at birth. We were all angry for being left for dead and worst of all we had no voice and we didn't matter in any way. We wanted revenge and we had the physical capabilities of doing so now, thanks to the witch for turning us into monsters.

We all had other weird abilities like being able to travel within the shadows and cause havoc to their minds. The witch told us all to take our revenge upon Sparta. So we did and the more deformed we became the more stronger and more terrifying we became. It felt good being able to do some revenge damage against Sparta, for everything they had done to us they deserve it. I am grateful for the witch mother as she saw something in every deformed Spartan baby. She turned us into monsters.

Then when we went to attack Sparta again and we were killing the place, then I saw my mother and father with their new healthy children. I didn't want to kill them and then I turned back into a deformed useless Spartan baby. I then heard the witches voice tell me "don't you remember how I saved you from being a deformed Spartan baby, if you don't kill your parents and your siblings then you will stay as a deformed baby" and I didn't want to be a deformed Spartan baby.

Then I turned back into the monster and I ravaged my mother and father. My Spartan father tried to fight me but I was too much for him. Yes there was some pleasure from killing them. They did not care when I was thrown over the cliff as a deformed Spartan baby. At the same time I felt bad for killing them as I still saw them as my family. It was two emotions fighting against each other.

Then after a whole night of killing, our mother the witch called out to all of us:

"My beautiful deformed baby monsters, I love you all" and she kissed all of us. Then after a couple of weeks, we all secretly wanted to go back to our mothers mainly and not so much our fathers. So a group of us stood up against the witch and we said that we are leaving and she allowed us to go.

To our surprise every deformed monster had gathered up and left the witch. We went into Sparta and we attacked our fathers who tried to fight us but we didn't kill them. We went to our mothers and we wanted motherly solitude from them. Then we all started to turn back into deformed babies, but our minds were still aware of everything as the witch didn't take that.

Our mothers held us all in their arms and what we thought that we were all going to get motherly love, our mothers had instead threw us over the cliffs again. The mother witch didn't come for us again.

Part 1. Part 2.

------------

When Death approaches, it will not rise from the earth, nor will it be wearing a cloak or wielding a scythe. Death will arrive from a foreign land, bearing eyes like brilliant jades and hair the color of chestnuts, and it will broadcast only peace. In truth, it does not know what it delivers, but it will deliver it all the same. Little by little, step by step, it conjures Apocalypse.

A stranded Leviathan. Angel’s wings clipped. A curtain of night under a bejeweled sky. The demise of a king amidst a sweeping Tempest. Finally, an inferno, wrathful and pure, spreading from sea to sea, cleansing mankind from this world.

Listen closely, child: once the inferno ignites, there will be no halting Death’s steady march. Excavate its jades from their hallowed sockets, and their visions of Apocalypse will cease. Leave them be, and you will bear witness to the conflagration that devours humanity.

Tell no one what you heard here today.

-------------

The sight of the stranded leviathan was beyond surreal.

Shep left the truck first, whistling with awe as his boots hit the sand. Meanwhile, I sat frozen in the passenger’s seat, fixated on the impossible scene only thirty yards down the beach from us. Nervous sweat poured from my entire body, dripping down and pooling into the upholstery of the Sheriff’s car.

No matter how many times I blinked, wishing it away, it was still there.

The crisp snap of fingers broke my trance.

“Meg - hey - where’d you go?”

My neck spun towards the noise. With a look of irritation painted on his face, Shep stood outside the passenger’s side window, impatiently waiting for me to respond.

His face softened as I turned toward him, now wearing an expression of concern more than one of annoyance. When I caught a reflection of myself in the side-view mirror, I understood why. My skin lacked color, drained of blood until it sported a dull yellow-white hue like that of an elephant tusk. My pupils were wide and dilated, making my eyes look like two white olives with dark black pimentos. I was the picture of mind-shattering fear. Truthfully, I thought I was doing a better job of hiding my emotions than I actually was.

Not wanting him to worry too much more, I sent him away.

“Yeah, I’m alright Shep. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes, okay? I need some space to get my head on straight.”

He nodded slowly and then walked off towards the beached titan.

Already, our makeshift plan was falling apart.

The division of responsibilities had made sense in the moment; Lucy would stay behind with Barbara to keep her calm. I would go with Shep to tell him more about the prophecy, while also seeing if the whale seemed to fit the criteria for "a stranded leviathan”.

But paralytic terror was preventing me from doing either task. I couldn’t force the words out of my mouth on the ride over to the beach, so it was completely silent. And now, I couldn’t force my legs to bring me closer to the stranded leviathan. Inspecting it up close may not provide us with important insight, but I wouldn’t know that until I looked at it myself.

Maybe I should have stayed with Barb. I bet Lucy would have been out of the car by now.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized this was the only functional distribution of labor. I can’t handle the vortex of Barb’s self obsession on her best days, let alone today.

As I considered the notion that my paralysis was akin to failing my wife, a tiny ember of self-loathing started burning in my chest. Knowing that depreciation might be my only way out of this car, I billowed that ember with everything I had.

You’re being such a piece of shit, Meg. You’re still that kid listening to the prophecy over the phone and not hanging up. Get the fuck up, you doormat.

My body exploded into action, inner revulsion melting away the paralysis. I threw the car door open and started sprinting towards Shep and the Leviathan, twisting my ankle as I did, but I ignored the pain.

I hoped Lucy was faring better than I was. It might not seem like it, but she probably had the important assignment.

--------------

A few summers ago, we had a spree of teenagers ringing doorbells and then running off. No defacement of public property, no burglaries, no assault - no evidence that anyone was in any danger. It was just some dumb kids blowing off steam. Barb did not it see it that way, however. She feared that the criminality was bound to escalate; it was just a matter of when.

As a result of that fear, the woman blasted a UPS delivery man with duck-shot as she answered the doorbell, thinking he was one of the instigators.

Thankfully, the worker was mostly unharmed. Barb is not a marksman and the ammunition itself was rubber. She got off light: a few hefty fines and probation. Paid for the man’s medical bills, too.

Fear can make you a lot of things. It causes me to become paralyzed. It causes Lucy to run and hide. Both aren’t exactly healthy responses, but they aren’t particularly harmful, either.

Barb is a different story. Fear makes her impulsive and violent. The adrenaline is blinding. It transforms her into a person recklessly swinging a knife around in a dark room just because she can’t see anything.

Uncontrolled fear is a cancer - it grows into everything around it, overwriting whatever was there before it as its roots dig deep.

If more than just the three of us have been affected by the prophecy, I’m afraid of the voracious cancer Barb might be able to cultivate.

--------------

By the time I reached the animal, Shep was already on the phone with environmental services. From what I could tell, he was working on getting a cleanup crew out to the shore as soon as possible to retrieve the carcass. Standing before the stranded leviathan, the smell of death lingered thickly in the air, the salt of the tide and the sulfur of decay combining to form an ungodly stench.

Closer to the omen, I expected my fear to intensify. Instead, I found that it quieted, and a peculiar sadness took over in its place. The majestic animal had died in such an undignified way, sprawled out alone on the beach for everyone to gawk at.

I did a lap around the dead titan. Wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but I figured I’d know it when I see it. To my relief, there wasn’t anything overtly foreboding about the cadaver. No prophetic phrases carved into its flesh, no mysterious pagan symbology painted onto it, nothing to link it to those damned words other than its arrival alongside the other potential omen, the grounded birds.

But then I saw something that caught my eye.

There was a patch of blackened skin on its underside, partially hidden by the way it had washed up on the shore. The pungent smell kept me from placing my head too close to the scorch mark, but from a few feet away, it looked like an electrical burn. I took a quick snapshot with my phone as Shep began calling to me from the other side of the mammal.

“You all right over there, Megan?” he hollered, realizing he had lost track of me while he was on the call.

Before I could respond, he jogged around the corpse until he found me, clearly more than a little concerned about my state of mind.

“So…is this your stranded leviathan?” He asked, with a tiny lilt of sarcasm flavoring his speech.

Suppressing a twinge of embarrassment, I shook my head in the affirmative.

“For the first time in my life, yes, I honestly think so.”

He focused his gaze on me.

“What do you mean, 'your life'? I thought these calls you and Lucy had been receiving were new?” His questions lacked even a modicum of confusion. He spoke with strong, decisive language, giving me the impression that he’d just confirmed a hunch. Apparently, Shep had seen through our lie from the very beginning, or at least had his doubts.

“Look Shepherd, we didn’t give you the whole truth because the whole truth is absolutely batshit.”

A small chuckle escaped his lips, and I continued.

“I’ll give you the full story, but I need to ask a favor first.”

He walked closer, placing a firm but reassuring hand on my shoulder.

“And what would that be, ma’am?”

I struggled to contain the fear that was once again bubbling in my stomach. For Lucy’s sake, I pushed on.

“Could you drive me over to the arcade on the boardwalk? There’s something I want to show you.”

“Everything will make more sense if it’s still there.”

--------------

A flick of the wall light bathed the boardwalk’s underground storage room in a faint yellow light. The basement smelled intensely damp, almost fungal. Its scent was stagnant and putrid, like a mausoleum that had been newly unsealed for the first time in a century.

The room lacked any methodical organization. Clearly, the town added broken or retired items to the basement without forethought. The result, unfortunately, was that the area looked more like a junkyard than a storage space.

Shep stood in front of me, surveying the disarray with almost as much amazement as he did the whale corpse. From my vantage on the last descending step of the narrow staircase, I had a little elevation to help me orient myself to the room’s congested architecture.

“Can you spot the fortune telling machine from where you are?” Shep asked.

“Remember, someone may have thrown that thing out years ago.”

I scanned the room, trying to identify the shape of that windowed crate against the veritable cityscape of refuse. My eyes danced over a half-disassembled bumper car, a snow cone machine that was tipped forward on account of missing its front wheels, and stacks of old signage from businesses that have long since gone extinct. But so far, no luck.

“Not yet, but this ain’t exactly easy,” I sighed.

“Well, if you can’t see it from where you are, I think we’ll have to call this a wash. I don’t want you digging through the garbage. That’s an easy way to throw out a back or contract tetanus,” he replied.

I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, but I didn’t let it distract me. I needed to find this damn thing. Even if it didn’t help clarify what was going on, it might help convince Shepherd that everything I told him on the way over was real, rather than some bizarre manifestation of childhood trauma.

--------------

To Shep’s credit, he listened intently to what I had to say, seemingly without judgment or scrutiny. That said, he was skeptical of the events that I had described.

He was right to be skeptical, even if his disbelief stung.

Memories, he reminded me, aren’t true history. They’re more like made for TV movies based on historical events. Truth is the foundation, but that foundation is often buried under layers of emotion, flawed retrospect, and new context as you age.

You can’t look at memories like they’re fact, he said, especially ones that are that old.

Wisdom that would only become more crucial as the events of the evening unfolded.

--------------

Just then, I saw it. The bottom half of a wrinkled face framed behind plexiglass barely visible from under nautical props that used to be part of a popular mini-golf course.

“There!” I screamed, pointing a tremulous finger at the appriation from my childhood.

Shep followed the trajectory of my gesture, and locked his eyes onto what I saw. It took him a few minutes, but he was eventually able to drag the machine out from the rubble.

Once Shepherd had placed the box in front of me, I knew it was the right one. But it was so different from what I remembered.

First off, the material that made up the crate wasn’t jagged and splintered, like coffin wood. Instead, it was actually cheap plastic painted to look like drift wood. Not only that, but the face in the window was not nearly as haunting as I recalled. The skin was tattered and gray-blue like I remembered, but the expression was neutral and unoffensive. A little uncanny, sure, but not demonic or supernatural, like the memory that lived in my head.

I remembered one thing correctly. The plastic machine displayed “The Last Great Seer” embroidered in gold typography above its face.

“This is it? This is what has you and Lucy so freaked out?” Shep asked, dubious that so much fear could be born out of such a benign-looking contraption.

I ignored his question, instead asking, “Is there any way to turn it on?”

He spun his head around the perimeter of the machine and found that the power cord was still present and intact.

“Sure, Meg. Let me see if this old devil still runs.”

The sheriff started looking for a power outlet. As he did, I felt warm comfort drip slowly into my veins. I carefully inspected the box. There was no way this ancient thing could really have given us so much heartache.

Maybe this is all just a terrible coincidence. I mean, Barbara grew up around this town, too. It’s possible that she experienced the prophecy from this machine early in her childhood, the same as we did. It didn’t fully explain what was going on with the birds, nor the beached whale, and it certainly didn’t explain the motives of our shared tormentors, but those loose threads didn’t mean an apocalypse was on its way, hot on the heels of our kind Icelandic neighbor.

The only thing I noticed that was a bit odd was a small T-shaped hole on the back of the machine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like where you’d plug a landline into.

Almost like someone could’ve used the animatronic fortuneteller as a phone.

As if in response to my internal rationalizations, something abruptly plunged the storage area into complete darkness.

“Damn buggy wiring,” Shep said from somewhere deeper within the blackness.

“Meg, you still on that last step? Can you flick the light and see if it comes back on?”

“Yep, I’m on it.”

I carefully leaned forward, gripping the banister with one hand while sliding the other up and down the surface of the wall to my right, looking for the switch. Eventually, I found it, and I began moving it up and down. The knob clicked, but no light came to our aid.

“No luck, Shep.”

I reached my hand out until I found the sheriffs shoulder, and I guided him safely back onto the stairs. Once we got back to the ground level, a pounding terror ripped into my torso.

The top of the stairs dumped us out in front of the boardwalk. In the time we had been in the storage area, twilight had transitioned into a moonless night. But it shouldn’t have been as dark as it was. The boardwalk is littered with street lamps that automatically come on before sunset. But just like the storage area, they were all empty of light.

Shep climbed out of the stairway behind me, swearing as he did. He had noticed something in the sky, opposite to the direction I was looking.

“My Lord, what in the living fuck is that?”

When I turned around, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The blue green light reflected damningly off of Shepherd’s wide eyes, confirming my worst fears.

Above us, there were gleaming, twisting sheets of cosmic light. I counted five separate bars, each of them the size of multiple football fields. They were primarily aquamarine, accented by some smaller flecks of indigo. It reminded me of the aurora borealis, but we sure as shit weren't in the great north.

I couldn’t hold back the words. It felt like withholding an exhale. If I didn’t let it spill out of me, I was liable to suffocate.

“A curtain of night under a bejeweled sky.”

In a flash, I remembered Lucy was under the same sky. But not with me.

She was with Barb.

I wrenched my phone out of my pocket; the heavens tinting the screen ghostly, neon colors as I saw what I ignored while searching for The Last Great Seer.

4 missed calls from Lucy, followed by a text message and a picture.

“Barb gathered nearly everyone at the chapel, except Ari. Practically everyone in town was tormented by the prophecy when they were young. They’re all acting crazy. What they’re talking about doing is insane. Voting about what to do first. Come ASAP and bring Shep.”

Although none of us are religious, we use an abandoned Pentecostal church as our town hall. It’s the biggest communal space we have.

The picture was hazy and out of focus, which I took to mean that Lucy had taken it in secret. There was a white board next to the pulpit, which was covered in things like:

-Excavate its jades from their hallowed sockets, and their visions of Apocalypse will cease. ?Remove eyes. (5 Tally marks next to it)

-Excise the bull’s manhood, and Apocalypse will fall. ?Castration (2 Tally marks)

-Flay its carapace, and Apocalypse will be exposed. ?Skinning (4 Tally marks)

The list went on and on.

Standing at the pulpit, I could clearly see Barb, eyes burning with frenzy, hands gesturing wildly toward the pews.

The world has embraced a remarkable level of futurism today, I must say. With just a mobile application, we can accomplish nearly anything remotely. Everything is just a tap away, accessible at our fingertips or with a simple click of a mouse.

I never considered myself a tech enthusiast, but I never encountered any issues with technology. Until that fateful day.

Freshly graduated from college, I eagerly anticipated commencing my career in journalism. I landed a job at one of the newspaper companies in town. While it wasn't renowned, it was better than having no job at all. As part of the recruitment process, I was assigned the task of finding the most captivating news story for the company to publish the following day. Specializing in crime-related news, the company sought out the macabre for its content.

Unfortunately, luck seemed to have abandoned me that day.

To start, the word processing software on my laptop was corrupted, and I couldn't locate the installation CD anywhere.

Frustrating.

Consequently, I had to search the internet for an open-source word processing application and install it hastily.

With time running out at 8 pm, I clicked on the first link that appeared in my search engine, downloaded the software, and promptly installed it. I didn't bother reading any of the information displayed during the installation process.

I mindlessly clicked "Next," "Next," "Next," and finally, "Done."

Just as everyone does.

It wasn't until after double-clicking the application's icon to open it that I noticed its name on the splash screen. While waiting for the interface to load, I read the app's name displayed on the screen.

"God's Finger."

"Isn't that an overly dramatic name for a word-processing application?" I pondered, reaching into my bag to retrieve my camera and recorder, which contained all the data pertaining to the news I intended to propose to the company the next day.

Strangely enough, I extended my hand into the bag but could sense the coldness of the floor in my room. I couldn't grasp my camera or recorder.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I peered inside the bag and let out a distressed scream.

The contents of my bag had been tampered with. It seemed that someone had slit the bottom while I was on the train, possibly attempting to steal whatever I had stored inside. Despite the train being crowded, I had carelessly placed my bag on my back instead of keeping it in front of me.

Frustrated and angry, I slammed my laptop shut. All the intricate details of the news story were stored on my camera and recorder, now lost forever. With no time to search for another news piece to report, I opened my laptop out of sheer stress. I stared at the blank page of the word-processing application for a while before I began typing.

Honestly, I couldn't recall what I typed at that moment.

Whenever I was stressed, I tended to type out random thoughts that crossed my mind. I closed my laptop and went to sleep.

The following day, as I woke up and opened my laptop, I found it still on, displaying the page of the word processing application. I read what I had written the previous night and couldn't help but giggle.

I had written a fictional story about a train accident. Two trains collided with each other, filled with morbid details, including the victims' names, locations, witnesses, and even alleging that the accident had been premeditated based on evidence found by the police. It involved a political element, described down to the smallest details.

It would have been an astounding news story if it had actually happened. Unfortunately, it was purely a product of my imagination.

You know what? Maybe I should consider a career as a novelist rather than a journalist.

As I transferred my laptop and belongings into another backpack, I turned on the TV to check if there were any interesting news reports. Surprisingly, there was one. The news was reporting an actual train accident where two trains had collided with each other.

"What a coincidence," I thought, giving my full attention to the news.

The more I followed the news, the more unsettled I became.

Every detail reported by the news matched exactly what I had randomly typed the night before. It was uncanny, as if the events were playing out exactly as I had described.

EVERY detail was an exact match!

However, not all the details had been revealed yet.

Or perhaps, not yet?

I couldn't comprehend my thoughts at that moment. I immediately rushed to the office and handed over the story I had crafted as a mere rant the previous night, claiming it as my own news report. To my surprise, the company's manager received it with enthusiasm, as no one else in the company had information about the accident at that point.

Before I knew it, all the details I had written on that page were proving to be true, much sooner than I had anticipated.

I may sound crazy, but could it be possible that the application had the power to make whatever was written on it come true?

As absurd as it sounded, I couldn't come up with any other explanation. However, I had one way to test it: by writing another story. This time, it had to be even more bizarre, more macabre. The details needed to describe something that was difficult, or even better, impossible to happen in real life.

What would it be?

As I switched between TV channels, a thought flashed in my mind.

I opened the so-called God's Finger word processing application and began writing a story about an extraterrestrial spaceship crashing into one of the biggest military bases on Earth.

The premise itself was already insane and devoid of logic.

Then, I added a few additional details that made it even more outlandish. When I finished, I closed the laptop and went to sleep.

You know, usually, when I tested my theories and they proved to be true, I felt a sense of satisfaction.

But not this time.

The following morning, I switched on my TV, and horror washed over me. The news report stated that an elliptical extraterrestrial spaceship had crashed into one of the biggest military bases on Earth.

No further information was available about the ship or the extent of damage to the military base’s building. The military forces were attempting to gain access to the ship but had not succeeded yet.

I couldn't control myself.

Right after hearing the news, I opened the application and continued writing intricate details about both the spaceship and the military base’s building. When I finished, I closed my laptop and immediately rushed to the newspaper’s office.

Once again, the "news" I had reported garnered immense attention and recognition. In no time, I got promoted. I had a flourishing career, money, attention from girls, and the best part: I received an award!

All thanks to that magical word-processing application!

Every night, I crafted morbid and insane stories to report the next day to my manager. Each story surpassed the previous one in terms of its sheer insanity and morbidity. I started feeling as if the universe was on my side.

Whatever I wrote, it came true, no matter how bizarre.

Everything seemed to be going fine, until one day, my perspective shifted.

The newspaper company I worked for focused on crime, accidents, and strange news. So, naturally, that's what I wrote about: crime, accidents, and strange news.

However, when I wrote about crime and accidents, there had to be victims.

Dead victims. And a lot of them.

That's when I began to ponder. Did that mean I was responsible for killing those victims?

But then, a thought crossed my mind. What if I wrote a positive story? Like worldwide economic improvement or global health advancements? I knew that kind of "news" wouldn't get me anywhere at the office, but at least I could restore some balance. I wrote bad news for the sake of my career and money, and I would write good news for the betterment of the world.

Yes, I truly believed I should.

And so, I did.

I wrote "news" reporting economic improvement, down to the smallest details. All I had to do was wait for it to come true. I waited for a day, but nothing happened. Two days, three days, and still nothing. A week passed, and the "good news" I had written remained unrealized.

Not even a sliver of it came true.

Curiosity got the better of me. I wrote another piece of bad news, reporting a catastrophic airplane crash. Two planes collided in the sky and exploded. I even specified the location to be near my apartment.

Guess what? Less than two hours later, I witnessed two airplanes crashing and exploding right from my apartment balcony.

I wrote good news, and nothing happened even after a week. Yet, when I wrote bad, horrific news, it came true in a matter of hours.

Was the word-processing app playing favorites, only making bad news come true and ignoring the good?

But why?

This app began to consume me, in one way or another. I felt as though I couldn't go a single day without writing another piece of bad news. Something compelled me to write. Was it an unknown force, or was it simply the dark side of my own nature?

Regardless, after nights of contemplation, I made the decision to uninstall the app, for good. I may not have been an angel, but I firmly believed that profiting from making disasters come true was inherently wrong.

And so, there I was, right-clicking on the app's icon on my desktop, and selecting the uninstall option.

To my astonishment, a pop-up appeared on my laptop screen after I selected the uninstall option. At the top of the pop-up, the app's logo, presented in a regular font, displayed the name of the app: "God's Finger."

Beneath the app's logo, the following text appeared:

"Are you sure you want to uninstall this app?

We strongly believe you didn't read the entire installation agreement when you installed this app. Just like everybody else.

Would you like to read it?

(Read) (No, proceed with uninstallation)"

Given everything I had experienced, I was genuinely curious about the contents of the installation agreement. Thus, I clicked the 'Read' button. Another pop-up appeared on the screen. If it hadn't been for the numerous unsettling encounters with this app over the past few months, I might have assumed that the message in the pop-up was merely a joke. A cruel joke.

I had been through far too much to dismiss it as a joke.

The message in the pop-up taught me a hard lesson: read attentively before agreeing and proceeding.

Here is the message that appeared in the pop-up screen:

"Installation Agreement

By clicking 'Next,' you agree to this installation agreement.

God's Finger is an open-source word office application created by Satan, the ruler of hell. The primary purpose of God's Finger is to facilitate Satan's works. However, it also aids humans who require its services. Some humans enjoy playing God (or playing Satan) by determining the fate of others. They may kill another person for trivial and whimsical reasons.

Now, no need to worry! With this app on your devices, you can harm and kill anyone you despise without concern for time and borders. You can even create your own personalized disasters!

And the best part? No law enforcement agency would ever be able to trace you.

This app is free for humans to install and use. However, there is a cost associated with uninstallation. The payment for this cost will be directly withdrawn from you, similar to a credit card payment.

Fear not, we do not take money from you. We have no interest in that. We are interested in your life. Every uninstallation will cost you ten years of your life. Rest assured, we will claim it from you instantaneously after the uninstallation process is completed.

Furthermore, the 'uninstallation' includes everything necessary to remove the app from your devices, which means destroying your devices into pieces.

If you understand, please proceed with caution.

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P.S.: We are currently developing a mobile app. Soon, you will be able to create your own disasters with just the touch of your finger! Yay!"

Douggie was always an unusual boy—he had a lot of his father in him, something I resented every time I laid eyes on him. A 43-year-old man-child, still not the perfect young gentleman I had envisioned him to be. I am sure that as I make chili, he is making love to his sock. Douggie has always attended to his urges—a little too much for my liking. Just like my man-whore of an ex-husband.

Since childhood, the only food Douggie would tolerate was chili. I hate chili with a passion. I instantly gag when the scent invades my olfactory nerves. But I am not going to let it go to waste—why should I? Even cheap food is expensive when one has no active income. Might as well feed it to Douggie; maybe then he’ll have something else to focus on besides his filthy urges.

It’s the only way I can control my idiotic son. Something so simple yet potent. I never understood his obsession with my chili, but it gets the job done. As usual, I have to call Douggie down from his room.

I am sure he is having the time of his life with camgirls. The only way I ever get his attention is through humiliation, so I yell at the top of my lungs, “Douggie! Your chili is on the table! Quit watching that porn and get your ass in here, pronto!”

Just another failure to add to the long list of disappointments that is my son—like his father in every single way. I should have poisoned his precious chili years ago, but even though Douggie is a deplorable waste of life, he is still my son. I could not resort to such extreme action. For some reason, I’ve always held onto the hope that he would be more like me than his father. That Douggie would turn his life around and treat me with dignity and respect, like the delicate flower and queen that I am.

Before I could even summon him, Douggie had already taken his seat—an unusual undertaking for him. He sat at the table, eyes fixed on the bowl of chili. Disgusting. He was foaming at the mouth as if he were a starving child. He looked like a caveman, grabbing his spoon, his hands trembling in anticipation.

The way he stuffed his mouth with chili—practically gargling the liquid, swishing it around as if it were mouthwash. Pieces of beans stuck between his teeth as he gave me his typical idiotic smile. God, I can’t stand the sight of him, watching him eat like a barbarian. But I force a smile, always pretending to approve of this uncivilized behavior.

After all the sacrifices I have made for him—providing Douggie with every want and need—this is my repayment. A chili-obsessed freak with a compulsive need to attend to his urges. He and his father alike have failed me in every conceivable way.

I am at my limit with this ridiculousness. As always, I praise him for finishing every bite. “Very good, very good, Douggie. You ate every crumb. You’re such a good boy—so close to being the gentleman I always envisioned you to be.” Look at me, speaking to him as if he were a child. He stares at me with admiration, chili spilling from his mouth like a waterfall, dripping down his neck, soaking into his white undershirt, covering his chest hairs in a thick brown river of chili and saliva.

My eyes bore into the sight of my failure of a son. “If you have something to say, Douggie, now is the time.”

Douggie’s demeanor changed. He began hyperventilating and trembling, spitting out the chili he had just swallowed, covering my once-white tablecloth. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and he let out an uncontrollable screech—an ape howling from the depths of his lungs.

He was out of control. All I could do was watch this scene unfold like something from a horror movie.

“Well, Douggie? What is it?”

Douggie seemed to relax. He stared at me, a sinister grin spreading across his face. Then he opened his mouth.

“MaY I hAvE mORE of YouR Special Chili, MoTHER?”

With no other alternative, I smiled—a veil of glee masking my disdain.

“Anything for my young gentleman.”

Previously

Matt and Angie’s arrival felt like an instant breath of fresh air. Destiny and I had to get out of that noisy apartment to show our best friends around. Moreover, it was the perfect excuse to escape the arguments, fights and the weight of our deteriorating marriage. Every weekend, sometimes during the week, we’d take them to our favorite haunts or explore new spots together. Those outings quickly became my favorite moments in this state.

Out with them, I could be my old self again—the jokester who loved to crack jokes. Watching Matt and Angie double over with laughter felt like old times, especially with Angie’s trademark boisterous laugh that could turn heads from miles away. She still had that habit of smacking my hands whenever she thought I was being “too much.” “You’re a fool, Em!” she’d say, laughing so hard she’d wipe tears from her eyes. Even Destiny joined in, laughing in a way I hadn’t heard in months. Her laughter was music to my ears, and for a while, it felt like we were all whole again.

But good things rarely last: the same story of my life in this hellish state.

One evening, Destiny uttered the words that marked the beginning of the end. “I don’t feel like going out.”

At first, I thought a little about it. Everyone had their off days. But when the excuses piled up—stress, exhaustion, or simply “not being in the mood”—I found myself repeatedly apologizing to Matt and Angie. “Sorry, man,” I’d say. “Destiny’s working on a big case and can’t step away… You don’t have to wait on us. Go enjoy yourselves. Have you checked out [insert name of hotspot] yet?”

Matt took it in stride, as always. He never pried, never took it personally. After all, he’d been the first to suggest that I take Destiny out to lift her spirits when this nightmare began at the old apartment. Matt, my brother in everything but blood, was the type of friend you could always count on. Angie, too, respected our space. Yet each time I made an excuse, it nibbled away at me. The gulf between Destiny and me widened, and no matter how much I wanted to bridge it, I just couldn’t.

At the time, I was certain Destiny’s sudden mood change was because of that night. That night at Matt and Angie’s apartment—a night I now wished I could have closed my big mouth.

Matt and Angie’s place was immaculate, part of another newly built luxury apartment building in the area. Unlike us, they seemed settled, practically thriving in their new environment. They’d figured out the transit system, discovered their favorite grocery stores, restaurants, hotspots as well as made their place a sanctuary home.

They lived on the first floor. And when they invited us over again, I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.

“So, how are you finding your apartment? Everything to your liking?” I asked, leaning back on their pristine white bouclé sofa.

“Absolutely,” Matt said, handing Destiny and me drinks. “No complaints so far.”

“No trouble with neighbors or anything?” I said, nodding toward the ceiling.

Matt furrowed his brow. “Neighbors? What neighbors?”

I tilted my head. “The people above you?”

Matt exchanged a look with Angie and then shrugged. “Honestly, we don’t even know if anyone’s up there. Haven’t heard a thing. This place is so quiet, sometimes it feels like we’re the only ones here.”

Angie chimed in. “The building’s pretty new, and I think we’re among the first tenants. There are still a couple units vacant, waiting to be filled. We got so lucky with this place.”

“Lucky, indeed,” I muttered, swirling my drink.

My mouth should have stopped there. But my curiosity—or my frustration—got the better of me.

“And the town? The state?” I asked, too eagerly. “How does it compare to Georgetown? Too noisy to your liking, huh?”

Matt looked thoughtful, Angie nodding beside him. “Honestly? This place might be quieter than Georgetown. It’s definitely growing on us.”

“Thinking about staying for a while?” My voice cracked ever so slightly.

Matt shrugged. “Ask us in seven months when our lease is up.”

“You signed a nine-month lease?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

Matt grinned. “Yeah, we like flexibility. You know me—I always negotiate. Angie and I didn’t want to be tied down in case the place didn’t live up to our expectations.”

I raised my glass in acknowledgment, but inwardly, I felt the sting. That flexibility. That freedom: the antithesis of the ironclad lease binding Destiny and me to Oakmont and this damn state.

Then Angie added, with an amused chuckle, “We like flexibility, huh?”

I didn’t say a word, sipping my drink. But, there was another response that made my skin crawl. A response that patiently waited for me to tie the noose around my neck tight before acting to pull the lever.

“Hmm.”

Matt and Angie were so lucky—so oblivious, ridiculously lucky. They didn’t even realize it. Free from the relentless noise that defined my every waking moment, they lived in a blissful bubble of silence and peace. And if, by some cruel twist of fate, the noise eventually crept into their lives, they’d still have an out. They weren’t tied down like Destiny and me. With their short lease, they could pack up and leave at the first sign of trouble with minor expense, no strings attached.

That freedom gave them the ability to see the best in this state, to gloss over the flaws and enjoy their time here.

Meanwhile, Destiny and I were unraveling. After that night at our best friends’ apartment, the fragile threads of our marriage began to snap. Destiny was on edge, itching for an argument at every turn.

She found reasons everywhere—small, mundane things blown out of proportion. I’d leave my shoes too close to the door; it was suddenly proof of my “lack of care for the house.” I’d forgotten to pick up her favorite brand of yogurt; it became a lecture about how I “never listen.” Each fight spiraled back to the same refrain: “You’re the one who put us in this two-years shit, Emmanuel. You fucking did this.”

Her words cut deep, forcing me to relive the moment I’d signed that lease with Carrie. Over and over, I imagined going back in time, shaking some sense into myself, walking away before the pen hit the paper. But regrets didn’t change reality.

Despite the turmoil, I kept my routine—flowers every Friday, her favorite meals cooked with surprise, movie nights I hoped would distract her. It was all I could do to make up for my colossal mistake. But the gestures barely made a dent. We were past the point of saving. I knew it, even if I couldn’t admit it outright. The marriage was over; it was only a matter of time before the final collapse.

That day came sooner than I expected.

It was a beautiful Saturday—warm, the kind of day that begged you to be outside. Just past noon, I’d decided to clear my head after another explosive argument with Destiny. The grocery store was my excuse to escape, and I welcomed the fresh air as I walked in jogger shorts, a t-shirt, and my most comfortable running shoes.

The town seemed idyllic that sunny day. Birds chirped, dogs alongside their owners played in the park, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of early spring. For a moment, I felt the tension ease as I made my way to the store.

Inside, I started picking up items, distractedly scanning the shelves, when I heard a familiar voice.

“Em!”

Before I could react, Angie wrapped me in a tight, enthusiastic hug. Her energy was infectious, and for the first time that day, I felt myself relax.

“Angie, hey,” I said, my voice quieter than hers.

Her smile faded slightly as she studied me. “How are you? You okay?”

I let out a sigh. “I’m fine, Angie. Just…busy.”

Her brow furrowed. “Busy, huh? How about some coffee? There’s a place outside.”

I hesitated, but her concern was palpable. “Sure.”

We grabbed coffees and found a table under a shaded tree. Angie asked me how things were going, but I offered little—just that Destiny and I were under a lot of stress from work. She didn’t push, knowing me too well to expect more. I wasn’t the kind to share feelings freely.

Sensing the tension, Angie shifted the conversation, bringing up law school memories. It worked. Before long, we were both laughing, tears streaming down our faces as she slapped my hands the way she always did.

We talked, laughed and laughed. I completely lost track of the time and the turmoil waiting for me back home.

But someone kept track.

When I returned to the apartment, the silence was immediate and unsettling. “Destiny?” I called, setting down the keys and grocery bags. No answer.

The only sound was the bass-heavy thumping from DJ Terrible upstairs. I walked further inside and froze when I saw the notepad on the counter, a page torn out and scrawled in rough, angry handwriting.

“Emmanuel, I cannot live like this anymore. I refuse to be someone’s fucking sidepiece. My dad will come by to pick up the rest of my stuff. Hope you and that beige bitch enjoyed one another.”

I stared at the note, the world spinning around me. The end had come, and Destiny had made her exit from this state—without me.

The week after Destiny left was a blur. I could hardly remember a thing, even now, sitting in this stifling interrogation room with its constant hum of noise. That week marked the last days of my freedom, but the details remain frustratingly elusive.

What I remembered, vividly and painfully, was that noise. That damn noise. Without Destiny, the cacophony became unbearable. It was as if the entire state had conspired to remind me of how bad things truly were. Every sound grated on me—the rush of cars, the wails of ambulances and firetrucks, the clamor of commuters, and even the animals seemed far louder. That’s when I first noticed the tinnitus, a persistent ringing that joined the endless chorus of chaos.

But none of it compared to home. The moaning above my apartment became a nightly torment. Without Destiny beside me, every Ooooooo and Rrrrrrrr dug deeper into my sanity. It felt personal. I swore I could hear laughter laced into their sounds. Were they mocking me? Had they figured out that I was now utterly alone?

The cruelty of it wasn’t just in the noise itself, but in what it represented. Ever since we moved to Oakmont, intimacy with Destiny had become a distant memory. I couldn’t even recall the last time we kissed. And now, the sounds above reminded me of what I’d lost.

Still, I kept going. I went to work every day, though I couldn’t tell you what I did or accomplished. The week passed in a cloudy haze, interrupted only by Matt’s voicemail.

“Hey, brother,” he began. I played the first half before cutting it off. Something about Destiny cussing out Angie and telling her never to call again. Angie, confused and hurt, had cried to Matt.
I sent him a brief reply via text:
“Hey brother, please accept my sincere apology. Destiny is under a lot of stress. Please tell Angie not to take it personally. I will tell you everything soon.”

Matt didn’t press for details. “No worries, brother. I’ll talk to Angie. Let me know if you all need anything.” That was Matt for you—always understanding, and never intrusive.

One might think that with my life crumbling, I’d cut my losses. Pack up, leave this cursed state, and chase after my wife. But that wasn’t me. I wasn’t the one to run, even when it seemed like the smarter choice.

Deep down, I believed I could turn it all around. I told myself that with time, Destiny and I could rebuild. We’d go out with Matt and Angie, ignore the noise, and find joy again. Now, looking back, I see how utterly stupid that belief or hope was.

My misguided confidence swelled after speaking with my mother that Sunday. As usual, our conversation began with the essentials: Had she received the money I sent? Were my siblings keeping up with their studies? Most importantly, how was my younger brother progressing in his final year of high school? I was already preparing the paperwork to send for him to attend college.

Then, inevitably, she asked the dreaded question:
“Where’s my daughter? I want to talk to her.”

I felt my stomach knot. Destiny hadn’t spoken to my mother in months. “She’s busy with work,” I said. “Next time, I promise.”

“Emmanuel,” she said, her voice heavy with concern. “Is everything okay? You keep saying the same thing many times.”

The last thing I wanted was for my mother to glimpse the half-devil Destiny had become—or worse, to experience her wrath firsthand. The sweet daughter-in-law image had to remain intact. I wouldn’t let my mother suffer the same fate as Angie.

“Emmanuel?”

“Yes, Mama, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Do you want me to connect you two with Pastor Samuel?”

Her suggestion made my heart race. She knew something was wrong, but not to the full extent. That was my saving grace.

“Destiny’s visiting her parents,” I said, the words blurting out. “She’s been missing them and wanted to spend some time with them.”

“Oh.”

My mouth ran ahead of me, like a runaway bull. “In fact, she and I talked, and she wants to visit you soon. We’ll both come to see you.”

“You are both coming?” Excitement crept into her tone.

“Yes, yes Mama,” I said. And then I made my second monumental mistake, right after signing that two-year lease. I gave her a timeline.

The shouts of joy and praises to Jesus on the other end of the line usually brought me comfort. But this time, the weight of my promise pressed heavily on my chest. Two months. I’d given myself two months to fix everything.

As my mother sang her praises, I sat there in silence, already regretting my words. But there was no going back.

Honestly, I craved the challenge, even as I knew deep down it would be near impossible.

The following Monday, I woke up with a clarity I hadn’t felt in weeks. Despite the noise from the night before, I felt strangely energized, almost buoyant. I’d spent the entire night turning my mother’s words over in my mind, constructing a plan to fix everything, and fast. The pieces were falling into place, and I had hoped that everything was going to work out.

After breakfast, as I slipped into my work shoes, my phone buzzed. A text. “How are you holding up? You free to talk?” The sender: Mr. Johnson. Destiny’s father.

My heart quickened with a mix of relief and determination. Mr. Johnson was always a stern man, the kind who rarely offered compliments but whose approval I had worked hard to earn. A retired Lieutenant General during the Vietnam War, now a semi-retired maxillofacial surgeon, he was a man of precision, discipline, and order. I still remembered the first time I met him—his piercing eyes evaluating me as if I were a recruit under inspection. Yet, over time, he respected me for my grit, ambition, and, most importantly, my love for his daughter.

This text was a sign—my plan was already in motion. Mr. Johnson was the first piece of the puzzle. If anyone could help me mend things with Destiny, it was him. I replied immediately, suggesting we talk after work. He agreed to call me at 8 p.m.

The chilly morning air bit at my face as I made my way to the train station, but even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. As I rounded a corner, I spotted a woman power walking toward me—a tall, wiry figure with silver hair tied neatly in a bun. She wore a bright pink tracksuit and moved with a vigor that belied her age. It was her: Ms. Walton. The famous Ms. Walton, my upstairs neighbor.

“Good morning!” she called, her voice cheerful as she waved.

This was my chance. I stopped and introduced myself, explaining that my wife and I lived directly below her. Her expression shifted when I mentioned the noise. I launched into a description of the nightly torture—moaning, purring, and the incessant DJing—and her face turned pale.

“Oh, gosh,” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth. “I had no idea. I’m hardly ever in my apartment, you see. I’ve been letting some friends of the family stay there temporarily. They needed a place to get on their feet.” She looked genuinely distraught. “If I’d known they were causing such a ruckus, I never would’ve allowed it.”

I thanked her, but my gratitude felt hollow. As I walked away, I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt gnawing at me. Words were cheap, and I’d been disappointed too many times to believe that this encounter would magically solve everything.

On the train ride into the city, I tried to bury my skepticism with some optimism, daydreams mainly. Destiny would come back to a quiet home. We’d rediscover our joy—cooking together, laughing, and finally inviting Matt and Angie over. The spark would reignite, and we’d rebuild our marriage with a focus to the future.

Still, I couldn’t fully commit to those dreams. Not yet. Not until Ms. Walton proved her promises weren’t just more empty words like the others before her.

That evening, I returned home around 7, greeted by an unfamiliar silence. No beats. No swearing. Not even a whisper from above. I couldn’t help smiling as I loosened my tie and set about making dinner: mini burgers and fries. Finally, I was going to have a quiet meal in my own home.

Just as I was about to take my first bite, my phone rang. I froze. Mr. Johnson. I’d nearly forgotten our call. I wiped my hands and answered, my voice a little shaky. “Hello?”

“Can you talk?” his gruff voice came through the line.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hurrying over to the living room.

What followed was unexpected. Mr. Johnson apologized—something I never thought I’d hear. He told me he and Mrs. Johnson had taken Destiny to therapy. “It’s all in her head, man,” he said with a heavy sigh. “The stuff she thinks you did… God, if it were true, I’d have come over there and blown your head off myself.”

“Mr. Johnson, I didn’t—”

“I know, son. I know. I’m on your side. But she’s been having these nightmares, these intense dreams. She thinks you cheated on her with multiple women—with Angie, of all people.”

“Angie? What? Mr. Johnson, I would never—”

“I know, Emmanuel. I know. The truth is, when I first laid eyes on her, I knew right away something was wrong. I recognized that look before. It was the same look on some of my units in Nam. And the doc confirmed it. Insomnia and Borderline PTSD.”

The words hit me like a truck. I gripped the phone, my mind racing. Had Destiny told her parents about the noise? Did they know it was all my fault, my incompetence that got us in this hellhole? If they did, Mr. Johnson wasn’t saying, or pointing any fingers.

“She’s staying with us now,” he said. “But she needs time. The therapist said you might feel like a threat to her…right now.”

“A threat?” My voice cracked. “I’m her husband.”

“I get it, son. I really do. But this isn’t about logic. It’s about her healing…Just give it time.”

“How much time?” I asked, desperation creeping in.

“I honestly don’t know, son. The therapist didn’t specify. From my experience, these things take a little bit of time. Weeks. Months…But, I’ll be here for her…and I’ll remind her of how much you love her. I am on your side, remember?”

His words intended to comfort me, but instead, ripped the soul from my body. I felt the apartment spinning. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Even worse, as he continued speaking, the silence above broke like glass.

“Ooooooooo! Rrrrrrrr! Ooooooo! Rrrrrrrr!”

“Emmanuel, what’s that noise?” Mr. Johnson asked suddenly, his tone sharp.

I clenched my jaw. “I’ll call you back,” I said, hanging up abruptly. The blood rushed to my head as I stood up and stormed toward the door. I wasn’t thinking. All I knew was that this noise—the source of all my problems—had to end.

Tonight.

To Be Continued

A West African—extremely resilient. Adaptable to any environment - Part 5. By West African Writer Josephine Dean.

I am a crime scene cleaner and I have cleaned murder scenes and suicides, but what separates me from the rest of the other crime scene cleaners is that I do it naked. When I clean up crime scenes in the nude, I don't have a drop of blood or dirt on me and that's why I do it in the nude. I'm so good at this job that even when I do it in the nude, I don't have a drop of dirt or blood or any meat matter on me. So that's why I get all the jobs. I have done some horrendous cleaning ups in mass murders to suicides while being completely naked, yet I had no drop of blood on me.

I am also dealing with some personal trouble though and my younger brother, who is accustomed to being in camera all of the times, has a psychotic break down when he enters a room with no cctv or camera recording it. He likes being recorded and when he isn't being recorded, he feels like his movement and existence is being wasted. When I did a crime clean on a murder while completely naked, my younger brother called me as he was completely freaking about not being recorded.

"My movements are being wasted!" He shouted at me and as I was temporarily distracted, a drop of blood went on my body. Luckily it didn't affect my reputation as I have been doing clean ups while completely naked for 20 years. This was seen as me being human and occasionally not being perfect. Then more competition came onto the crime clean up scene. A guy who finds chopped off arms sows them onto his body, and the arms start to work. He is able to clean up much quicker than me because he has multiple arms which he sowed onto his body.

Even though he is quicker than me, I am still more efficient as I get no blood or dirt on body, while I clean up naked. Once when I was doing a clean up in the nude, he came onto the scene with two new arms. I became horrified as I knew where those two arms came from, they were my younger brothers arms snd he is the one who doesn't like not ever being recorded.

My little found himself in a room with no cameras and he started to freak out. He then took his own life and this guy was called to clean it up. He chopped off my brothers arms and connected it to his own body to clean up the scene.

This competition is so on and I will not let this defeat me in anyway. I am the best nude crime scene cleaner in the world, and I can clean up anything while in the nude and not have a drop of blood on me. No one else can do what I do and I will go after him full force.

My buddy Darnell's stepdad, Dan, had a blackbelt in karate. I'm not siretwhat style, but I think Shotokan since he was very strict about form and repetition. Lots of time in horse stance. Anyway, one Summer weekend we're browsing around for something to watch and we find some martial arts movies and and a karate tape. No label, just a piece of paper with "karate" written on it and taped to the VHS tape. So we pop it in, and it begins like a hundred other karate instruction tapes, a doughy middle aged guy in a white gi with a black belt talking about health and safety inside a gymnasium. But then, he proceeds to perform this ritualistic dance. It wasn't like any kata we had seen before. He had some kind of sheet on the floor with an arcane symbol on it, and he was moving to specific places on the sheet while doing these odd movements, even one when he lifted a foot and bent over like some kind of wading bird. We laughed and found it silly at first, but then fast-forwarded to see if anything actually interesting would happen. Nope. After way longer than any of us expected, he bowed to the camera and it faded to black. We thought next would be something good. Instead, there were now two men, and they repeated the same slow, ritualistic dance, but now side by side. Not even at opposite ends, which would have been somewhat interesting. We didn't bother finding out what was on the rest of the tape. We joked around with Dan later that evening about his silly dance tape, but he got very defensive and told us it was serious stuff. We couldn't believe our ears! I have never been able to find this tap years later, but I did stumble upon it again that Summer, and watched it for a few minutes to see if it still made me laugh. It did not. Does that sound like anything you've heard of in martial arts? Moving around to trace some sort of symbols on the ground and dancing, essentially? It seriously looked like a spell circle of some kind. Or, have you seen that tape or another like it?

It started back when Death took me to witness a woman being disemboweled. I watched from the closet as she and her lover closed the door of the room behind them. I watched as they started to get frisky, then he took out a knife and started cutting off her clothes. She protested that she needed them, he responded that she wouldn't need them anymore as he held the blade pressed against her skin. Then he started cutting.

That was the first and last time I'd see someone else die. After that, I'd experience their deaths firsthand.

I was a black slave girl, escaping through the woods, with white men on horseback and angry dogs chasing me down. I tripped and they caught up with me, shooting me dead.

I was a businessman on a bus on my way to work. I felt a sudden lurch as the train derailed. All I could think about as I plummeted to my death was how I'd never made time for family. I was always working, always fixated on deadlines and goals.

I was a young man in India. I was at the home of my fiancée, but then her brother walked in. We exchanged a knowing and loving glance followed by a deep embrace, but something was wrong. Suddenly the room erupted in anger. Someone had told them. It wasn't her I was interested in, it was her brother. I was dragged out of the house. I ran as fast as I could but they threw rocks at me. Eventually I got tired. They caught up to me and clobbered me to death with clubs.

I was a Russian dissident. As I lay in the hospital bed feeling the effects of the poison coursing through my veins I tried to get the attention of nurses but was met with disdainful glares. I died scared and alone.

I was an ex-Muslim. I saw two men in trench coats following me. I looked back at them and one of them opened his coat enough for me to glance at a machete. He screamed "ya yahud" at me. I scrambled to make sense of it, but realized my ex husband had put a hit on me and must have told them I left Islam for Judaism. I thought quickly. I turned towards them and yelled "TAKBIR!" Instinctively they screamed "ALLAHU AKBAR!" This drew immediate attention to them. They panicked as they realized how suspicious they looked and pulled out their weapons to defend themselves. A crowd descended on them but by then it was too late for me.

I was standing in a hospital tower, just watching the sunset. Suddenly, a helicopter came by surely carrying a patient in crisis. But it kept coming closer. Too close. It was out of control. The last thing I heard was the sound of glass breaking.

These are just a few, there must be hundreds more at this point. At first I tried to save all the details and find these poor people's families and tell them what happened. But there were too many. So very many. Sometimes I wake up and I don't know which life was real and which is the dream. Am I just dreaming my life as I lay dying? Or is my death the dream? The doctors tell me that it's night terrors caused by my PTSD but I know the truth. I feel it in my bones. One day, I will die a human but I will wake up as an angel of death. But first I must complete my training. I must experience every death, I must know the sorrow and pain that anyone can feel when they die, I must become everything the dying need me to be to comfort them. Then it will end. I can't wait. I CAN'T WAIT. I CAN'T...I WON'T WAIT.

I should start from the beginning with all this. I can barely think right now. The fear, the anxiety, the apprehension, I can hardly take it all. I'm so hungry, so thirsty, and it's too hot. But I need to tell what happened to me, and to Jarrett, and how it all involved a drug called the Mars Dust. 

Jarrett was my best friend. From the time we were nine, we were inseparable. Always hanging out, always together doing stuff, and, yes, always getting into trouble. From the time I covered for him when he smashed Mrs. McCready’s back window with a baseball by accident (he took off running and I told her I hadn’t seen who did it), to the time we tagged up our high school with spray paint a week after graduation, we were a team. We did that kind of shit all the time, that was just us.

But then, as time went on and as we grew into adulthood, things changed. 

It started with cocaine. We were at a party when he first tried it. We were nineteen. On the walk home he was jittery, high as hell, telling me how great it was, how it made him feel so alive, every synapse firing. His eyes were bloodshot, he was sweating to hell and back, and just kept grinding his teeth. I told him I thought it was bad news and he shouldn’t do it, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t fucking listen.

You need to understand, Jarrett had had a rough life. His father was emotionally abusive to him and physically abusive to Jarrett’s mom. For the longest time, he’d always been looking for an escape from this life. With that in mind, it wasn’t much of a surprise he’d have found it in drugs.

Then, a year later, heroin came on the scene. Months after he started that, I started to notice the track marks on his arm. The jitteriness he’d have when he’d been sober for just a couple hours too long. You know what I mean. That’s when I put my foot down. I had a huge argument with him over how he needed to stop, how this was gonna wreck him. He didn’t listen, wouldn’t even hear me, called me a fucking prude and told me to stay out of his business. My heart was breaking watching him go down that path. I felt like I was watching my friend die before my very eyes, just doing all this shit to himself that I couldn’t do a thing to stop. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, and I never will again.

So, I couldn’t do it. That’s what you need to understand - I could not sit by and watch a person I loved destroy himself like this. So I cut off contact. And given what I came to learn about him, at the end of his life, I’ll never forgive myself for that. That was a year ago.

Anyways. I hadn’t been checking my personal email for a couple weeks because I’d been out of the country on a business trip. I get back in, and I see this email from weeks ago, my first communication from him since severing ties. The email was a garbled mess. I won’t recount it here, but what I will mention is that it ended with the line, “I need you. I really, really need you. My mom and I are living at this address, please come soon.” 

I threw it back and forth in my head for a long while, and finally decided to head over there. 

It was a downtown apartment. I’d gotten there in the evening, and when I let myself into the building (I bullshitted over the intercom to a tenant that I was the police) and then the apartment (he’d always kept a key under the doormat, wherever he lived), it was a calm and quiet night.

What I saw in the apartment, though…I mean, it was a horror show. I….I don’t know how to explain it. I think giving the journal entries first will help.

From Jarrett’s place, I found his journal, one of the leather-bound ones he’d been keeping since high school. That, and a vial of red powder. 

And here’s where it begins. Take this as my last testament, and as my warning.

But yeah, without further ado, here it is:

—-

JOURNAL

DECEMBER 31, 2024: Scored something new tonight. My usual dealer for junk got snagged up by the cops, and just like you’d fucking expect, it happened at a time when I’m absolutely fiending. His buddy Jonas - he’s this chemist guy, works at a major lab in downtown, crazy right? - spotted me something new, though. It was a baggie of this red power. He calls it, “Mars Dust”. Says it’s a new designer drug, that it would - and I quote - “blow my fucking mind to Alpha Centauri and back” (yeah, he is kind of a weirdo, go figure). I didn’t wanna take it, I wanted my stuff, but Jonas kept swearing that he didn’t have any, and besides, this’d keep the cravings off.

Got home, just snorted it. Jonas said it’d take a couple hours to kick in, so I’ll write up a trip report tomorrow.

JANUARY 1, 2025: My mind. My fucking mind. All the colours, my emotions blaring up, my synapses, holy shit. 

It was a great time. Or it would have been if Mom hadn’t ruined it. I was in my room vibing and she came in, saying in a pissed off tone, “So you’re on something new, huh?” I told her to fuck off and mind her own business, she broke down crying and called me “a druggie bum” and then went off to her bedroom. I bit back tears when she did that. This shit always fucking happens. It’s not like I like the way I am, it’s just how it is. I can’t really change, can I?

I’m definitely gonna try to make this stuff last till I can get a new connect for junk. 

Something odd, though. The skin on my left forearm is really itchy, and looks kind of green. Weird, right?

JANUARY 4, 2025: Mom cried and argued a lot. I try to not let it get me down, but it does. I hate what I’m doing to her, but like I said, I can’t stop. I took some more of the Mars Dust. Was tripping out for the rest of the day, and felt like I was floating in warm water. So peaceful, so gentle. Best of all, it’s keeping the heroin cravings at bay. Jonas was right about that.

But the come-down was kind of rough. Got a strong sense of fear near the end, like I was being watched by something out there. Couldn’t shake it.

My left forearm is a dark green now, really flakey, not itchy anymore. I’ll deal with it later.

JANUARY 9, 2025: I don’t know. My neck itches. What? Where are the night stars?

I haven’t heard from Mom in days. She’s shut up in her room. From inside I hear wet, guttural rasping. I’m too afraid to open the door.

More Mars Dust. I need more Mars Dust.

JANUARY 12, 2025: I don’t know how long I’ve been gone for. I left my bedroom, and stepped into a different place. It was a long, dark stone alley. I walked for what seemed like forever, and I felt it come up behind me. Something big and wet. I could feel its eyes on me. I ran and ran, my heart beating and pounding. I was so goddamned scared.

Finally, I saw a glint of light, and ran into it, bursting through into my kitchen. I whirled around. Nothing there. 

What’s happening to me? Could it be the Mars Dust? It doesn’t matter, I can’t give it up. What should I do?

JANUARY 13, 2025: I tried to stop myself from taking Mars Dust, but I wasn’t strong enough. I feel like my skin is made of electricity. My fingers are sharp now, like talons. I’m hungry.

E-mailed my best friend. I need him.

JANUARY 15, 2025: Hungry. So hungry. I reach out with my mind, and I think I’ve caught something. We’ll see.

JANUARY 17, 2025: I caught something. Guy off the street. I reach out with my mind…and then he walks in. Mind is weak. 

So much meat.

JANUARY 20, 2025: Mom is different. Wet, scales, guttural noises. Eating leftovers from the street person. Meat.

JANUARY 21, 2025: Shaking and crying. Growling. I know. It's coming. I feel it. I’m being watched. It’s coming, and it won’t stop.

JANUARY 23, 2025: In a pitch-black hole yesterday. Climbed up back into bedroom. The floor closed after.

JANUARY 24, 2025: It coming. It comes. Night here.

—-

I should now explain what I saw in the apartment. It was a mess, papers and trash covering the floor. But…it was horrific, too. There was blood everywhere - some fresh, some that had been drying for days, even weeks. There were three corpses in varying states of decomposition, with huge chunks of their bodies missing, with bite marks surrounding the missing pieces. The smell was ungodly. 

But there was something else. Something that…. I just don’t know what to make of it.

There were dismembered parts of a corpse that I honestly don’t think were even human. 

Green, scaled talons - five fingers, each one with points as sharp as a knife. Chunks of a head with mixed clumps of bright blonde hair and red scales, with eye-balls that looked like a cross between that of a human and a cat. Some parts of the body had been clearly ripped or eaten off, while one limb was….embedded into the apartment floor. As if the floor had been built around it.

Seeing all of this, my mouth went dry, and then I vomited for what seemed like forever. I stumbled out of the apartment, and from there I can barely remember what happened next until I got out into the street. I vomited some more before I took off out of there as fast as I could. Primal fear took over completely. I called in an anonymous tip to the police, and then I went home. I didn’t want to be involved in this any more than Jarrett had already got me involved. I couldn’t. I had a life, for fuck’s sake, regardless of how much he had thrown his away.

But I took with me the journal and the red powder - the Mars Dust.

And that’s another thing.

I just couldn’t stop thinking about the Mars Dust. Whenever I looked at it, even though I knew it was very bad news, my heart pounded more and more, harder and harder. My tongue went dry and I just wanted it. When I was at work, it was all I could think of, and when I was home, I…

I couldn’t resist.

I put a dab of it on my tongue. And sure enough, an hour or two later, I was in pure bliss.

The next day arrived. My skin was discoloured. I didn’t care. I saw things differently. The light on the window shined bright red in the afternoon sun, and between and behind the figures playing characters on TV lurked beings and beasts that I could not begin to have conceived of before the Dust.

More Mars Dust. Another day passed. I was hungry. So fucking hungry. I noticed my legs, feet, hands and arms hurting, as if the bones were shifting around inside. I could hear better, enough that I heard my downstairs neighbours rasping, wet and guttural, as they paced back and forth on the floor below. I glanced out the window and saw the people walking by, and I noticed that the sun hurt when its rays hit me through the window.

I saw through a window, a hole, that opened in my bedroom wall in the middle of the night. What I saw through it was wondrous and horrifying. My heart shook in both glee and terror. Then the hole closed two hours later, like it was never there at all.

But none of that matters. I feel it now. What Jarrett felt. The eyes on me. The apprehension. The certainty that it will come, and that it is not afraid.

I am afraid. I’m different now in so many ways, and all of them terrify me, and it’s not finished yet. Jarrett found something in the Mars Dust, and the Dust drew me in, just as much as it drew him in. I’m posting this here as a warning. If you use substances, and get pitched a red powder called Mars Dust, don’t take it.

You have no idea what you’re signing up for if you do.

How frequently do you encounter a criminal adorned with the label 'Ghost' by the media?

More often than not, these types of criminals instill fear not only in the public but also in the authorities. They leave no trace of evidence, no witnesses, no forewarning—nothing. Their crimes consistently leave law enforcement baffled.

A notorious serial rapist and murderer was at large, with his crimes having escalated to a federal level due to his widespread occurrence across the country. Despite the extensive investigation, there was a complete absence of evidence in all fifteen cases where the victims had been both raped and murdered.

The perpetrator appeared to be highly skilled, professional, and exceptionally careful. He consistently used condoms during the assaults, leaving no traces of semen, and wore gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints. Despite using a small knife-like weapon to kill his victims, no trace of the weapon or any other kind of evidence was ever found.

Remarkably, there was no indication of anyone else's presence at the crime scenes, apart from the victims.

This elusive criminal earned the moniker "The Ghost-Like Rapist" from the media, a name that soon struck fear into women all across the country. Even with the widespread awareness and the terror associated with his nickname, the number of victims continued to rise.

“So, how did he do what he did, exactly?” asked Riley to her friend, Sophia, a criminal journalist from one of the biggest newspaper in town, Firebirds. “I mean, he’s not a ghost, clearly, but he did it exactly just like one. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No one has ever figured that one out. Not yet,” responded Sophia. “The method he employed was a perplexing factor that confounded both federal and local law enforcement.”

“And, keep this in mind,” she added, “his victims were all high-profile women, aged between 16 and 22, who were well-educated and belonged to the middle to high-class social strata. These were not individuals who would typically expose themselves to risk in secluded areas where a rapist could easily target them. Moreover, they were unlikely to let their guard down around an unfamiliar man they had just encountered on the street.”

“Maybe he’s not doing it alone. It could be the work of a group of rapists. When in working in a group, many people could manage to pull off the cleanest crimes anyone could imagine,” Riley proposed her theory. It made sense, if not for one of the most baffling facts found at each crime scene.

“Of course, the possibility of the rapist working in a group crossed the minds of both law enforcement and the public, given the ghostly nature of his crimes,” Sophia explained, as she sipped the cup of coffee she held in her hand. “However, this theory did not hold up when scrutinizing surveillance footage from across town. There were no signs of victims being forced into vehicles or similar scenarios. Instead, it appeared that each victim was enticed to a specific, remote location in each town.”

“The police speculated, though, that online dating sites might have been the means of contact with the victims,” Sophia said again.

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that one theory,” Riley responded, looking interested.

“But this theory did not explain how the rapist managed to lure them to remote crime scenes. It seemed implausible that middle to high-profile women would agree to meet a virtual stranger in a secluded area of town. While this approach might have worked for one or two victims, it seemed unlikely for fifteen.”

Riley had to be agree with Sophia’s last sentence.

“Now, listen up. There have been some more interesting updates regarding the dating-site theory,” Sophia continued. “While investigating further, the police confirmed that only three out of the fifteen victims had ever used online dating sites. Therefore, it was deduced that the rapist must have been someone they met offline. The authorities began scouring every location in each town where individuals from all over the country might have crossed paths. They checked coffee shops, amusement parks, malls, and more, yet no significant leads emerged.”

This ghostly serial-rapist has become the most hunted criminal in recent years.

This guy had truly live up to the moniker the media had given to him.

Days gone by when finally, a breakthrough seemed imminent when a woman, exhibiting signs of being a survivor of the rapist, was discovered.

She was found wandering the town, with her shirt torn, and her face and body covered in dirt, wounds, and blood. Additionally, blood appeared to be dripping from her genitals onto her inner thighs. An ambulance was called by a passerby who happened to saw her in a terrible condition.

Although she remained silent all the way from the location she was found to the hospital, her physical condition led the police to suspect that she had experienced a rape.

The police and doctors were convinced that this woman was a victim of the same rapist they had been relentlessly pursuing, especially upon noticing a faint mark on her neck, indicative of strangulation by a hand wearing a latex glove.

This young woman, however, remained unresponsive. She hadn’t said a single word ever since she was found.

While she initially stayed quiet during the ambulance ride to the hospital, she suddenly erupted into a frenzied state when a nurse approached her to change clothes and provide medical care. She screamed uncontrollably, lashed out, and resisted anyone attempting to approach her, displaying unmistakable terror and fear in her eyes.

"It appears that she is still suffering from extreme trauma," explained Dr. Karen Hummingbird, the overseeing physician, to Detective Daniel Landorff, the lead investigator. Sophia, the journalist, was also present at the spot. She had been Daniel’s unofficial sidekick for years, providing the detective the data, resources, and analytics the police had trouble accessing.

Sophia had excellent connections and networks with nearly anyone in town. She had always been helpful in solving some cases in the past. Needless to say, the detective was expecting the same result from her regarding the ghost-like rapist crime case.

Despite all the helps he had received, Detective Daniel still found himself in a helpless position.

He couldn't bring himself to enter the victim's room and question her. Several female nurses had attempted to approach her for medical assistance, but she responded by screaming, kicking, and punching, making it clear that she did not want anyone, especially a man resembling her attacker, near her.

To ensure the survivor's safety, Detective Daniel stationed a police officer outside her hospital room.

“If she was indeed the target of the same ghost-like rapist, being the first surviving victim meant she could expose his identity to the police. It was crucial to protect her at all costs,” he said to Sophia, right outside the victim’s room, staring inside through the small window on the door.

Although Detective Daniel understood that it would take time for a survivor of attempted rape and murder to recover, he made regular visits to the hospital, eager to check on her progress.

Daniel and Sophia saw the woman sat on her bed, clutching her legs tightly, her gaze skeptical as she observed anyone who approached her room.

Understandably, she remained guarded.

And then, it seemed that light had started to shine on justice when there was some progress on the second day.

The surviving victim no longer screamed or lashed out when female nurses approached her. However, she still refused to be touched or respond to any questions, prompting the nurses to leave her be. They didn't change her clothes or clean her up but attempted to gather information on Detective Daniel's behalf.

“She still refused to talk, Detective. No answers were given. I’m truly apologized, this is the best we can do today,” said one of the nurse.

“Well, the fact that she no longer reacted violently is clearly as a small step forward,” Sophie muttered to the Detective who was standing right beside her. They held onto this glimmer of progress, however insignificant.

“Let’s hope that, by the fifth or seventh day, she might willing to at least speak to the nurse,” Daniel said to Sophie. They, however, tried not to expect too much, considering her traumatized state.

Then, on the third day, another woman who appeared to be another survivor of the ghost-like rapist, bearing similar marks on her body, was brought to the same hospital by an ambulance, following a passerby's report to the police.

It should come to no surprise that, as the largest government hospital in town, it was likely that other victims or survivors, if any, would be taken there.

Detective Daniel's mind immediately buzzed with questions.

To the detective, however, this could mean both a good and potentially bad development on the case.

“The positive aspect was that with two survivors, the chances of apprehending the serial ghost-like rapist and murderer increased significantly. Moreover, if there was another survivor, it might encourage the first survivor to open up, having finally encountered someone who had endured a similar nightmare,” Detective Daniel explained to Sophia as she was asking.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that side of the situation,” Sophia responded, “but, how is it also potentially bad, though?”

“After carrying out flawless attacks on 15 victims across 15 different towns, the rapist now left two survivors in a single town, the 16th on the list?” Daniel asked his journalist friend back. “The ghost-like rapist had never targeted two victims consecutively in one town, let alone left two survivors behind. This doesn’t sounds good to me.”

“What do you have in mind?” the journalist asked again.

“This raised the possibility that either one of the survivors had fallen victim to a different assailant, or something entirely unexpected was happening,” Daniel explained as he observed the second survivor from outside of her room.

“You know what,” he said again as he bite on his sandwich, “I can't comprehend why I had a nagging feeling that it was the second survivor, rather than the first, who held the key to unraveling the mystery.”

“Your cop-instinct?” Sophia asked, half joking.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“My instinct had also told me that something was amiss,” he added.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. Not yet.”

Throughout the observation from outside the room, Daniel and Sophia had noticed that, in contrast to the first survivor, the second one appeared less hysterical. While she still reacted with screams and punches upon seeing a man in the room, she remained relatively calm when approached by a female nurse. However, she also didn't allow the nurse to touch her.

Dr. Karen, upon her observation, speculated that the second survivor might regain stability faster than the first.

On the fourth day after her arrival, the second survivor seemed calmer and more stable than the previous days.

“Is it possible, Doctor, to inform both survivors about each other's presence in the hospital?” Detective Daniel discussed the idea with Dr. Karen. The Detective was hoping that this revelation would expedite their recovery and eventually lead them to open up. The sooner both survivors were ready to be questioned, the closer Detective Daniel would be to identifying and locating the elusive rapist he had been pursuing for months.

“We can try,” Dr. Karen agreed to the plan, “but on the condition that I will be the one to talk to them about it. Not you. Not your journalist friend, even if she herself is a woman.”

“Of course, Doctor. I can understand.”

“Although I will be the one talking to them, I should remind you not to push or force the survivors to cooperate in case they showed any reluctance. We should respect their well-being, as their recovery is my primary concern.”

“Yes. Of course, Doctor. Of course.”

Dr. Karen approached both surviving women and relayed the information, but they didn't respond yet. She reassured the detective to remain calm and wait for progress, while also informing the survivors that they could indicate if they wished to speak with each other.

Later that evening, on the fourth day, Detective Daniel received an update from the precinct.

“It seems that at least ten out of the fifteen victims had recently met a new female friend, just a few days before the incidents,” said one of his subordinates at the precinct assigned to look of further information. “On the day they were raped and murdered, they had mentioned hanging out with this new friend to their parents.”

“Was this ‘new friend’ the same person?” Daniel asked.

“We haven’t yet receive any confirmation or any sort of evidence if this ‘new friend’ mentioned by these ten victims was the same person”, his subordinate replied. “But if it was, this woman would be working with the rapist. She could potentially be his accomplice, responsible for approaching and luring the targets to the specific locations where they would be assaulted and killed.”

Detective Daniel, as well as Sophia and his subordinates had no choice but to wait and look for further information. Twenty years working as a detective, never once Daniel felt this frustrated dealing with a serial rapist.

Then, on the fifth day, a nurse wearing a surgical mask entered the room of the second survivor. After informing the police officer guarding the room that Detective Daniel had called for them, the nurse entered. Simultaneously, the officer rose from their seat and walked on to meet the Detective who was suppose to be in another location in the hospital.

As the nurse closed the window in the room, now that it was nighttime, she initiated a conversation with the second survivor.

Speaking in a calm and soothing manner, the nurse managed to create an atmosphere of relaxation, leading the survivor to respond—a reaction she had never exhibited with previous nurses who entered her room.

"His voice was also calm and soothing. It made me feel more comfortable and trusting," the survivor answered the nurse's question about what had happened to her.

"I've been following the news, and the police are trying to figure out how this guy managed to lure all his victims. It got me wondering too," the nurse said. The survivor's face turned pale, and a glimpse of horror crossed her features.

"Well, I mentioned his voice being calm and soothing, but that wasn't what deceived me initially. I'm sure it was the same for the other victims," the survivor responded. "When we first met, I actually thought he was a woman."

The nurse chuckled, muffled by her surgical mask. "Wait, what? What do you mean?" she inquired, curious.

"When he first approached me, he disguised himself as a woman. He had long hair, a pretty face, a slender body, and he wore makeup, a dress, and high heels. His voice was soft, and he looked and sounded exactly like a woman," she explained to the nurse, reliving the horrifying moment.

"Seriously? He even wore high heels? A man would go to such lengths just to commit rape and murder?" the nurse asked in disbelief.

"Yes, he did. I can't believe it myself," the woman replied. "After a while, I sensed something was off, but his appearance, attire, and manner of speaking completely fooled me. I never suspected he was a man!"

"Well, that explains many of the questions the police had about him," the nurse responded.

"Anyway, you mentioned that his voice was calm and soothing like mine?" the nurse asked the woman.

"Yeah, more or less," the woman replied.

"Did he look like this too?" the nurse inquired, removing his surgical mask to reveal that he was the first surviving woman from the other room in the hospital. However, it turned out that he wasn't a woman at all.

The second survivor noticed his face—the face of the man who had raped and nearly killed her. The man she had just described as ‘looking, dressing, and sounding exactly like a woman.’

She gasped, instantly consumed by terror.

She wanted to scream for help, but her voice failed her. Just as she was about to leap off the bed, the nurse—who was actually the ghost-like rapist disguised in a nurse uniform—grabbed her neck and covered her mouth, pinning her to the bed.

"I knew you would be here. I've been searching for you. Killing you like this will tarnish my flawless record, but I can't allow anyone who can identify me to live," he said, drawing a hidden knife from his uniform and slashing the woman's throat.

As the woman gasped for air, fighting for her life as blood seeped from her gaping wound, the ghost-like rapist donned his surgical mask once again. Still dressed as a nurse, he exited the room, closed the door, and strolled through the hospital corridor.

On his way out, he triggered the fire alarm, creating chaos within the hospital to divert attention from his escape through the front door, still disguised as a nurse.

He vanished, never to be seen again.

At least, not for now.

Success is the worst entity out there and you might not think that success is the worst entity, but it is. Out of all the other entities who have more terrifying names and traits, the entity success makes you successful. It doesn't sound so bad right to be successful and everyone wants to be successful. My advice for you is not to be successful and to hide under the duvet when success is infront of you. The entity success has an easy weakness and it's duvets. I'll give you a few examples of those who allowed success into their lives.

Take Ryan for instance and when he and his wife started a YouTube channel, they became instant big hits. They would do songs and play music and even their children were part of it. Then it came out that Ryan was part of a cheating on your spouse website, when hackers hacked into the website and his name was found, his image was torn apart and his marriage had ended. It was a steep fall and one which Ryan is forever regretting. He sleeps alone now on some horrid apartment.

Then there was Eric and when he won the lottery on some random day, he couldn't believe his luck. He went on telly and he was all over the newspapers about his huge winnings. His success was random and came out of nowhere. Little did he know that some psychotic thugs had recently moved into a flat next to his house and when they found out that Eric had won huge amounts of money, they attacked him. They took what they could from him and then they chopped him up into many pieces.

You see success is just a set up to a huge failure. When Lewis became famous for his music online, his past came to haunt him after a year of success, when all of the people that he had bullied in school took him down and spoke about what he had done to them. His image was also destroyed and he lost everything.

When me and my 2 friends entered a broken down building, the entity success was there. Usually success is hard to see but sometimes you can literally see it. There was a room with one bee and a duvet in it. The 3 of us were fighting for that one duvet so that it could protect us from success. James got caught by success and straight away his business idea took off.

He is making so much money but he isn't excited by it, because he knows that success is just a huge set up for a huge fall. It's only a matter of time when people find out that he had turned his family into pigs.

Do not become successful and I know it feels great but the entity success tends to go for people with bones in their closets. I am frightened at just thinking about success capturing me, the bones in my closet will be known by everyone.

I’ve got a new heart. But I don’t feel young again. I just feel sick.

So after the motel thing, I’m left with about two dozen passengers. I notice that the ones left are mostly the ones who’d seemed. More content, during the initial drivin’. Not quite as jumpy. Not quite as glassy eyed. Nobody puts nothin’ else extra in the boxes cept’ Lume. I don’t even look at what it was, since I heard the same thunk the flashlight’d made when it’d been dropped last night.

I hope you don’t mind. But I’m not feeling so great. I just want to. Get this out.

Lume has already decided, not even half an hour after their friend died, that they can be fixed. They tell me they still want to go to Angelvale. That they’d heard they’ve fixed all sorts of broken people, that they work genuine miracles. I think they’re desperate. But I think that, even so, it’s worth a try. I think, no matter what happens, if you think there’s a chance. If there’s someone who’s worth it to you, or if you even just wanna be kind, it’s worth a try.

I don’t ask my Trainee to drive the bus the next morning. She doesn’t seem like she’d be eager. We put the body of the cat-thing in the hatch space. Lume just called it Spotter, and I’m not sure if that was a nickname they’d given or not. If you don’t say their name, the one that actually means them, then they can’t be dead. I guess that’s what they must’ve been thinkin’. Only the dead don’t have to follow the rules.

It’s quiet. The drive to the hospital. Some of the folk, I think I’ve mentioned before, they can feel when you’re prying into their business. Like when we feel eyes on the back of our head and get goosebumps. Some folk also have it the other way around, they just know when something private is happening. I get barely any souls on my bus that morning, and I think it’s because everyone sensed that mourning dread coming off my vehicle. I’ll be honest. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like I wasn’t driving a bus, just a glorified hearse.

A part of me still thinks that sounds about right.

My Trainee didn’t drive, but she did sit up top this time. I saw guilt in her every feature. Posture, the twitch of her nose, the way she just leaned and looked out the window. She only looked right. I saw one of the rabbit folk, one of the ones that were left, go over to her. They sat in her seat with her, and they hesitated a moment. They reached out their hand and put it on her shoulder. I watched in the rear view. Saw my Trainee kind of frown at em’, then they pulled each other into an embrace.

I felt like I was looking at myself, then. I’ve looked into the mirror plenty of times, saw a sad husk of an old fool looking back. And I never really liked him. And few folk ever came to my side to hold me like that. But I told myself. I told myself, see, I said ‘Driver, you daft knucklehead, if you keep thinking like that nobody ever will’. And I told myself, too, ‘and what about the folk out there, looking at themselves just like you are, who just need to get somewhere thinking like that won’t make sense anymore?’.

So I kept driving. Like I did then. I thought of the walls. Lume had called them boring, but nice. To me, that smelled of safety, and that was something I wanted so badly. But you retire when you can’t do your job anymore, or when the job is done. And neither applied yet.

Eventually, the landscape went through enough colors and faces that it pulled up Angelvale’s. The road there felt familiar, in more ways than one. It sat in the middle of a suburban area, probably the leftovers of some city or other. Tall, white, boxy, with glass windows that ran across most of its length. It had two taller sections that stood all prideful above the rest, which reminded me a bit of castle towers. I think they were called drums or some such. Maybe rounds. All of the windows had curtains or blankets over them, or were boarded shut.

The sign outside the hospital has a name that ain’t scratched over. Welcome to Angelvale. They didn’t bother scratching out the other parts, except the arrows pointing to places that no longer existed. It had some kind of street address that was all garbled nonsense. I suppose so you could find it, even though it was probably not where it was supposed to be anymore. The thing that I cared about was the rules.

Formality in partial effect. Hospital rules as follows: please do not bring hazardous food, drink, or materials inside. Please do not bring weapons inside. Please do not take up the Doctor’s time unless you feel ill, or suspect yourself to be, or are in denial of being so. The only thing that will be punished is fully cognizant theft and harm. Please consider that we cannot operate on those who did not give consent first. Advance pre-authorization is recommended.

I think this might’ve been where I’d spent that sick time at. Was that after the Lodge showed up? The tunnels? I’ve got my recorder back, I listened to every one on a loop. But I think. I think maybe some part of me is wanting to forget now. To freeze up and stop making decisions. It wants to let the roads fade away forever, and to let me start shutting my eyes and ears to everyone else. I think I really thought about it. But I remembered I can’t.

It’s not always the world that wants you to forget. Or the things in it. Sometimes, it’s just you.

I pull up. I see there’s a bus stop. Posts and all. I figure I must’ve driven a lot of people here, and from here. Easy to find, easy to forget if you don’t have to go inside. But today I had to. All the rabbits filed in with me, and so did my Trainee, and Lume. I asked some of the rabbity sorts to help me carry the Spotter, and to my surprise they did. I guess when you can hear everyone’s hearts, you can tell whose is in it when someone does something not quite proper.

The receptionist checked us in. I didn’t even flinch this time when they asked me if certain things had changed. When they told me I’d been checked in multiple times before. All the half-rabbits follow my lead, and Lume gets a guest pass. My Trainee checked herself in, around this point, kind of melted into her herd. My head was full of fuzz, and I think she’d noticed.

The halls were white and prim, little black and white tiles running under my feet. It felt odd, like I was leading a flock, as my Trainee and her folk trail after me, feet padding or squeaking or shuffling along the floor in echoes. A lot of people peeked out of rooms as we passed em’, made faces of all sorts at the noise. Some shook their heads as they ducked back in.

We passed hanging signs, telling us where we were going. The herd broke up and filtered itself into wherever they needed to go as we went. I saw things like hidden injury, trade mishaps, varied therapy, operation, long term visit/stay, and legality navigation. The last one had me raising my brows. I squinted, adjusted my glasses, and there was a little subtitle under it reading check here first if the results of treatment in relation to Formality are unclear, Society Legality will advise. There was a big cardboard cutout of an arrow pointing towards it right next to it, and if I traced my steps a bit I saw smaller arrows painted onto the walls guiding towards it.

“Well huh. I guess that must be important.” When I said that, one of the rabbit folk looked at me. Stared. Then they went that way. A lot of them had gone towards hidden injury, varied therapy, operation. All sorts of problems for all sorts of folks, and a lot of em’ end up bugging you right after you fix another. When I got antsy later, walked around a bit, I noticed a lot of this signage had ECFK Approved under it, followed by something sounding like job title located here. I think the ones that didn’t were for specialists, maybe, or just for folk that didn’t want to deal with whoever that was. Lot of the hospital wings - that the right word? - had dupes.

The rest around here is a tad boring, so I’ll spare you. We find a doctor who chats a bit with Lume. I step out, sit and alternate between roaming and antsy foot tapping in a waiting room. My Trainee sits with me, and it registers she was gone for a bit. I frown a little.

“There’s so much… Going on, lately. You doing okay?” I ask. I mean it, but I probably sounded a little out of it.

“I am.” She paused, shook her head. “No. Are you?”

“I try my best to be. I can’t tell most of the time, honest.” I smack my lips, rub my hands against my legs. I’d felt a little sore in my legs. I was having a hard time thinking what to say, too. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

“You couldn’t. You aren’t strong enough.”

I balk for a second, then sigh. “I guess. That’s what you’re for, though, ain’t it?” I tried to smile, but it was shaky, and I think I’d just sounded desperate. Maybe I’d been putting too much pressure on her.

She doesn’t say anything for a bit. Eventually, she tilts her head. “Have you ever felt strong?”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Like you could… Really do anything. Anything you wanted. Like you were… Doing your job right.” She thumps her foot, lightly, on a loop. “Like you… Belonged.”

I get some kinda half-flashback, suck my bottom lip. “Might’ve. I think… I think at the Office, maybe. I think I’ve been doing this job a fair bit of time.”

“What keeps you going?” She stops looking at me, puts her eyes towards the blanketed window instead. There’s only a handful of souls in the waiting room with us. It’s quiet. A little dark, but in a peaceful way.

“When I get those little letters. Before that, when I looked through the things I’d gotten. When I picked someone up and they said they were pleased as punch with how things were going.” I answered pretty quick. It’s easy to do when you’re sure of your words. “I think, maybe, though, it’s. When I feel lost, I’ve still got the bus. When I see someone else who’s lost, I can use it to make them not so lost. Things don’t… Always go well, but sometimes I can make them better.”

“But not always?”

“No, not always. But enough.” She looked at me funny. I don’t think she believed me. I don’t think I did, either. It’s hard, sometimes, to look at the positives when hell is just around the corner. Or something worse. And sometimes? Sometimes, I think, that it’s easier to go there yourself than watch someone you care about do the goin’.

We talked for a while. About little things. Stuff I’d gotten paid with. A few particularly notable drop offs and pickups. She told me about a few places she wanted to see. Some stuff she wanted to do. When I asked her if she still wanted to drive, she said yes. Then she asked me something again.

“Do you wish you still drove alone?”

I blinked at her. “Sorry?”

“Do you ever think… It’s better to be alone?” She watched one of her kin walk down this way. When I looked their way, they looked real deflated. They fussed with a stitch keeping a human hand on a not-so-human torso. I saw them pull one out of place and winced. Wondered if I should get up and check on them. I wish folk would just. Let us stick our nose in their business, sometimes. Strange thought to have, I know, but I can’t… Help if I don’t know what all’s wrong.

“Sometimes. When I need to think. But I don’t think I’d ever want to be alone forever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Not coming around sooner.” She smiled at me, a smile that trembled a little. I held her hand, returned the grin, but I’m not sure I should’ve smiled at that anymore. We sat there like that, not making another peep, for maybe half an hour or so more. Lume came out, sat down with us.

“They said they can’t do anything.” They announced. Their light was as dim as their voice. “That… They’d just get taken again after. I told them I did not want that. They apologized.” They looked up at me. “Can you take me somewhere they can do something? Please? You must know somewhere.”

But I didn’t. And I didn’t know how to say that. It broke my heart. They didn’t need me to utter a word, they watched me shake my head all slow like and knew my answer. They said they’d wait for someone who could. I saw them get up and move over to the long term visit/stay area. I watched them go with a big frown. I can drive the bus. But I can’t guarantee someone’ll be happy once they’re dropped off. Some people are just worse off when I do. I can’t control how things shake out, just how folk get places.

My Trainee got up, said she’d go check on em’. I don’t know for sure where they actually went, though. I fell asleep in the waiting area chair I’d hunkered down in. I was tired, in more ways than one.

I woke to the sound of rabbits squealing. When I opened my eyes, all startled, I saw the one that’d been picking at its stitches up at one of the windows. It was ripping down one of the curtains. Someone’d glued or otherwise stuck it to the frame somehow, but they fixed that with a scalpel I have a feeling they hadn’t asked to have. I saw a nurse - a lot of them looked the same, when I thought about it later - move over to em’.

“Please refrain from harming the decor.” He looked real concerned. Pulled gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on with a snap. They stood there for a second, paced instead of reaching out. I think they were trying to figure out what their wiggle room was in hospital rules. When they saw the scalpel, they went rigid for just a second before lunging. They tried to pull the rabbit folk down to the ground, probably thinking to pin them and call for someone else, but they got kicked in the abdomen. This one had rabbit feet, so it probably hurt. I saw em’ double over.

The rabbit broke through the window. That is, they backed up a bit, ran forward, and jumped. Glass shattered and went everywhere, glittering in the moonlight. The moon was full in the sky, and the stars shone so bright I swear if you pulled down the moon they’d fill in just fine.

It started to float. I didn’t hear the thud of a body hitting the ground. They just. Went up. Real slow and gentle like. I caught the reflection of an earring and a necklace coming off them - can’t remember if they’d come in with it - before they went high enough I couldn’t see them anymore.

I shot up to my feet. I called for my Trainee, started moving down the halls. Careful at first, wasn’t sure what was going on, but the moment I saw another flash of fur and stitching I went towards it. All the nurses started moving around. I heard a voice call over the intercom.

“Please stay in your rooms. If you’ve not been admitted or signed in, you are given free permission to enter areas present staff is willing to guide you to.” About the same time, someone grabbed at me, said something about shelter. I ignored them, elbowed them hard enough I sent em’ into a wall. I had a split second of panic, but rules be damned if I was going to wait and gawk while my apprentice was in danger.

I felt terror wash over me like it hadn’t in years. I think, end of day, my greatest fear isn’t going away. It’s being alone.

I follow the sounds of squeaking shoes, squealing, thumping and growling. All sorts of other noises filter around me, but I ignore them. Everything except that faint music. The staticy voice that came over the intercom that wasn’t owned by any doctor. And somehow, it managed to drown out the sound of shattering glass, tearing fabric, and nails being ripped out of boards.

“Go to the roof. I don’t want her back. I don’t know how to take them back yet. Not in a way they should be.”

I almost stop to help one of her folk that I pass. But I figure I can’t wrestle them down. And I get selfish. I think strangers aren’t as important, even though everyone I’ve ever known was a stranger first. One of the nurses comes by and nods at me. They’ve started going in groups. I see them pull someone away from a window. It looks awkward, they’re half-floating, half being dragged inside. They tie em’ to a bed with straps all while they’re screaming ‘let me go, let me go, I need to go home’ and trying to bite.

I pray I’m making the right decision. I find some stairs, thinking the elevator is too slow, pound up. My own feet sound screeching in my ears and I don’t bother counting how many flights I go up, I just go.

I stumble, hit a wall and get a purple bruise on my arm. I push myself back to my feet, whisper some encouragement to myself, and I burst through a metal door onto the top of the hospital.

My Trainee is standing on what looked like one of those emergency helicopter pads. Didn’t look like it’d been used in years. But I had a feeling I didn’t want anything taking off from there. Above me the night sky bled with twinkling dots and the cold chill sings with a song that feels deeply familiar. Overlaid on top of it is a voice. One that I stop listening to. There’s a more important one right in front of me.

She’s wearing that costume, with the dumb little tiara. I see the stitches on her neck are half-off. Her head hangs loosely. My throat catches. I almost freeze up, but I force myself to step towards her. She’s humming the song I’m hearing. Hands behind her back, fidgeting. She’s got the recorder she’d been using. She hits play. I think she wanted me to hear her, the real her, before she left.

I don’t want that to be all I’ve got left of her. So I try to drag her back. “Come on. Let’s go back to the bus. You…”

“I’m going somewhere better. Better than the mall. Better than the walls.”

“I can take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere. Just-”

“I want to be where I need to be. Not where I want to be.” She turns around. She’s crying, little black-brown eyes all wet. “Do you think I’m human? Or an animal?”

“What? It don’t matter none. You’re-”

“It does, though.” She steps towards me. “I think I’m ugly. I think I don’t belong. I think the beautiful and wonderful things down here aren’t for me.” She cocks her head. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too? Trying to… Help people, know them. Then they go away. And sometimes it’s your fault.”

“It does. It hurts a hell of a lot. But if I’m not down here, I can’t do a lick of good.”

“Stop. Stop worrying about them. Let me take you somewhere for once. Let me take you somewhere… Quiet, and safe. Look!” She points up.

I see a little moon next to the big one, hiding in its shadow. It’s red instead of white. I see a building on the moon. But I don’t think that’s where it wants to take her. I have to stare for a while to make out the other thing in the sky. I see someone in a suit, all white with a round helmet with a black shining face. I know for fact I’m not supposed to be able to see it so clearly. But I can. And I can see the cord coming from its back. Like one of those tethers astronauts use to keep with their vessels.

It’s coming down. Not fast. But it’s coming down. I see them now. The other rabbits. There’s about a dozen, floating up towards it. I watch them. They seem dazed, out of it, like they’re overcome with some euphoria. Then they snap back, and they’re breathing hard, and the only reason they’re not screaming is because they’re scared it’ll make things worse somehow.

“That’s not a good place.” She’d told me her name. I just don’t… Use it. I didn’t want anything to hear, to find her. “You’re not ugly. You’ve got a good heart, and you’ve always kept me grounded.” I reach out to take her hand, and she lets me. I hold hers in mine, both, and my hands are shaking.

She frowns, shakes her head. “You’re getting too old for your job. Why don’t you just… No. You won’t listen, anyway.” She doesn’t let go. She holds my hand tighter. I see her start to change position, and I realize I’m the only thing holding her anchored to the earth.

Her folk come out. The ones that had looked not so displeased with what they looked like and where they were. They call her name in chorus, start grabbing at her. Try to pull down the others that weren’t so high. I see one has a ladder, but it can’t get them as far up as they need to be.

Something grabs at my Trainee. I see her smile, a real, wide one that looks like it hurts. But she’s crying. She mouths don’t let me go. Please.

But it’s got her. I see that suit wrap it’s arms around her, gentle as if she was a newborn. I see that it’s tether is wet and slick in a way it shouldn’t be. It smells all sorts of strange. Rancid, but sterile. I see it’s helmet open, and I see something that should be long dead that wasn’t. I hear the sounds of rabbits and something choking. I think it whispers something, but its not for me.

Its real voice calls to me. “I’m sorry.”

We can’t hold onto her. Not long enough. My arms give out. The rabbits around me keep grasping at the sky, calling, shouting names. Hospital staff comes up behind us, just watches in silence. I don’t fault them. I think they tried their best. At least, I choose to believe that.

I watch her go up for a bit. It feels like watching an angel pull someone away, but if you knew damn well it wasn’t one, and you had no idea what heaven actually looked like. I go down the stairs. I use the elevator this time, and I go out to the bus. I go right into the hatch. I root through all my things, and I can’t find any secret solutions. I feel guilt, wondering if she thought I was leaving her behind.

I come back up. I’ve not used one in a long time, if I ever have. I never gave back the rifle that witch had left on my bus. I didn’t think I’d ever have the guts to use it - it’s real hard to hurt someone, when you never know who’s confused and who’s really after blood - but I force my shaky fingers to make something resembling a proper aim. Lume comes up. They let me borrow their light.

I try to shoot that fake astronaut in the face. It’s peering right over her head, watching me like it’s taunting. I see a bullet go right through its helmet, but it doesn’t seem to care. I wonder if I can hit that cord. But it’s so far up.

One of the rabbits holds my arm. They look up at my Trainee. “Please, no.” I whisper. But I know what they’re thinking, and I picture all those people I’d seen over the years just. Disappear. That lady with the umbrella. Ori. I don’t know where they’re at now. I don’t know if they’re suffering.

I don’t want her to find out for me.

It takes me a few tries. But I get her in the center mass. I watch her choke on her own blood for a bit. I watch the light leave her eyes. But she smiles. I think she died afraid. But I think she’d rather die down here, than figure out what parts of her daydreaming were real and what were nightmares up there. I pass the rifle. I don’t got much ammo. I’d traded for some along the way, but not much.

I don’t stick around to see how many go back to earth. I just hear the shots. I think someone tries to catch me. I move towards the stairs. I think I was going off to find someone to help me move bodies. Or maybe I was just being a coward and didn’t want to look at hers.

I stumbled, and I hit my head on the way down the steps. I blacked out.

When I woke, it was in a hospital bed. I felt sprier than I should’ve. And when I asked why, I got an answer. I put two and two together.

When someone’s a friend, they can give gifts freely. That’s why you need to be careful with your words out here. They can come into your safe places, they can break little rules just for you. There’s some gray, but mostly it’s just. You trust them, and you find out whether or not you should’ve sooner or later.

I trusted her. But I don’t think she trusted me. I think she didn’t want to lose me, either. I freeze up in the lights when things get tough sometimes, or I’m hotheaded and pretending to be in my prime. I think I could run a marathon if I wanted now. But I just want to drive the bus.

I just don’t want to do it alone.

Were you silent because I haven’t spun my yarn well enough? Or was there just. Nothing that could’ve been done to help in the first place. Maybe it was always going to turn out like this. Maybe I should’ve kept a closer eye on things. On people, roads, things that were said and that I needed to remember. But I’m just human. I’m just human.

I wonder if the world could ever be as magical as she thought it was. I don’t know when you’ll hear from me next. I’ve got to… Sort some things out, I think. I can’t feel the roads so well anymore, so I might be driving for a while. But I’ll try to come back.

Someone has to drive the bus. For now, that’s me. It should've been her, too.

Previous Entry

I am just cleaning out my phone charger as it isn't charging properly anymore. Plus the charger doesn't fit into the charger point on the phone. I enjoy cleaning out my phone charger and you get a small needle and you start taking out the fluff. It gives me a lot of delight in doing this and it feels good being able to clean out the phone charger. When I first start to clean out the charger point on my phone by using a needle, I expected fluff and dust that had been gathered up for some time. I am going to enjoy this very much.

When I first start cleaning my phone charger point, I start to take out chunks of meat instead. Small tiny chunks of meat and it was putrid. I then start to take out more meat matter. Then I hear screaming in my daughters room, and I go to her room and she has her friend and a new girl in her room. They are playing have you ever and if you have done something, then you have to put your finger up. My daughter and her friend seem to be looking strangely at the new girl.

"Let's play the game again and I will go again" the new girl says to my daughter and her friend

My daughter blasts a few have you ever questions at the new girl, and she is putting up her finger which signifies that she has done it. My daughter has said stuff like "have you ever murdered, robbed, eaten a human" all at the girl and she was putting her fingers up. Then when the new girl haf all ten fingers up she said "keep asking me more" and my daughter kept asking the new girl more have you ever questions.

I Waa frightened when the new girl had more fingers pointing up but they were coming out of her body now. Then as the new girl was covered in fingers, like a centipede she started moving around with all those fingers coming out of her and even on the wall. Then I started to ask the new girl have you ever questions.

"Have you ever been nice to someone? have you ever truly loved someone? Have you ever helped someone?" And the fingers on the new girl started to go down one by one. She is clearly evil and has never done any good. The new girl then went out and my phone no longer had meat and other disgusting shit inside the phone charger point. It was just dust and fluff now.

I love cleaning out my phone and it's such a great way to use up my time. I don't know why it gives me pleasure but with all things that need to come out, in return that gives pleasure. Now and then though when I clean out my phone, I pieces of meat and other matter. It still feels good.

I'm publishing this as a warning. If any of this sounds alarmingly familiar, I encourage you to read on.

As a side note, I won't be giving more than one warning.

If you know anything about the peephole, stay away from me.

----------------

It wasn’t the sound of distant thunder that woke me up yesterday morning. No, it was the gentle tap tap tap of rain trickling down my forehead that caused my eyelids to slightly flutter open. The sensation was a little too delicate to wake me up completely, so I briefly lingered in a state of drowsy half-sleep. Before long, though, a cold droplet unexpectedly splashed onto my left eye, exorcising any remaining grogginess and jolting me fully awake.

I shot up in bed. Judging by the lifting twilight outside my window, it was still early morning. Dark clouds hung ominously over the horizon. It looked like a nasty storm was rolling through, but that didn’t explain how the precipitation had made its way inside.

Just then, a faint beam of light appeared, cast down from somewhere up above. It fell from my bedroom’s ceiling and landed on my pillow, exactly where my head had been a few moments prior. The spotlight was small and rounded, its diameter no larger than a quarter. My gaze traveled up the beam until I saw what I was looking for.

A perfect, circular hole in my roof. The clouds over my home had parted, allowing a ray of sunlight to find its way through the opening. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and looked again, assuming I was seeing something that wasn't actually there. But as my vision refocused, the hole became clearer.

It was entirely too symmetric to have occurred naturally, like a cookie cutter had been used to create it.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like a peephole.

But that implied that someone was scaling my home in the middle of the night, silently watching me sleep by placing one eye over the tiny hole, only to climb back down before I woke up in the morning.

As the hair on the back of my neck started to rise, fear swelling in my chest, I suppressed the idea. Logically, it was absurd. Why would anyone do that? I mean, what would be the point? How could I have never noticed?

The meds do make me a pretty deep sleeper, I thought.

----------------

Sleep has been a big issue for me my whole life. No matter how much I get, I never wake up rested. When I was kid, my parents were concerned about how it was affecting my performance at school, but I was much more fixated on the recurring nightmares.

Every night, without fail, I’d dream of The Skitter.

It would start with me floating in the air like a spirit. Sometimes I’d be outside, sometimes I’d be in a house I didn’t recognize, but it’d always be in the dead of night. Before long, I’d see it below me. A long, slender shadow, flat and motionless on the ground like the outline of a fire hose. No matter how dark it was, I’d still be able to discern its shape. Its blackness was so much deeper, so much emptier than normal darkness, that it would give the long shadow contrast. The silhouette of a demon impossibly framed by a lightless night.

After I witnessed the shadow move and eat for the first time, I named it The Skitter.

I’d hover a few feet over the creature, unable to fly away, when someone would appear. It was different every time, and it didn’t matter who they were. Could be a mother walking home from a graveyard shift, an elderly man entering his bathroom, a child walking down the stairs on their way to get a midnight snack - The Skitter took them all the same.

They'd looked in its direction but never could see it like I could. Once they had their backs turned, thousands of writhing legs would jut out of The Skitter’s two-dimensional body. The appendages would feverishly squirm, silently propelling it forward like a hellish centipede.

When it was under its prey’s feet, they would fall through the floor and into The Skitter. I watched helplessly as their distorted, flattened bodies slid down the length of its shadow, faces stretched and contorted into expressions of unimaginable pain and terror.

Then I’d wake up, and it’d be morning.

My parents took me to a neurologist. After I saw them, I had to see a bunch more doctors. Endured plenty of odd, high-tech tests. Eventually, I was diagnosed with a type of epilepsy that only occurs during sleep. The next day, I started some before bed anti-seizure medications. I still never felt rested, but I went decades without dreaming of The Skitter.

That was good enough for me.

For a few days last year, right after I moved into my current home, the nightmares returned. But before I could even make an appointment with a new sleep doctor, they abruptly went away.

In retrospect, I now know why they went away.

Someone installed the peephole.

----------------

Once I had some breakfast in me, I walked over to my neighbor’s house to ask if I could borrow a ladder.

I found Andrew working under his car in the garage. Even though I did my best to announce my entrance softly, the man still nearly jumped out of his own skin, smashing his skull into the undercarriage of his sedan as the words “Morning Andrew” escaped from my lips.

After emitting a loud groan of pain, he carefully slid his body out and stood up.

“Oh, uh, morning Pete,” he said, rubbing the soon to be welt on the top of his head.

“Sorry bud, didn’t mean to startle you. Could I borrow a ladder? There’s a leak somewhere in my roof.”

He paused for a moment, fiercely contemplating his reply like I had asked him the meaning of life.

“Don’t think I have one, actually. You think the leak could wait? I can bring one home from work later this week…”

From my vantage point, I could see the top two stairs of a wooden ladder peeking out from behind a large metal cabinet, only five feet behind him.

Nodding my head in the ladder’s direction, I responded.

“You sure you don’t have one?”

Andrew reluctantly turned around, forcing a chuckle once he saw the tips of the ladder as well.

“Right…forgot about that one. Yeah…I guess that’s fine.”

With the ladder held under my armpit, I began walking back onto my side of the lawn. When I reached the halfway point, I realized I hadn’t thanked Andrew. His behavior was so awkward that I had forgotten my manners.

I turned around and shouted,

“Thanks buddy. I’ll have it back as soon as I patch the leak.”

But I don’t believe he heard me. My neighbor was now at the back of his garage on a call with someone, talking low but gesturing the hand that wasn’t holding his phone with urgency.

Something about his behavior was completely off.

As I placed the ladder against the side of my house, I noticed something else, too. I could have sworn my neighbor across the street was observing me behind a curtained window on the second floor of their house but ducked their head away when I saw them.

----------------

The peephole was significantly more disturbing up close. I could lie down on my stomach with one eye looking through it comfortably, and it had a perfect view of where I slept.

My imagination drifted to the thought of me in bed while someone spied on my sleeping body from a secret hole in my roof, and it caused a violent chill to radiate down my neck.

It wasn’t a new renovation, either. I found evidence that whoever made the hole did not make it recently.

There was a piece of black tarp large enough to cover the orifice hanging by a nail aside from it. Upon closer inspection, I discovered three smaller holes around the peephole’s perimeter in the shape of a square, their insides corrugated to show other nails had been there at some point. The one nail, almost dislodged, clung to the tarp by a thread. Rust coated the head, indicating that it had been there quite a while.

As I pulled the nail out, the purpose of the tarp became clear.

Whoever made the peephole nailed it over the gap before they left in the early morning. That way, I wouldn’t be able to tell it was there during the day by sunlight shining through.

The storm this morning, however, must have pulled it loose.

I pocketed the sliver of tarp and returned the ladder to Andrew. Before I went to bed that night, I used it to cover the peephole from the inside. I also locked my bedroom door and put my wardrobe in front of it as a barricade. Leaned my large bookcase against the window, blocking that potential entrance as well.

Against my expectations, I did not sleep soundly.

But I woke up feeling rested.

----------------

The dream last night was the most vivid I’ve had in recent memory.

It started with me lying motionless on some hallway floor, my back to the ground so I’m staring up at the ceiling.

I want to get up, because I’m intensely hungry, but I know that it’s not time yet.

Somewhere down the hallway, I can feel someone looking at me, even if they can’t actually see me. I have to wait until they aren't looking at me.

The soft thumping of footsteps began coming down the hallway towards me. A foot lands on what should be my face, but it doesn’t hurt. In fact, it doesn’t feel like anything at all.

Once I can see his back, I push as hard as I can, causing sharp pains all throughout my body. But with the pain, I know I can move again.

It feels like I have a thousand fingers and they’re all silently tapping against the wood tile as I furiously sprint.

When I’m under him, I dislocate my jaw, and he falls through me.

I see his face for a split second as he drops into my gullet.

It’s Andrew.

----------------

I woke up with Andrew’s phone on my nightstand this morning.

There was a notification for a new email. I’m unable to open the device without his password, but I can still read the title of the correspondence.

Re: May Have Found Out About Suppressive Observation Hole, ?Containment.

I figured I’d experience a certain horror after truly experiencing my nighttime metamorphosis, but that feeling is blunted by another sensation.

Finally, I feel rested. Rested and full.

Whoever Andrew was and whatever institution he represents, they've prevented that feeling.

I'm convinced the meds I've been taking are sedatives, not anti-seizure medications. They want me sleeping soundly so I don't wake up when they climb up the side of my house. They’ve been watching me at night, so when I change, I’m unable to move. They might have been doing it when I was a kid, too. Maybe they told my parents, maybe they didn't.

Andrew was home last night, so maybe he wasn't the actual watcher. Maybe he was more of a coordinator. Or maybe the whole neighborhood takes shifts.

In the end, it doesn't matter who he was. All that matters is that you take heed. If any of this sounds familiar, if you think you may be part of that same institution as Andrew was, this is your only warning.

I do not plan on ever feeling empty again.

As for Andrew, he’s still here. Alive within me, dissolving slowly.

I still have plenty of room if you’re looking to keep him company.

But if you're smart, you'll just stay away.

This is the tale relayed to me by my friend, Winnie, prior to the occurrence that befell her. She implored me to document and share it so that everyone could be aware. She firmly believed that all of you deserved to know.

Winnie Wilson had lived for 32 years, choosing not to marry but relishing her life to the fullest. She had a stable and satisfying job, resided in a pleasant neighborhood, and had wonderful friends and family. However, an unusual event disrupted her seemingly perfect existence: some people in her life began disappearing one by one—her colleagues, friends, family, and neighbors.

It commenced with a missing person case she noticed on the news, involving a stranger, so she didn't pay much attention to it. But when her boss, Mr. Parker, also disappeared, it concerned her.

Immediately, a sense of something peculiar washed over her.

Winnie was always an inquisitive woman. Whenever something piqued her interest, she delved into learning about it. It was this characteristic that helped her attain one of the highest positions at her workplace. Likewise, whenever she sensed that something was amiss or unusual, she would investigate it.

And that was her initial inclination upon hearing the news about her boss's unexplained disappearance. However, she dismissed the thought at the time.

Regrettably, a few days later, she realized the gravity of her mistake.

As more people she knew went missing, an intense unease enveloped her. One after another, they disappeared.

These were her friends and coworkers, and the authorities seemed incapable of providing any assistance. Frustrated by the lack of progress, Winnie decided to visit the families of her missing colleagues and inquire about the situation. Surely, there had to be an explanation or a reason. Anything.

When Winnie approached the families of her missing colleagues, they too were clueless about how or why it had happened.

“Oh, I don’t know, Winnie my dear. Andrea was just...,” Andrea’s mother paused and sighed before completing her sentence, “vanished. It was as if she was vanished into thin air!”

“Pardon me Ma’am, but, uh...,” Winnie paused, a bit hesitant to ask what she was about to ask because it might hurt Andrea’s mother’s feeling.

“Is there any chance that she... Uh, is there any chance Andrea ran away? I... I am so sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to hurt you with such question, but...”

“No, of course not. There’s no chance,” she replied. “I understand your concern. And you’re not the first person to asked such question. But, you know, she worked out of town, living in her own apartment. From time to time she came home. Here. The morning Andrea was missing, she was arrived home just the night before. It happened just a few hours after she came home. If she planned to run away, why would she came home first at night, and then run away in the morning? That doesn’t make sense.”

That’s a good point, Winnie thought.

“Then, maybe she was... Kidnapped?” Winnie asked again.

“That’s just impossible,” Andrea’s mother exclaimed, sounding so certain. “Andrea is a 36-years-old woman. She’s not married, doesn’t have kids, and she works on a regular job that pays her barely enough money to survive. I have to mention that she is also an antisocial person. I doubt it that she even has many friends. I, as her mother, am no different. I don’t have much money in my account, or any close friends. Can you at least mention one reason why anyone would kidnap someone like that?”

That’s also a good point.

“How about her belongings? Is everything here?”

“As far as I’m concerned, yeah,” Andrea’s Mother replied. For a while after her replies, she paused, staring blankly, looking perplexed.

“But it’s weird, though,” she spoke again, “not just that all her belongings are still here, even the pajamas she wore to sleep that night was laid out on her bed, in the spot where she slept. Yet Andrea was nowhere to be found.”

“Excuse me?!” Winnie’s eyebrows furrowed. What Andrea’s Mother just told her sounded strange to her mind. She wouldn't have left her house without clothes, would she?

“I visited her bedroom the night before, a few hours after she went to sleep. Just to check on her,” Andrea’s mother started explaining herself. “She was there, lying on her bed, sleep peacefully, wearing her pink polka dots pajamas. When I check on her again the next morning because she hadn’t woken up yet at 8 AM, which is unusual for her, she was no longer there. But her pajamas was still there, lying on her bed, unfolded. Even stranger, each of her top and bottom part of of pajamas were positioned on the bed, in a position as if she had been sleeping while wearing it, but then she suddenly vanished into thin air. All the while, still on her bed.”

Andrea wasn’t the only one.

Winnie had visited at least ten of her friends and colleagues who disappeared in the same strange manner. She interviewed all their willing family members, proposing exactly the same scenarios, asking exactly the same questions. They all provided her with similar stories.

One of her other missing colleagues even have stranger scenario surrounding their disappearance.

Denzel, one of Winnie’s friend from college, disappeared when he was having a barbecue party with his family.

“I had just looked away from him for a few seconds, to pick up a plate of food for him to grill,” Sophia, Denzel’s wife explained to Winnie. “When I turned my head back to Denzel, he was no longer there. But his clothes, his shirt and trousers were piled on the ground, right on the spot where Denzel should have been standing, next to the grilling machine.”

It almost seemed like Denzel was standing there, wearing the shirt and trousers, and all of a sudden, he vanished into thin air, leaving his clothing behind to the ground.

It was the most peculiar incident Winnie had ever heard in her entire life.

Moreover, according to the family members, it appeared that none of her missing friends and colleagues were grappling with any issues that would prompt them to leave without notifying anyone. Or were they?

Upon further investigation, Winnie found one aspect that troubled her immensely. All the family members of her missing colleagues described a common occurrence in the lives of their loved ones. They had been experiencing recurring, identical dreams in the weeks leading up to their disappearances.

“In his dreams, he envisioned himself leaving his home and strolling through his familiar city, only to find it in ruins and covered in dust,” Sophia started retelling the story that her husband had shared with her.

“All the buildings he saw along his way to a place he doesn’t even recognize,” Sophia continued the story, “stood amidst a desert landscape devoid of trees and grass. I don’t know if you can imagine it, it looks like a post-apocalyptic depiction of life”.

“My husband then entered an unfamiliar building, and as if he had done it countless times before, he just sat in one of a chair in what appeared to be a waiting room.”

“Sitting alongside him in the same waiting room were hundreds other people, patiently waiting for their names to be called. When his name was called, he would walked towards a room, and open its door. As he entered the room, he said he was greeted by a blinding white light before suddenly waking up,” Sophia concluded her story told by her husband to her.

This strange, recurring dreams occurred daily. And the exactly same dreams happened to all of her missing friends and colleagues, as relayed by their families.

It was eerily peculiar, but at the time, she had no idea how it had all occurred. There was nothing she could do either. So she had no choice but to just try to forget about it.

A few weeks later, however, something happened that shattered her reality.

Winnie herself began experiencing the exact same dream as her missing friends and colleagues, repeating day after day for the following two weeks.

The unsettling nature of the recurring dreams, combined with the fact that her missing colleagues had also encountered them, left her deeply disturbed. She wondered if she, too, might disappear at some point in the future. But what would cause it? What triggered the dreams and eventually led to their disappearance?

Winnie decided to seek the guidance from someone who could help her.

But who?

She didn’t even know what had happened to her, so she couldn’t determine who would be capable of providing assistance.

However,  remembering that it was a dream-related issue, she thought of the medical professional one would typically consult in such situations—a psychiatrist.

A psychiatrist seemed like the most suitable person to approach. They might be able to help her, or perhaps not. Nevertheless, she made up her mind to go and give it a try.

Exactly the next day, Winnie paid a visit to Dr. Randall, her regular psychiatrist for years. She divulged every knowledge she had regarding the event happened to her colleagues. She told him about the recurring dreams she recently had experienced everyday for the past two weeks. To her surprise, Dr. Randall appeared taken aback, as if he had some prior knowledge of the matter. Dr. Randall asked Winnie to wait in the room while he went out to discuss the issue with his superior.

Upon returning to his office about half an hour later, Dr. Randall shared something with Winnie.

"This information was not meant to be disclosed to the public due to regulations. However, given the recent events affecting many people, as you have observed, we have decided to inform anyone who asks," he said.

Winnie's unease grew even stronger. It seemed far more serious than she had anticipated. "What is it? Please, tell me," she implored, her voice filled with anxiety.

Dr. Randall hesitated for a moment before commencing his explanation.

"You mentioned the strange recurring dreams that you and your missing colleagues have experienced. Well, the truth is... those were not dreams."

Winnie was taken aback and utterly perplexed. She struggled to comprehend what she was hearing.

"What do you mean they weren't dreams?"

"The world you believe you live in—where you go to work, spend time with friends and family, and even this moment right now, talking to me—that is the dream," Dr. Randall clarified, leaving her even more bewildered. It made no sense.

"To be precise, it is an artificially constructed reality known as a dreamscape," Dr. Randall corrected himself.

"The Earth as we know it is broken, ruined, and abandoned. It resulted from a global nuclear catastrophe that occurred five years ago. The world you saw in your 'dream' is the actual current state of our planet."

"The governments of the world took responsibility for these events. The conditions on Earth were no longer sustainable for human work or daily life. Our only option was to wait for the Earth's inevitable decay, which is horrific in itself. To address this, the governments developed the Dream Capsule Project," Dr. Randall continued his explanation.

"The capsules were highly complex systems equipped with food supplies and connected to a dream engine. Due to their intricate nature, they could not be placed in your homes. Moreover, the capsules require trained technicians to reboot them every 24 hours for your safety."

"In technical terms, each morning, you wake up, make your way to the facility, enter the capsules, and fall asleep for the remainder of your day. The capsules are interconnected via a dream connector, creating a seamless environment for you to exist within the dream. That's how you can still interact with the people you know, including myself."

"However, even though you visit the facility every morning and return home each night, the system prevents you from recalling the world beyond this artificial reality—the real world. Once you enter the capsule and fall asleep, you are essentially living here."

"But... we did remember the real world. In our dreams. If what you're saying is true," Winnie questioned the psychiatrist, her voice trembling. "And how does all of this connect to the disappearances of my colleagues?"

"It's true, believe me. We're about to delve into that," Dr. Randall assured her.

"You see, machines also have a limited lifespan. Your television, radio, phone—they all eventually wear out. The same goes for these capsules. The deteriorating state of the Earth accelerated the decay of the capsules beyond our initial estimations. Meanwhile, the world's government faced severe financial and resource constraints, making it impossible to rectify all the errors that arose."

"So, that's the reason. Your ability to recall your journey from home to the facility was simply a glitch in your capsule. It was deteriorating and on the verge of shutting down. There was nothing we could do about it," Dr. Randall concluded his explanation.

"W-wait... What would happen to me if my capsule shuts down?" Winnie inquired, a mix of disbelief and horror coursing through her. While she still harbored doubts about Dr. Randall's claims, the potential implications filled her with dread.

"You will die. You'll no longer be part of the system. From the perspective of your colleagues, friends, and family, you will simply 'go missing,' like the others," Dr. Randall replied matter-of-factly.

"At least you'll meet your end in a state of bliss. In a perfect, beautiful world, rather than the ruined one," he added, offering a friendly smile. It was a smile that Winnie found disconcerting.

"Don't worry, eventually, this fate awaits all of us. Including me. Including the president. Every single person," Dr. Randall attempted to console her, although his words did little to alleviate her fear.

"What... What should I do now?" Winnie asked, her voice trembling. She couldn't deny that Dr. Randall's revelations terrified her.

"Nothing. Just carry on with your daily routine as usual. In about a month or less, when your capsule shuts down, you will peacefully pass away in your sleep. You won't experience any pain or discomfort," Dr. Randall said, maintaining his smile as if discussing something entirely mundane.

"And please, do not disclose this information to anyone. When they experience it themselves and come to me, or any kind of medical professionals as you did, we will inform them personally. You wouldn't want to further disrupt their lives, would you?" Dr. Randall continued smiling as he spoke, intensifying Winnie's unease.

Following the psychiatrist's advice, Winnie returned home and resumed her daily routine, awaiting the inevitable shutdown of her capsule, which would bring about her demise. However, she couldn't bear the thought of keeping others in the dark about the impending fate that awaited them. "They deserve to know," Winnie thought resolutely.

Therefore, three days after her encounter with Dr. Randall, she came to my house and shared every detail. She implored me to publish the information in any way possible, so that people would become aware.

But the very next day after her visit, Winnie disappeared. It seems Dr. Randall's words had indeed come to pass.

This is her legacy, meant for all of you. If you ever experience a recurring apocalyptic dream like she did, now you know the reason.

If I managed to uncover any new information related to this matter, I will make sure to keep you all informed. I promise.

And if one day you find me missing, it could mean either my capsule has broken, leading to my death, or that the world's government has discovered my attempt to disclose what they have been hiding, and terminated my capsule.

Forcefully.

*trigger warning- references to SA*

Kids go missing all the time in Small Falls, so I tried not to look too panicked entering the school for the parent-teacher conference. Unfortunately, the cops outside were killing my vibe.

We get missing kids in the neighborhood and now they bring in cops to loiter around the school. Where was this energy when I was a kid, boys in blue? You were needed then.

Passing two donut lovers sitting in their blue and white cars, their lights flashed in silence in the January evening darkness, I tried to avoid eye contact with the final one, wasting tax-payer money standing beside the school door. 

“Sir?” the waste of taxpayer money oinked out.

Playing the role of the kind suburban Dad today I smiled at him for half a second and then thought , actually fuck him, I pushed the door handle.

"Sorry, sir, you have to go through the metal detector on this side."

And well, being the perfect law-abiding, no-felony having, tax-paying citizen I am, I obeyed this fine upstanding protector of the peace without complaint.

And, of course, he gave me trouble when the metal detector beeped.

"Sir, do you have anything in your pockets?"

"Just a piece?"

"A piece, sir?"

"Yeah, like a gun—a small one, though. So no worries."

"Sir, this is a gun-free zone. I, uh, understand if you didn't know, so no problem this time. I'm going to have to ask you to put it in your car."

"We've got kidnappers around and I've got to put my gun up? In fact, what are you even doing here? Go save those kids."

"Uh, uh, uh, sir—"

"Uh, uh, uh," I imitated.

"Please, sir," he whimpered.

You see how he's disrespected me, right?

It wouldn't be my first time proving to somebody they couldn't talk to me any type of way. I sized him up. Skinny white kid, low haircut, eyes said, help not hurt, only one tattoo all that meant he was fresh out of the academy, remnants of acne littered his face so probably for the first time in his life he could afford acne cream. And for that reason only, I didn't beat his ass.

Kids deserve a chance to grow. 

If you’re reading this and know me, don’t you dare put weakness on my name. He's the last person in this story I show mercy to. 

Anyway, I obeyed him and put my gun in the car. Which made me run late and threw off my game a bit.

Sweating and stumbling into the kid's classroom, his last known appearance, my nerves were getting the better of me. Dad mode wasn’t something I was used to.

"Hi, I'm Mr. Smith, but you can call me Jimmy," I blurted to the teacher as soon as I entered the classroom like a good suburban Dad would . In and out. Get this over with.

The kid's teacher jumped in her seat when she saw me. My large tatted arms and two teardrop tattoos below my eye tend to have that effect on people.

"Hi," I said, not stopping for a second but sliding into what I assumed was my designated seat in front of her desk.

"You're Lee's Dad?" she asked, her rainbow-colored glasses tipping as she judged me up and down. "We have a different image of his guardian in our system."

"Oh, he's dead."

"Excuse me?"

"The original guardian is dead."

"Oh, and you are to Lee?"

"His uncle... by adoption."

"Right..." she said, disbelief obvious on her face.

"You can check the system now? I think they updated it."

I looked around the room as she went tapping away on her computer, once eyeing me with a suspicious glare, and then I guess I was on there because she nodded and we got to the meeting.

"So, James Smith..." she said.

"Call me Jimmy," I whispered, shocking myself at my nerves. Cops I could deal with. What's another fight, after all? But people judging me who I can't hit? I caught myself crossing my legs like a virgin on a wedding night. Embarrassing.

"Ms. Francesca," she stood up from her desk to shake my hand and introduce herself.

Wobbling out of the seat I shook her slender hand in an awkward grip, unsure of whether to be firm or gentle.

"Sorry," I said, sitting again. "First parent-teacher conference."

"Oh, does your wife normally do these?"

"Huh? No," I chuckled at the thought of me being married.

"Then who comes to these since you've been the guardian?"

I shrugged.

"Well, this is the first one," I fumbled out the words. "It felt like an emergency. You said my son's missing. Yeah, he's just ditching school. I see him at home."

Outside of the window, one of the three police cars sped out of the parking lot, sirens blaring. Our necks jerked to the window.

"I wonder where he's going," she said. "It must be an emergency because they aren't supposed to leave because of the situation at hand."

Her suspicious glare left the window and darted in my direction.

"Yeah, odd," I said.

Outside, the second of three police cars whirled out of the parking lot.

"Now wait a minute," she said. "What could make them leave? They promised us 24/7 surveillance."

"Maybe they caught the guy," I shrugged.

The third and last police car zipped away, my guess driven by Officer Clear Skin who gave me a tough time at the front. The officer left tire marks as he whisked away.

"Yeah," I said. "They definitely had to catch the guy for all of them to leave. You alright, Ms. Francesca?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she bit back.

"Is anyone else supposed to be here tonight?" I asked.

"No, just the custodian Wilfred. The man's so old he can't hear a thing though."

"I bet."

She eyed me.

"Just making conversation," the smile I gave her was so bad she sneered at it.

"Right," she said. "Now about your son. So, I specialize in troubled youth actually. Playing hooky or ditching school is usually attention-seeking behavior."

"Oh, is it?"

"Yes, is he receiving enough attention at home?"

"Yep, sure is."

The heavy bang of the entrance door slamming outside made us both jump in our seats.

"Hey, hey," I announced and stood up. "What's going on here? You telling me old man Wilson is slamming doors like that?"

"It's Wilfred," she said.

"Whatever."

I reached for my gun that I kept at my waistband. Then cursed myself for actually obeying a rule.

"Should we call the cops?"

"You want the cops here?" She asked me as if I would have some issue with cops. I did, but still.

"Listen," I said. "I'm trying to be a good guy here. Can you give me a break?"

Something ran down the hall—boots, a lot of footsteps charging in our direction.

"Lady, you don't even know when we're about to get jumped."

"What's his middle name?"

"Wilbur's? I don't know, lady. This is the first I'm hearing of the guy."

"The custodian's name is Wilfred, and I was referring to your son's name."

My breath got caught in my lungs. I was the shoplifting kid caught with a few less items on his receipt at Walmart. The husband caught at the titty bar, pregnant wife waving the ones he tossed on the floor in one hand and smacking him with the other. All I could think was that one song with Shaggy: wasn't me.

"Wasn't me," I said.

"What? Mr. Smith, what is your nephew’s middle name?"

Voices speeding toward us brought me to the present.

"Screw you," I told her. "I'm calling the cops."

"What's Lee's middle name?" she asked.

Despite the shame and embarrassment, I did it. Each digit of 9-1-1 a slash on my reputation.

The phone rang and my heart ain’t want to beat no more. Bursting into the classroom and piling out of the door, a group of ski-mask-wearing men invaded.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" the operator on the phone said.

"This is Jimmy Smith. We're being attacked," I yelled to the operator.

Ms. Francesca screamed.

All according to my plan, Ms. Francesca and I were kidnapped.

Hours later, we were somewhere else dark and hot. A little room in an abandoned warehouse that even junkies know not to go near because miscreants like me 'unalive' people here, as the kids say.

Withering walls and a musty scent possessed the room, making it intolerable for a human to live in.

Speaking of possessed, the room was littered with Christian symbolism. Red Latins crosses splattered the walls. Symbols of the trinity stared down at us from the ceiling, all lit by one flickering light bulb.

Ms. Francesca and I were not alone.

A babbling homeless man stared at two cans of the off-brand soda Dr. Brown in the corner. His eyes never left the soda, but it felt like he couldn't understand the soda's existence either, if that makes sense.

In the corner to the homeless man's left, a laptop sat on top of a pile of loose-leaf paper.

I stood in the middle of the room, proud of my little plan, and in front of me was Ms. Francesca Frank. Her wrists were chained to the ceiling so she hung in a vertical position.

She wore the same clothes, a blue dress that fell below her knees (one of the frumpy looking-ones with pockets), and rainbow glasses. I, on the other hand, put on some interesting jewelry. 

On each finger, I wore a ring with a crucifix, blessed by the Pope himself.

"Mr. Smith, or sorry, Jimmy?" Francesca said. "Could you help me down? I, uh, I think we've been kidnapped. Someone's been snatching children from Small Falls, y'know. It appears they've done the same to us."

"Nah, c'mon, you had to have guessed I'm not doing that."

"Did you do this to me? Nothing's happened to me yet. You don't have to go through with this."

"Oh, I do. I owe somebody and you owe somebody," I said and tilted my head to the spaced-out homeless man.

"Jimmy, I assure you you are mistaken. You're playing a dangerous game. Think of Lee, think of your son."

"Who the f - - oh Lee? Oh, he's just a kid who wanted to make some money."

"Oh, wait... no, what?"

"Yeah, I registered five different kids in the 8th grade, all hoping for the chance to have a parent-teacher conference with the legendary Ms. Francesca Frank."

"Five different kids? In a public school system, sir, do you know how impossible that is that—"

"Do you know how much I hate you?" I asked and then got annoyed. "Also, you're insulting me here. You work for an underdeveloped and under-financed school and under-given a fuck about school. Your administration is three bribes away from naming the school after me. Hey, in fact, respectfully, I've pulled off way bigger jobs than you."

In a knuckle dragging crawl, the homeless man skittered to Francesca She screamed. I paused. The homeless man reached in her pocket and pulled out her phone and then skittered back to his place behind the Dr. Brown’s.

“Ooookay,” I said. “Where were we?”

"I am sorry, I am so so sorry. Um, you said legendary, earlier? I'm a teacher for inner-city youth. What did I give you a bad grade or something?"

"What makes you think I was an inner-city youth?"

"Well, no offense, it's just the - -"

"Fun fact, I was a nice private school kid for a bit."

"I am sorry for stereotyping you, for people like me stereotyping you. I am sure for a lot of your life - -"

"Enough, enough, lady. You've never done anything to me."

She broke down. She cried. And she asked the one question I needed for her to ask.

"Then why am I here?"

"I'm so glad you asked. You, Francesca Frank, are here to hear a true story from a friend of mine."

"Jimmy..."

"Shh, Francesca, these are the last written words of a good man." And like a teacher, I waited for absolute silence. The chains couldn't rattle, the light couldn't buzz; this was the most important story I could tell.

This was the life of my friend Dave:

At 17 years old, my revenge on evil was catching child predators.

At 13, I learned it's not strangers who are the real danger. 

I spent my 14th year of life learning Lady Justice was not only blind but lazy.

"Sorry, nothing we can do," the cops said.

At 15, I learned if the bruise doesn't leave a scar, no one cares if it heals.

At 16, late nights with unrestricted internet, I learned there's always something you can do via the show To Catch a Predator on YouTube.

By my senior year, my best friend Jimmy's and I actions resulted in the arrest of ten predators. Not the guy who I wanted to arrest, but this was good. This was something we could do. My one saving grace and my downfall now is that I couldn't stop talking, I couldn't stop telling the truth.

Jimmy and I ran a YouTube channel where we would pretend to be twelve-year-old girls via text, and once intent was gathered via nudes sent or words implying sex, we would invite the guys over to film their attempt and interview them and then hand it over to the police. We kept it all under NC state code 14-202.3. Therefore, arrests were made. 

No funny business. We weren't even popular on YouTube. Maybe a couple hundred subscribers and a thousand views. Oh, and one sponsor thanks to Dr. Brown soda (it's just off-brand Dr. Pepper).

A few nights ago, I attempted a solo predator capture with a guy from Discord who called himself Fun Frank333. I lost my mind in the process. I write this after waking up alone under a bridge; I’ve lost my battle with lucidity most days.

Regardless, here are some excerpts from the texts we got from a guy who called himself Fun Frank.

Fun Frank333: Are you a virgin?

Me: Yes, so I'm really nervous

Fun Frank333: You're not lying to me, are you?

Fun Frank333: It's really important that you're a virgin.

Me: Yes, I'm 12??? Why wouldn't I be a virgin?

Fun Frank333: Never mind that. Just I'll be in trouble if you aren't.

Yes, this did give me pause because virginity is usually lower on their concerns. Usually, they're more concerned about getting caught.

Fun Frank333: Hello?

Fun Frank333: Hello?

Fun Frank333: C'mon don't you back out on me too?

Me: Hi, yes I'm here. Um, who would you be in trouble with lol?

Fun Frank333: No, no, no, no, don't worry darling. Don't worry, baby. Did Daddy scare you?

Fun Frank333: Nobody, baby. You don't need to worry about it.

This did frighten me, because Jimmy wouldn't be coming this time. Jimmy was the muscle of the operation despite his private school upbringing. I'm pretty sure the only reason he agreed to do this for me was because it gave him the chance to hit the predators (or worse) if they attacked me.

Jimmy came from luxury, but it looked like he wanted to leave it the way he behaved, but that wasn't exactly the case. Jimmy just wanted to pave his own way; that way just happened to be violent.

At 13, Jimmy learned he was a bastard, and the man he thought was his father taught him exactly what that meant in his home.

At 14, Jimmy learned a lot of friendships don't make it through middle school, and the bathroom, despite the smell, flushing, and plopping sound in the next stall, might be where you have to eat.

"Here, you can share my headphones so we don't have to hear it. It's not that bad then," I told him as we shared our meal in the boys' bathroom.

At 15, Jimmy learned most people liked you as much as you can be useful; too bad he didn't have talents.

At 16, Jimmy learned being strong and hitting things was a talent.

At 17, Jimmy learned being strong and hitting things on camera could make him a legend and thrust him into the spotlight of crowds his thirteen-year-old self couldn't believe.

If my saving grace was my need to yap out the truth, Jimmy's was his need to keep getting stronger.

By senior year, I hoped he knew by then I liked him for more than what he could do for me; he was my brother. No, I knew he did because I think that's why he ditched me that day.

Jimmy wanted to hang with some of his more... tough friends.

"Jimmy, this guy's weird, man," I said. "You sure you can't come? I'm worried."

"What, you need me to wipe you too?"

"Ew, come on, Jimmy..."

"Bruh, you'll be fine." Jimmy didn't look at me as we talked. "They're perverts. If you're trying to bang a kid, you're not tough—it's like biology or something."

"Yeah, but I think this guy might have connections..."

"Bruh, I'm not coming, alright? That's it. I'll play detectives or whatever with you later. I gotta go with my boys, aight?"

"Yeah, see ya, Jimmy."

The prospect of human trafficking was a real danger in our hobby. However, predators had ruined enough of my life, so I wouldn't back down. My glasses with a camera in them were my only companion.

That evening, I walked through each empty room of the sting house, also known as my parents' house. Each echoing room of the five-bedroom house seemed tomb-like and wrong. And it was wrong, in ways Frank didn't even know, five empty bedrooms for parents that were never there and two children that never existed.

I'm not sure why my parents never had more children. I've heard hints that they tried and it resulted in stillbirths. When I was alone, the screech of the old house sounded like my siblings' ghosts.

Maybe my parents didn't have more kids because of what happened to me. When they're alone, I think they blame me. They whispered to themselves at night, filling the halls with elfish echoes that creeped at my door. Late at night, with the wind seeping in between the cracks of the wall, "how was your day" and "he was a mistake" sound similar.

Anything from intimacy to familiarity could answer the question of what they said, but they were rarely home. I was able to do so many predator catches because they were away on work trips all the time.

Turning off every light upstairs to save power like a good kid should, I wandered downstairs to the kitchen where the orange sky brought struggling evening light into the kitchen. I settled into my couch and watched the driveway camera waiting for Fun Frank to pull in.

The closer it got to the hour, the more frightening Frank became over text. No child predator was like Fun Frank.. 

Fun Frank: Rough good?

Me: Idk about that.

Fun Frank: Rough better

Fun Frank: for first time. Trust me.

Fun Frank: neighbors not noisey?

Fun Frank: *nosey

Me: No they leave me alone.

Fun Frank: parents gone fall weekend, right?

Fun Frank: *all

Fun Frank: haha I meant all. Sorry, texting and driving. I'm a bad boy.

Fun Frank: but you're the one in handcuffs right?

Me: Haha yes, they’re gone all weekend. Handcuffs?

Fun Frank: I'm going to be a couple hours late?

Fun Frank: *!

Fun Frank: do you like religion?

Me: It’s fine.

The moon peaked at me in between clouds. My stomach begged for a snack but fear whispered for me to stay and I obeyed. I knew he would come as soon as I got up for something and then maybe come for me from behind and then... I piled another blanket on me hiding me from my fears as I waited for Frank’s arrival.

Fun Frank: how much do you weigh?

Fun Frank: tiny little girl

Me: Idk like 100 pounds.

Fun Frank: I like that!

Fun Frank: I'm gong to be a couple more hours late

Fun Frank: *going

Fun Frank: have you been baptized? It's important.

Me: Huh?

Hunger left me knowing it wouldn't be satisfied. Too many blankets rested on me like corpses in a hole during the black plague. I sweat as the cloth choked me and gave me nightmares that were so close to coming true. Black clouds hid the moon so I was well and truly alone, and according to my cameras, that is when Fun Frank arrived at 3:33, the Witching Hour.

Fun Frank: is it okay if I draw a little blood?

I woke up to the covers stripped from my body, Fun Frank’s black tie grazing my chest, and his hands exploring my waist. His peppermint breath blasted me and the stench of his sweaty suit draped over me like a vile breath.

"Shh," he said with a face frighteningly full of folds, more pug-like than human. "Just checking for something."

I screamed, scared out of my mind. Pressing my hands into his chest, he didn't budge. I lacked Jimmy's power; I couldn't move him.

"Quiet," he said.

I yelled.

"Quiet," he commanded.

He waited, almost like Fun Frank wanted me to know this fact: I could not move him. I knew once evidence was recorded I would need to call the police quickly.

And only after I obeyed him did he get off of me.

"See," he said. "We're cool. Just listen to Frank and you'll be fine. It's Frank. I'm Frank. It's just Frank. You're Judy's brother, right? Judy says you're cool, you won't snitch, right?"

"Yeah, um, yeah."

"Cool, cool. 'Preciate it, kid. Here for your troubles," Frank handed me a lollipop.

I checked it once and placed it on the desk beside me.

"Smart kid," he said. "Candy from strangers and all that."

"Yeah," I said, composing myself. The next part would be hard; I had to get him to confess to being Fun Frank so the police would have enough evidence to convict him. "So, you're Fun Frank?"

"Yep."

"Oh, the one who's been sending my sister those messages?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"You want to have sex with her?"

"Well, I'm certainly not here to read her a bedtime story."

"What?"

"Yes, sex, kid, sex. I'm here to bang. Where's she at?"

"Oh, that was easy," I said, prepared to work for a much harder confession. "Well, there's something you should know. I'm Dave Akman and you're being recorded right now for an exposé on predator catching. Can you take a seat?"

"Wait, what?"

"Online solicitation of minors is illegal under state code 14-202.3. Can you please sit down and--"

Fun Frank ran away, which was typical, but against all common sense, he didn't run to his car outside. Fun Frank333 ran upstairs, up my house.

The action confused me so much I glanced at my laptop like it could have some sort of answer. However, it only made me ask one question aloud.

"Where was Frank's car?" There was no car in the driveway. "Did he take an Uber? Why would he leave an electronic trail? And no, he said he was driving." I said to myself.

I followed him up the steps and saw him running from my parents' room to mine.

"Where's your sister?" Frank asked.

"What? No," I said. "There is no sister."

"You a virgin?" he asked, out of breath and exhausted from the little running he did.

"Well, I mean, excuse me, wait what?"

"You'll do then."

Fear fled Frank's face and a stale, sincere mask of serenity fluttered onto it. Frank took a gentle step forward, like a leaf crackling in a fire. Frank's back heaved and then relaxed as he took in a big breath of oxygen.

"Sorry," Frank said, the word coming out twisted and gargled.

"Sorry," Frank said again, the word came out hellishly deep.

"Sorry," Frank said, and the word came out... sultry.

Against reason. Against nature. Frank changed. His stomach went flat like an Ozempic miracle. The hair on his face, the folds on his chin, and even that hairy mole beneath his lip left in smoke. Smoke gowned his body until he changed. Fun Frank did not even look like a man, more like a Kardashian.

"Hi," Frank said in a whisper of a voice that could make any man listen. "You can call me Francesca now."

"What, uh, what, uh, are you?"

"Do you want to ask questions," Francesca said, sauntering over to me in her oversized suit. "Orrr? Do you want to play?" She reached out to touch me and I jerked back out of my room, stumbling out and falling in the hallway.

"I'm calling the police," I said and reached for my phone.

"Kid," she said. "The phone is always the first thing I take. Or did you think I was trying to tuck you in earlier?" She waved it in front of me.

"Give me that," I said, diving for it and knocking her over. We crashed to the floor and I wrestled for my phone. Even in this form she was stronger than me and pinned me to the ground.

"Okay, kid. When I say fun, I mean sex. Look, I'm hot, right? You want me, right?"

"No!"

"I've been doing this for centuries; young boys want sex."

"Get off of me."

"Well, no, no I won't be doing that. You see, I'm here to damage a soul. I thought it would be through the degradation of youth through something they're not ready for. But actually... there's another option, one I don't need your permission for. I can touch your soul another way and you don't even need to approve."

"Oh, don't mind me," Ms. Francesca said, pouring her hands into my mouth and opening me. She put one hand on the roof of my mouth and the other pushed against the bottom row of my teeth as if she were an evil dentist who could only use her hands to strip away my cavities. "I'm just doing what I've been doing for centuries to those who don't know how to shut up," she said. "Ancient Egyptians made pyramids that lasted for centuries, and yet the people wilted like desert flowers in a flood when we did what they called bꜣ-šʿd." Pressing further, she peeled the roof of my mouth. Blood wept from the palate, staining her hands and feeding me so much pain. My cries were pointless. My tongue wandered as if it could help.

"Kings went mad and wet, somber fear silenced their throne rooms in Japan when they mentioned 魂斬り. Arab kings chose slavery and Arab slaves chose to be kings of dirt and worms rather than be forced to have قطع الروح thrust upon them." Fearing, freaking, and unable to speak, I used my tongue to batter her hand, pointless but desperate. The taste—burning like chili pepper—brought tears to my eyes that dribbled up my forehead and couldn't even come down because she tilted my head back so far, my tears only served to drown my eyes. At the same time, she was bitter and gag-inducing. I vomited, but because of my position what I threw up came right back down.

"The rampaging blood-lusting armies of the Apache could be forced to flee in single file line at the threat of bii' naahxaash. How many righteous or wicked popes do you think we've turned in the Medieval era through what they called sectio animae? There's no word for it in the West. You're all too busy pretending. But I think it would sound something like... Soul Slashing in your country."

She released me. Gazing up at her, I shuddered as she licked her fingers.

"You have a dark song in you," she mocked. "I heard it in your heart."

I shivered beneath her, an impossible cold froze me beneath her. 

"You don't understand why everyone stopped caring about the fact you were molested. Because you still hurt every day, don't you? Ohh, and then there's that dark, dark thought; everyone stopped caring because everyone would do the same, if they had the chance. Given the chance, everyone would hurt you. Everyone is like him"

She smiled and closed her eyes, with the self-satisfaction of a conductor in front of her orchestra.

"Now, that is a beautiful song to a demon." And with that, she moved her fingers like an evil conductor and out of thin air turned the space in front of her into musical notes. Absorbed and powerless, I watched as she made a row of notes and they wrapped around my head. Screaming at me my worst fear.

They're all like him. They're all like him. They're all like him.

And that song has possessed me ever since then, only granting me mere minutes of silence a day. I fear my fellow man because of it. Please, don't judge me too harshly if you see me. If you were forced to believe this song like I am, you too would live under a bridge alone and insane. If you see me, please be kind and ignore me; I can't help myself.

In my minutes of sanity a day, I try to explain my situation, but who would ever believe this? I thought I was writing this merely as a warning, but I realize no one would ever heed the warning of a babbling homeless man who lives under a bridge. All the predator catches. All the work I've done. It's all wasted. That hurts so much. So, I guess I write because I can, because I must, because I have to tell someone. It hurts so much and I can't go through it alone. Unfortunately, I still haven't learned my lesson yet. I still can't shut up.

"And that’s the end of the story, Frank or Francesca,” I told her, putting the stacks of paper beneath the laptop. The laptop which contains video of the said incident incriminating Francesca. 

"This is ridiculous,” Francesca said, rattling in her chains. “You're wasting your time. Put down that book!"

"Dave, I've heard this will hurt her very much. Enjoy your revenge, brother."

And I read the holy words in their original language. It took hours of practicing reading the original Greek from me and centuries of devotion of holy warriors across the world to discover these words and how to punish a demon and reveal its form. As wicked as I am, I spoke the words of the famous Nazarene, God in the flesh.

"Ὑπάγετε Φιμώθητι καὶ ἔξελθε ἐξ αὐτοῦ Τὸ ἄλαλον καὶ κωφὸν πνεῦμα, ἐγώ σοι ἐπιτάσσω, ἔξελθε ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ μηκέτι εἰσέλθῃς εἰς αὐτόν Παραγγέλλω σοι ἐν ὀνομάτι Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐξελθεῖν ἀπ' αὐτῆς"

Francesca's skin swelled as if filling with pus. Her screams shook the room and she used words that made me blush. The words muffled as her cheeks swelled into torturous reddening circles. Between the mounds of her face, tears rained down the demon's eyes. Larger, wider, each part of her body swelled, painfully. Like an allergic reaction. Her obesity grew beyond what was humanly possible, she wheezed and wheezed until…

Pop! A sound like a gunshot came from her.

Sulfur and blood stench engulfed the room as a pool of blood rested below her.

I saw Francesca as she or it really was: a red, boil-filled demon with orange gumball-like eyes.

"Huh, that actually worked," I said.

The demon wheezed like a kid brought out of freezing water, trying to catch their breath.

I walked over to Dave, still babbling nonsense. That broke my heart. I was hoping that would heal him. Regardless, I grabbed one of two Dr. Brown's and poured one out.

"For us, brother," I said, unsure if he actually understood the action.

"Let me out," the demon groaned, pain and pitifulness so satisfactorily in their voice. "Let me out."

"Nah," I said.

"I can--"

"You can't do anything for me," I told her. "I'm only doing this to honor Dave. I'm trapping you here—forever."

"I can give you money! I am a demon of--"

"Francesca Frank, Frank Francesca, stop it, sweet cheeks. You're a demon of Hell and I'm a demon of Earth. After I'm done with you today, I'm going to hop on a call and scam an elderly woman out of her retirement fund. I'm a demon like you, but before I was bad, I was a kid, I was Jimmy, and Jimmy's best friend was a kid named Dave."

"He's a madman, a raving madman. I left him living under a bridge and screaming at cars!"

"Oh, but that's the thing about life, Francesca Frank. Sometimes you gotta scream. Sometimes you gotta holler until someone hears you. You'd be surprised who will take up a righteous cause."

A deep laugh came from the demon's throat without moving its mouth.

"Oh, you're a demon, huh?" It asked.

"I am the biggest and baddest the world has ever seen," I said with my full signature grin on display.

"How bad?"

"Evil, baby."

"Bad enough to let ten children die?"

"What?"

"Kids are going missing. You know that. It's been done by yours truly. I've got them tied in a basement. They'll starve down there. Oh, or, or, or, some of them might eat one another before they go. Oh, that's a guaranteed trip to my home where they'll see me and you, right? Since you're such a demon."

"What?" I asked. "No, no, I see what you're doing. Do you want me to let you out and some kids I don't care about get to live?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Fine, then so you're one of me. You're a real demon. I win."

"No..."

"Oh, yes I win. That's why I'm here: to make you people more like me and my kind."

"Yeah, okay," I said. "What if I just smacked you around until you told me where the kids are." I sent a punch to the center of the demon's gut. It sputtered out a nasty groan in pain. The pope's blessed rings finally came in handy.

"I'm not a demon, yeah, okay," I said, pounding both sets of his ribs.

"I'm the biggest," I said and proved it with a punch across their face.

Then with unrelenting malice, I walloped on the demon's face because I didn't want to hear anything else they had to say.

"I'm the baddest most dangerous thing--"

The real demon interrupted my rant to whisper something. Probably something disrespectful and, as you know, nobody disrespects me. I gave 'em a break from the walloping to raise its chin so I could hear this little back talk to my face.

Francesca chomped on my hand. Shocking pain shot through me. Revenge didn't cross my mind; ending the pain did. I tried to pull back my hand. She bit down harder, making the task impossible. In that stuffy room, coldness infected me somehow. I went in myself, wondering how anything could feel like this; fire in my hand and ice coldness consuming my body.

By her power, she let go.

"I said, ‘still not a demon though’," the real demon said, heaving. "Now let's see what your blood says about you? Get up, Jimmy. We're going for a Soul Slash."

But I couldn't get up and she knew that. I stayed there shivering in the cold she created.

"Uh-oh, I see what this is about."

"Shut up," I commanded. But just like what happened to Dave all those years ago, my world went black and I couldn't find Frank to hit him. I couldn't do the one thing I knew how to do. Frank spoke; I just had no idea where it came from.

"Oh, this is what it's about. When your Daddy found out you weren't his, what did he call you?"

"Shut up," I said.

"Oh, I know your Daddy. He walked to church but always answered when we called. So, Daddy probably called you a demon. And you kept trying to be a demon, didn't you? How many fights have you been in? And how many tattoos? Oh, so scary? Oh, you want to be me because nothing hurts when you're me. You can call me whatever you want and I'll nod my head and laugh because it's true. Oh, but you're still a little hurt because you still feel that guilt, don't you? You left your brother, Dave, and feel guilty about it. Oh, wait, it's worse than that."

"Please, stop," I begged, reliving the truth of his words as he spoke.

"You were there. You've never told a soul about that day but you were there! Because at the end of the day, he was your brother and you loved him. Oh, you saw!"

"You win, alright. Stop and I'll let you go."

"You saw me torturing your best friend and you ran out of the house because you saw a real demon! Something you can't beat. Something you could never beat!"

"You win, you win, you win."

"And that's what's been driving you. You fight and fight and fight because in the one fight you actually needed to be in, you ran away scared!"

I didn't move, only mumbled. It was hard to tell what was happening. I held myself and rocked back and forth.

Then gurgling, horrific gurgling, almost like a roar for a whole minute and I wondered what new horror Frank would spit at me, and then the lights came out.

Frank the demon was dead. The bottom of a can of Dr. Brown stuck from his mouth. Dave's hands were wrapped around his fat throat. Eventually, Dave released and turned to me.

"The- - the - - kids, Dave," I said.

Dave waved Francesca's phone at me. 

Clever guy, we could just use Apple Map history to tell where she'd been. Like Fun Frank/Francesca said, ‘Always grab the phone first’.

Dave’s eyes locked on me. The guilt flooded back. He couldn’t speak but he understood. Dave knew I betrayed him. I’ve killed a friend for robbing me before so I knew what I deserved. Homelessness really hadn’t done him well I see now. His wild eyes and scratched hands told a story of a man fighting for everything in life. The sweet kid I knew was gone.

"Dave, man. Alright, I owe you. I owe you a lot. I can set you up in a house. You don't got to forgive me or nothing. It happened and I never ask for apologies, man. I think they're worthless so I won't give you one, man. I don't need forgiveness. I've got stuff that can make your life better."

Dave rushed me. For the kill? I would let him. His body slammed into mine. Dave hugged me.

As the biggest and baddest demon on Earth, I didn't cry like a baby in my best friend's gross beard.

When my sister Shelby disappeared – even when they declared her dead – I knew she was still alive. I could feel it.

And, I was right.

…sort of.

And so, here I am, sitting in my car at 2:10 AM, near a darkened bus stop that probably hasn't seen another visitor in decades. 

Waiting for her, despite being warned of the consequences. 

I'm writing to distract myself from the nearly overwhelming, increasingly strong prey instinct to run – the urge put as much distance as possible between myself and what I can only describe as the receding nothingness beyond the tree line.

Twenty-eight days ago, Shelby was driving through Meyerton, a tiny town I'd never heard of until I got the call from the police, until it became the last place my sister was seen before seemingly falling off the face of the Earth. 

I'm still not sure why Shelby was there in the first place – it was far out of the way from Billings, where she'd been headed – but I suppose that'll be one more thing I'll never get the answer to. 

Not from her, at least.

They declared her dead.

When the Meyerton police called me, they told me they found her car, that bright red ‘15 Mini Cooper she loved so much, wrapped around a tree on the side of the road.

If she'd been in the car when they found it, maybe I'd have been more inclined to agree with them.

The car was mostly totaled, but what did remain of the interior was immaculate. There was no blood. Her purse and suitcase were there, keys still in the ignition, it was still locked from the inside.

Everything was still in the car –  everything except for my sister.

But the local authorities told me she was dead, and despite my pleas for them to look for her, they straight up refused. 

No need, they said. 

So, I knew it was on me to find her.

I was running late on my first visit to Meyerton. A delayed flight and mix up with my rental car when I finally landed meant I wasn't approaching the town until it was nearly 12 AM.

To top off an already bad situation, I was lost. 

My GPS told me to take exit 19C, but I couldn't find it – I'd taken several u-turns and looped back a few times, and each time grew more and more frustrated as I'd see 19A, 19B, and then exit 20. It's not like 19C was recently closed, either – the guardrails were perfect, seamless, and beyond the highway was nothing but trees and craggy rock. No, it was more like there wasn't an exit 19C, there never had been. 

And, to further exacerbate my building anxiety, my GPS refused to provide me with an alternate route. As far as Google Maps was concerned, the only way into Meyerton was to take an exit that didn't exist.

After three more loops around the highway, I finally gave up and stopped at a crappy motel conveniently located off exit 19B.

I asked the guy at the desk if he could suggest a way to get to town, since at that point, I had no clue how I was supposed to find Meyerton.

He looked tired – and not merely 1 AM tired – no, he looked exhausted by life, tired, and didn't even bother glancing up from the book he was reading when he dismissively told me, “It'll be back in the morning.”

“The exit,” I asked, sarcasm a thin veneer as I tried masking my wracked nerves and that I was on the verge of tears, “or the town?”

He just shrugged, noncommittally.

I lost it in that moment. Head in hands, I broke down sobbing on the dingy check-in desk of that seedy motel.

He was kind enough to ask if I was okay, and I instantly found myself telling him everything – why I was headed there, how unhelpful the authorities were, how I knew the only way I'd find her is if I went searching for her myself.

After a brief silence, he quietly confided that he'd also lost someone. His fiancée had gone to Meyerton several years ago, and she too had disappeared.

“Did they ever find her?” I asked it automatically, even though I was fairly sure I already knew the answer based on the decades worth of misery etched into his face.

So, it took me by surprise when he nodded. He stared off into space for the longest time before he whispered, “I wish they hadn't.”

He introduced himself as Gary, and told me that my sister Shelby was gone, that nothing good could possibly come from me going to look for her. When he couldn't talk me into turning around and going back home, he offered me a room for the night.

As he handed me the key, he reluctantly told me that 19C would be back at 2 AM, but would be gone by 11 PM the next night.

I knew he was messing with me – that no road would magically appear; I figured I'd try to get some sleep and then drive to the next town over to see if someone else would help me.

So, you can imagine my utter shock the next morning when – sure enough, just like Gary had assured me – where before there had been a solid metal guardrail, there was an exit.

I’d found 19C. 

The worn gravel and peeling paint of the off ramp seemed to indicate a well traveled road, too.

So, I followed the winding one lane road through the trees, and I was confused yet relieved when I found my way to Meyerton.

That relief was short-lived. 

The police were somehow even more unhelpful in person, insisting Shelby was gone and I should go home, move on. It didn't matter that she’d only been missing a couple of days. It didn't matter that there wasn't a body. 

I wasted hours at the station, changing nothing, convincing no one. The case was closed, they told me. As far as they were concerned, my sister was dead.

Now, based on what I've learned, I almost wish she was.

That would've been more merciful.

A kindness, even.

As I continued my own search for her, the longer I lingered, the more I realized that something was very, very wrong with the town of Meyerton.

Every single house that wasn't already demolished, sat abandoned – the structures slowly being reclaimed by overgrown lawns and encroaching woods. 

The sidewalks were empty of people, and I only saw two other cars on the road in all the hours I was there.

The few businesses that remained open had only a handful of customers inside – and they were clearly not happy to see me there.

Every single person I asked told me the same thing. It was eerie, how their responses were so similar, almost word for word as if rehearsed. That they'd never seen my sister before. That there was nothing for me in their town and I needed to leave.

And then, with what seemed like a genuine sadness, they were sorry for my loss.

Eventually, 10:50 PM rolled around, and I'd still found nothing. The stores all closed at 10 PM – even those traditionally open for 24 hours elsewhere, were closed 10 PM - 3 AM.

I'd watched the town shut down, watched it empty of people. 

So, frustrated, I pulled into one of the many empty parking lots, and I stared at the shadowy expanse of trees where her car had been found.

The air was stale, and heavy with an unnerving silence, thick enough to choke on. 

It was in that moment, as I sat in the red glow of the shut down pumps of the only open-for-19-hours gas station I'd ever seen in my life, that I first picked up the hint of wrongness in the air. I could suddenly feel that there was something out there beyond my line of sight, something waiting just past the trees, something terrible.

I realized that Gary, and the handful of people I'd encountered, were right.

I needed to leave.

I had that epiphany a little too late.

Because what began to happen next was the cherry on top of my shit sundae of a day.

As I took a final look into the trees, as if they could give me a sign – an answer – a darkness unlike anything else I'd ever witnessed began to seep through them, swallowing them. It choked out the light from the moon – it was like a curtain of nothingness, a presence only detectable by the absence of everything it touched.

It carried with it a smell of burning meat mingled with rotting fruit that suddenly flooded through my open windows. 

I found myself frozen as it approached. 

As it swallowed the houses down the street, I could feel a strong sense of emptiness, one that sucked the air out of my lungs, threatening to crush me. At the same time, it felt… right. An extended invitation towards the embrace of nothingness, towards something ancient and insatiable.

The encroaching darkness swallowed the crimson glow from the gas station pumps. It was only the realization that the blackness had begun to nullify the light of my headlights, that snapped me out of it.

I three-point-turned my way the hell out of there, peeling out and pushing 65 down the winding road out of town – in that moment I was thankful the town was empty of police, too – approaching the on ramp at 10:59.

I didn't understand what was happening at first – why the road I was driving along looked … faded. That’s when I saw something metal shimmering faintly in the distance. It didn't look solid, as if it wasn't entirely there, so it took me a moment to realize what it was.

A guardrail.

I tried to swerve and slam on the brakes before I hit it, but I was going almost 90 by that point, and the laws of physics and I had differing opinions on what the correct stopping distance would be.

I braced for an ending that I wondered if my body would even feel – brain even register – but none came.

No, instead of the sound of metal-on-metal, my ears were met with the angry honking of the person I'd cut off, as I messily swerved onto I-15.

I was back on the highway, the light of Gary's seedy little motel visible from across the way.

I took one last glance at the place where exit 19C had once been, and once again ceased to be.

I didn't know what else to do, so I went back to the motel, breathless, describing every moment of my ordeal to Gary. 

He didn’t look even remotely fazed by my story, instead opting to stare into space.

I realized then that the police were right. She really was gone.

“She’ll be back. Well, part of her will,” he finally told me, perhaps in response to the look of hopelessness that must have been written on my face. “2:30 AM. Twenty eight days after she first disappeared, at the bus stop off Main Street.”

“Are you sure?”

“That's where they always come back.” He smiled sadly, before engrossing himself back in his book.

That was weeks ago.

As of this morning, it's been twenty eight days since Shelby first disappeared. I touched down in Billings and made the six hour drive to the outskirts of Meyerton, waiting patiently for the exit to appear. 

I debated stopping by to see Gary, but decided against it – he'd asked me not to tell him if I chose to go back. He said he didn't want whatever happened to me on his conscience.

But, it's 2:29 AM now, and here I am anyway – sitting at the ancient bus stop in the empty city of Meyerton – a city that has only recently returned to existence, staring into the last of the receding darkness. 

I can see Shelby in the distance now – pale in the faint moonlight – barefoot, immaculate for someone missing for a month and emerging from the woods.

I found her.

Even from here, I can feel something radiating from her, an emptiness, a yearning hollowness – a hunger for something far more precious than mere flesh and bone.

I should be running to embrace her. I should be ecstatic.

Instead, I'm frozen – overtaken by another emotion entirely – one I’ve never felt before around my sister. Fear.

No, not just fear. An overwhelming, suffocating terror.

It’s not just that now-familiar emptiness that radiates from her the same way it did from the beckoning nothingness when it nearly claimed me last month. 

It's not even the way her skin seems too tight on her frame, or that she's taller than I remember.

No – it’s that awful, predatory smile on my sister's face, one I have not seen in all of our 26 years together. 

She moves as gracefully as she did in life, but in her eyes, I see only death.

I realize – as I watch the palpable nothingness incarnate that is wrapped in my sister's flesh – that I'm not sure what exactly she wants, what it is that she hungers for.

In a way, I wish she hadn't come back. I should've believed those that told me she was gone – because she is. She is utterly devoid of everything that had made her my sister. 

As I fight the urge to run to the car, to leave Meyerton before whatever it is that wears my sister’s skin like a too tight suit can reach me, I can’t help but replay my final conversation with Gary in my head. 

“So.” I'd confirmed, “She'll be back, in exactly twenty eight days from when she went missing?”

He'd nodded, no longer able to meet my eyes.

“But I need to warn you, Sheila – if you thought it was bad when she disappeared…” He paused to stare past me and into the dark expanse of trees off the highway. “... it'll be a thousand times worse when she comes back.”

I'd told him I knew I was doing the right thing, that trying to save my sister could never be a mistake.

Oh god. She's closer now.

I cannot tell if she seeks to fill that void by dragging me back with her, or if the hunger is more primal, more literal.

All I know is that the Shelby that disappeared, that I lost, is not the same Shelby that I see before me now.

I'm frozen to the spot now, as if I'm trapped by her gaze.

I'm going to share this while I still can.

Maybe I made a mistake after all.

JFR

First/Previous

A shamisen twang broke the constant mole crickets as the player’s fingers danced across the instrument’s strings to play a series of exercises. The player, a long-haired scrawny man sat against an adobe wall, rear atop one of the scattered crates there—his straw hat hid his eyes from others, but they remained entirely focused on his own hands, and the shamisen he held across his midsection. He drew a knee up and adjusted the instrument and played a small ditty, rocking his head from side to side.

The evening sun cast burnt orange streaks across southern highway where a few parked wagons remained on the shoulders of the street; a handful of Roswell citizens stood out in the evening, a few still rubbing their heads from the previous days’ festivities, a few hocking their wares. One such merchant stood beside his stand-on-wheels and cupped his right hand around his mouth like a bullhorn and shouted, “Kebabs! Kebabs with sauce!” Sticks of meat sat upright under the lamp on his parasol-covered stand.

The shamisen player lifted his head to the sound, studied the street, tipped the brim of his hat back to rest on his crown to show his brown eyes and he sighed while rummaging through his jean pockets; his hands returned from his clothes with no scratch. “Bummer,” he muttered to himself, before he placed his fingers once more on his shamisen. He began to pluck something that sounded suspiciously near ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’, but he sighed again and stopped and placed the shamisen beside himself where he rested on the crate and tipped his forearm over his eyes and craned sidelong across the platform’s surface, then shimmied his shoulder directly against the exterior wall of the building behind him.

A rickshaw, dragged by a big bald moonfaced fellow, skidded to a halt by the kebab seller, and two women spilled onto the sidewalk where the stand was, the larger woman called out to the kebab seller while the other stared at the rickshaw driver—the big man swiped furiously at his face with a hankie to dry the sweat glistening on his smooth cheeks.

The women took their kebabs and began eating. The larger of the two women, Sibylle, whistled at the rickshaw driver as she launched back to her seat; the driver lifted the peg-handles which jutted out on the front of the vehicle. Sibylle helped Trintiy into the seat and Sibylle whistled again.

Going by rickshaw was faster than Trinity had initially protested whenever Sibylle introduced it as a possibility; the pair passed sweet corn rows behind tall and barbed fences, squat adobe houses and shops, and the occasional pedestrian.

Trinity continued nibbling on the edges of the meat chucks speared through on a long splinter of wood. “Thank you,” she said to the other woman.

Sibylle swallowed the last of hers and tossed it over her shoulder to fall in the street somewhere unseen. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It seems like I keep thanking you all the time. Since I met you. It makes me feel small,” Trinity tore meat away and chewed loudly with her mouth open as she gazed across the emptied highway. The hues of orange and red became deeper; it was like the whole scene was drowning. “It’s good stuff,” she commented on the kebab. “I’d never had jackalope, but it’s alright.”

“Was that what it was?” asked Sibylle.

“That’s what the sign said, so I guess so.”

“Hm, not long and we’ll reach the south office.”

“Any association with The Republic? Is it like their offices?”

Sibylle sniffed and swiped at her nose with her thumb and turned away from Trinity, “Nah, it’s nothing like that. Like I told you before, everyone around here mostly takes care of their own problems. Those Texas boys don’t come this far. Yet anyway. I’d say give it a few more years though. They’ll come with the muscle and then the tax collectors. Those guys tax everything—most of all the ground. Then there’s the politicians once everything’s nice and peaceful. But it won’t be peaceful. Not really. It never is.” She shrugged with a seemingly forced smile, “Worry about your brother though. And eat. Maybe the food will calm your stomach. It always does for me.”

The rickshaw passed more plain-faced buildings until they sped past the hotel that Trinity and Hoichi had stayed on their first night in Roswell. Briefly, the hunchback shifted in her seat, but she took to gnawing at the meat on her stick. Beyond where the street went was the south gate—the one her and Hoichi had taken into the city. Beyond was the road, leading into darkening nothingness, wrapped behind the layer of high fencing.

Buildings were flanked with cinderblock barricades and sandbags and debris, this far near the city limit. Along the sides of the broad mesh-gate were knots of people with rifles, some lax, others poised with their barrels pointed outward from Roswell. Across the highway, butted against the gate was a tall catwalk suspended on thin legs and connected to the buildings on either side; a pair of guards strode across there.

As the rickshaw slammed still, perhaps fifty yards from the gate, the pair lurched in their seats and removed themselves to the sidewalk. Wasteland air seemed to cut in through the avenue and stink drifted with it. A crack of gunfire broke the silence and Trinity flinched, but Sibylle paid the rickshaw man his due and he rounded the pegs to sit himself onto the bench they’d only just left; he sat there, drying his face with his hankie, counting his scratch, while swallowing breaths. Neither he nor Sibylle seemed to have noticed the gunshot.

Sibylle met the hunchback on the sidewalk and spoke, “That was the militia you heard.”

As if to further the point, one of the individuals by the gate there among the rabble lifted their fist and yelped, “Got one! You see that? Pulled its scalp back with that!” They were loud but were drowned out by the others at the fencing which fell into an indecipherable mess of shouting; it all seemed friendly.

Trinity nibbled more on her kebab before letting it hang by her side, “Anything to worry about?”

“Worry?” asked Sibylle, “What would you need to worry for? It’s only mutants; look.” Sibylle led Trinity nearer the gates while keeping from the crowd. “Out there among the plain you can see ‘em. It’s their eyes. Normally not so many. Maybe the festival stirred ‘em.”

There out on the plain, as Sibylle said, were glowing eyes—yellow light like sick stars—with the lowlight of the evening, the bodies were malformed, twisted, naked flesh of gray. Their arms stretched out and seemed like human arms, some furthest out on the horizon seemed to drown in their misery, and maybe they were.

Another gunshot rang clear, forcing another flinch from Trinity.

“Sorry,” said the hunchback, “I hate that sound.”

Sibylle grinned, “Don’t know many that like it very much. Anyway, the office is right over here.”

The pair crossed the street while the rabble of those gathered by the gate died away into general conversation. Across from where the rickshaw had left them, the militia office stood between other flat-surfaced buildings, and besides the well written scrawl adjacent the doorway, there was no indication that it was anything special.

Sibylle pushed in and Trinity froze on the sidewalk for a moment before taking the last hunk of meat from her kebab into her mouth and tossing the splinter into the street.

The office was cool with the hum of an air-conditioning unit, and a young, clean-kept man sat in a swivel chair at the end of a long room, reading from a book that was falling apart at the seam. Lining the right-hand wall were photos, posters, script—all these things were related to missing-persons. Trinity briefly scanned the wall with its mountain of information but quickly followed after Sibylle.

 Sibylle greeted the man at the desk and coolly hung her thumbs from her pants pockets, grinning wildly. She called him Deputy Dung-Fister.

The man frowned and carefully placed the book he was reading onto the desk in front of him; the tome had no cover. “It’s Doug Fisher, thanks. You haven’t happened upon your giant in the time it took you come up with that, have you?” Deputy Doug Fisher pursed his lips and squinted at Sibylle.

Trinity shifted from one foot to the other then back, all while staring at the floor.

“Not quite,” said Sibylle, “I was hoping you’d be able to help me out with another little problem I have. You see her?” she motioned at Trinity, “Her brother’s missing, and I was hoping maybe you had some information on the matter.”

Doug sighed, “Check the wall.” He pointed past them, to the mural of photos and posters. “The missing toll has only grown since,” he rolled his eyes to the ceiling before returning them to the women, “God, I think every year I’ve worked here, the number gets bigger.”

“A testament to your diligence, mister deputy,” chided Sibylle. She approached him, lifted her left leg so her boot was planted flatly on the desk.

Doug stared at the boot with a blank expression. “Or the time’s changing. The first deluge took most. Who says another one’s not coming?”

“I’d like to speculate here with you all day, but honestly, I came to help a friend. You haven’t picked anyone up recently?”

“Today?”

Sibylle nodded at Trinity. The hunchback approached the desk and nodded, “Today maybe. Yesterday possibly.”

Doug examined Trinity’s ill-fitting garments. “Festival?”

Trinity nodded.

“Well, we did pick up a few. Mostly nothing serious.” He numbered them on his fingers while speaking, “Only one accidental death. A case of arson, a B and E, several incidents of public indecency.” Sibylle shot a glance at Trinity at the mention of public indecency. The corner of Doug’s mouth flickered a smile, “Sound like your brother, at all?”

“I-I don’t know.”

Doug sighed, but rocked his body forward with a quick nod, “That alien goo-goo juice does things to a person. I’ll let you look over the ones we’ve locked up.” The deputy rose from his chair and opened a drawer in the desk to jangle out a handful of keys. The man, decked in jeans and a button-down, kept no gun on his waist.

Trinity and Sibylle followed the man toward the rear of the building which was bisected by a set of solid-wall stairs leading to a second story. They rounded these and came to a door there, directly against the back of the stairwell. Doug unlocked the door to reveal another set of stairs which led underground. Electric light cast a glow against the polished concrete floor at the bottom landing.

As Doug took the stairs, his limp became evident and kept him slow in his going, and upon reaching the basement floor, he nodded at Trinity—he’d noticed her noticing the shine of a metal limb by his left ankle. This landing was cooler, and the circulation of air conditioning was prominent here as well. Doug rubbed his arms as he walked.

Lining either side, dug into the earth as additions, and bricked, were barred cells; most of them stood empty and without light besides what flooded in from the aisle, but Doug took the women along the righthand side and let them peer in through the cells; a woman holding her knees slept with her chin on her crossed arms while she sat on her cot which hung from the furthest wall. She shivered in her fit of sleep.

Doug whispered to Trinity and Sibylle as they stopped there to look in on the woman, “She’s coming down still. Nothing too serious, but we’ll let her out once she eats something and is ready to walk out of here on her own.”

“We’re looking for a man,” said Sibylle, moving away from the woman’s cell.

“Sure,” Doug continued down the aisle of cells till he reached the end. On the left was a man in his cage and on the right was another.

The man on the left was dressed in brown streaked clothes without shoes and had pustules dotting his cheeks and he staggered to the bars and grinned with toothless gums; he wore wispy strings of hair from his chin. “Whatcha’ lookin’ for, magistrate? Come to tell us a goodnight story?” He called to Doug with his skinny forearms dangling from between the door bars. The Deputy ignored the man.

The cell to the right was quiet and the man there did not stir; he laid there in his cot with his back to the bars—his head was tucked into his chest.

“Hey, get up,” Doug spoke to the man lying on the cot.

The man shifted lethargically, swung his legs off the side and scrubbed his beard with his hands and cocked his head as though to question the meaning of the disturbance. Doug posed a questioning expression to Trinity who shook her head.

“Well,” shrugged Doug, “Maybe someone at the north office knows.”

“He’s a clown,” said Trinity.

Doug froze where he stood and pursed his lips then tucked his hands into his pockets, “A clown?”

The hunchback nodded, “Yeah, my brother’s a clown. You didn’t come across any clowns, did you?”

“We did one,” Doug shook his head, and his eyes shifted to the ceiling before he let out a big sigh, “It was the only casualty from the festival—I’m sorry. Some fellow, we thought he was probably drunk or high, and he climbed a light pole and slipped and fell.”

Trinity took a step backwards and choked out, “What?” She wavered on her feet and nearly went over before she swiveled her head and squeezed her hands into fists. “What did you just say?”

“Oh,” said Sibylle. She took a step away from Trinity, watching her, while Doug shifted his hands around within his pockets.

“Where is he?” asked Trinity.

Doug coughed and averted his eyes to the floor, “He’s been incinerated. Last night. No ID, so we assumed he was a vagrant from out of town. Burying bodies is a risk with the increase of mutants and demons, so we’ve taken to burning them. I think cadaverine attracts those things. We’ve kept records. Rough times for when we do it. He’s likely marked as a John Doe, but it won’t be hard to find the paperwork. I can get that for you, at least.”

“You burned my brother?” Trinity clenched her jaw so tight that her face became a grotesque approximation of a person; her teeth were bare as she snarled, “You fucking burned my brother?” The end of her sentence came so choppy it nearly sounded like she would begin chuckling.

The hunchback reared back her right arm and launched her fist at Doug’s face; he uttered a surprised yelp as he tried to throw up his hands to block it. Blood erupted from the deputy’s nostrils as he stumbled backwards and fell onto the concrete floor. He sat there, eyes watered, holding his nose—Trinity stood over him, her breath coming like a panic. The woman’s entire body shook like mad.

Trinity spun and ran up the aisle till she broke up the stairs and disappeared; Sibylle stood beside Doug while the toothless prisoner cackled and called again, “Magistrate, you’ve need to arrest her! Quickly, quickly! I have some room in my own cell to abide her! Quick now, before she gets away!” The man laughed, and the others ignored him.

Sibylle reached down for the deputy, and he pulled himself up on her arm, still nursing his nose. “Goddamn, that stings,” he muttered.

“So?” asked Sibylle.

“So what?” asked Doug, steadying himself on his own legs.

“You want to arrest her?” Sibylle stared in the direction Trinity had gone.

He shook his head, “No, I get it. You know, I hate breaking news like that. Sometimes, when I tell people news like that, I almost wish they’d hit me.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and cupped it around his face and blew his nose into it. He looked at the viscera collected there in the cloth. “Almost anyway.”

“I’ll bring her back and get her to apologize,” said Sibylle.

“No, just take her somewhere to calm down—she’s hurt. I don’t need her wrecking my office, otherwise I might have to arrest her.”

Sibylle nodded then took the direction Trinity went, climbed the steps, rounded the closed staircase, and looked around the office. The entry stood ajar, and she moved there. She pushed into the night and angled left then right and found Trinity there, hunkered on her heels, arms wrapped around herself.

Trinity squealed with squinted eyes while tears ran wildly down her face. She squealed so long that the noise became silent even while her mouth hung open, and she shuddered a gasp and started again.

Sibylle crossed her arms and leaned adjacent to the doorway leading into the militia office and shifted her gaze to the members out by the gate fencing. Small yips of their conversation broke the routine of Trinity’s cry, but none approached. Even beyond them, Sibylle connected with the glowing eyes far out, those yellow beacons far off. More gunfire came and Sibylle only watched and waited.

First/Previous

Archive

In the great confines of a toilet stall, Devin found himself enduring a rather awkward case of indigestion. In one hand, he held a holy roll of toilet paper, wrapped around his fingers with precision; in the other, a pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Devin was ready to meet The Great One. However, as he began ascending the stairs of truth, an odd sound rumbled deep within his stomach. He thought to himself, It might just be nerves. However, the truth smelled far more sinister than any horror playing out in his imagination. Each step was more challenging than the last. “Why are there so many damn stairs to see The Great One?” he grumbled.

Clutching every ounce of strength, he climbed inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. “By The Great One, I should not have eaten that taco from Bell Taco!” Little did Devin realize, this was indeed a test of endurance devised by The Great One. Perhaps it was a form of devotion, unseen by others before him. The Great One awaited Devin’s arrival.

With tears in his eyes and a twinkle of hope, Devin kept trudging up the golden stairs of love. He knew that with every step closer to the top, he came closer to meeting his maker. But the challenges had only just begun. As he put his right foot down, a foul odor began to rise from deep within. Clutching his right cheek, he screamed, “Oh Great One, if this is your challenge to test my worth, then I accept it with all my heart, my soul, and my mind!”

But something slipped again—this time, louder than the last. Devin’s eyes widened in horror. How could something so blasphemous echo throughout the golden stairs of The Great One? Will he accept me for the blasphemer I am? Devin thought. Am I even worthy to stand in his presence?

He closed his eyes as his stomach continued to rumble. When he opened them again, the golden stairs of love had diverged into two separate paths. A hallway stretched before him, marked by a sign: Faithful to the left and Blasphemer to the right.

Devin knew naturally which path to take—he was indeed worthy and faithful to The Great One. With trembling hands, he opened the door of faith. What he found beyond was beyond human comprehension.

By the Great One who grants me the honor of being His disciple, You who grant me mercy!

With tears in Devin’s eyes, he opened the toilet of acknowledgment, sliding the lock to "Occupied." Inside, to the left, he found a pink bottle labeled Pepto-Bismol. To the right, he found four-ply toilet paper. Devin wrapped the paper around his fingers with precision; in his other hand, he held the pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Oh Great One, accept my offering!

The release was euphoric, like a dam crushed by the mighty force of the water it was meant to contain. Devin was cleansed of his blasphemy. With a sigh of relief, he slid the lock to "Open," ready to ascend the golden stairs of love and embrace the Great One.

Faster than light travel seems like a great idea on paper. Get everywhere you need to go in a snap, especially if you’re exploring the depths of space. The bad thing is that when you’re moving faster than light, all you’re left with is darkness, with nothing around to keep what’s hiding in it at bay. Man lives in the light for a reason, and we’ve been discovering that the hard way.

What follows are years worth of research notes that I’ve stolen. Not a single doubt in my mind that I’ll be shuffled off by some men in black within the next twenty four hours. Hell, they’ll probably be here in the next ten minutes once this finishes uploading. If you read this, please know that those of us who were involved just wanted to make things better. We thought if we discovered faster travel we could get a jump on exploration, colonizing new worlds for humanity to thrive on. That’s all we wanted- prosperity for everyone.

I don’t know what might happen in the future, but I leave one simple request for everyone- stay in the light. They’ll probably keep working on this, but for the love of everything, for your safety, stay. Even a flashlight, if you have it. I know I can still hear the whispers from dark corners, calls from shadows on the ground… they’re always closer than you think.

Time’s up, the upload is ready. There’s a lot of scientific jargon but I’ve gone through and tried to make a more concise edit to get the point across. For anyone more interested, I’ve put up the raw files that can be sorted through. Look, I’m not trying to make a name for myself with this. I just don’t think those that lost their lives should have done so in vain. Something awful is waiting just outside the light for us, and those it already took wouldn’t want anyone innocent to suffer too.

Stay safe. Stay in the light. Godspeed.

——

3/9/1972

A LETTER FROM DR. JAMES NEELY to AVARICE CORP CEO MATTHEW PULLER

Matthew,

While I greatly appreciate the opportunity, I must say I have some issues with your orders. Science, as you’ve seen from the advances in the past few years, takes time. Breakthroughs happen in a matter of seconds, but the preparation that goes towards those takes decades. Putting men on the moon was merely a stepping stone, and the prospect of lightspeed travel is something that I have dedicated my life to. That said, our research simply cannot move at the speed of light, much less the speed you want it to.

Under your directive we have lost no less than three test flights. At no point have we been prepared for these, forced to push our research far past any safe phase. I’m sure you know we’ve lost lives in the process as well, with the first ship exploding before it could leave Earth’s general area, combusting as it passed five units of gravitational force. The second made it through the initial run, though never hit lightspeed. However, it was unable to make the journey back due to a fuel leak. The third meanwhile, resulted in the death of the test pilot, as his body was unable to withstand the immense amount of force as the ship reached near lightspeed.

Matthew, do you know what it’s like to talk to a man who knows he’s going to die? We stayed on communications with the second pilot for fifteen hours until he ran out of air, finally passing out slowly as a mercy. We brought in a priest to say last rites over radio to him. His final rasps as he struggled for oxygen will haunt me to my dying day.

I write this as the lead researcher on this project- let us proceed on our own time table, so as to minimize the loss of human life as well as research costs. I realize how important this is, and just how badly you want to be the first to reach this amazing milestone, but please, please, make sure we do it ethically.

I’m afraid that if you cannot make these demands, I and the rest of the team will be forced to leave, and you’ll have to find a whole new research division.

Dr. Neely

1/15/1977

Lab Notes of Dr. James Neely

The first test flight was successful. SOLARIS, a speed of light capable ship, was launched precisely one week ago. It was able to traverse space between Earth to Mars in approximately 24 minutes, including acceleration. Issues with dipping out of lightspeed at two instances as the accelerator stuttered. The return trip took 26 minutes, suffering another accelerator issue that caused it to lose speed three times. Despite this setback, the results are magnificent, and the crew onboard (AIR FORCE CAPTAINS: SPENCER, MULLINS, and PETERS) all came back in pristine health with no side effects.

Physical, that is. I’m including here my debriefing notes with all three men. Though they mostly are in high spirits, Mullins has shown some aversion to sunlight since his return. The other two have not exhibited this or any other symptoms. Transcripts follow.

(Captain Mullins, are you feeling alright? You haven’t left the lab or living quarters since returning from the flight.)

I uh… no. Just had an odd migraine I can’t seem to shake. If it’s too bright I feel like I may throw up.

(Your scans came back looking completely normal, so there doesn’t seem to be any issue. Would you like to talk about what happened during the flight?)

All things considered, sir, it was uneventful. The acceleration up to speed of light had the hiccups with the accelerator, but I believe that’s just a kink that can be worked out over more successful flights.

(Very well. You’re dismissed, please send Captain Peters in next, if you don’t mind.)

Sir.

(The men switch out, Captain Peters taking the seat formerly occupied by Mullins.)

Sir, is Mullins alright? He’s… he’s looking pretty pale.

(I was hoping you could shed light on that, Captain Peters. Can you walk me through what happened up there?)

Well, jump to lightspeed was about how I expected. Everyone was in high spirits, but the accelerator hiccups were what started to throw us off. First one happened at about the halfway point of acceleration. Second happened just after we hit speed of light, and it took us about five minutes to ease back up to that rate. When we got to it though… damn. Everything outside was like a blur.

(Did Mullins start acting strange at all during the voyage or return flight?)

On the return… he started mumbling to himself after we hit lightspeed the first time. Something about the dark finding a way in through the cracks. It was maybe half a second before we lost speed again.

(Nothing after that?)

If we’re being honest, I think it was him that dropped us out of lightspeed. It was like his eyes were blank when he did it, as if he were sleepwalking or something. Didn’t happen again after that and he didn’t mention anything about what he said.

(Thank you for your time, Peters.)

END TRANSCRIPT

I’m going to keep up observation. We’re working on the accelerator still, hopefully making it easier to make the lightspeed jump in only seconds eventually as opposed to the timely process it is right now. I’ll be adding updates to this file as we go.

1/17/1977

No further issues with Mullins. He’s been out and about with the others, even joined in with the division’s celebration party last night. Hopefully he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning now…

5/7/1979

RESEARCH NOTES OF DR. NEELY

Another breakthrough. We’ve hit a massive, massive leap with our engine technology using a form of nuclear fission. Now we can accelerate to not only the speed of light in seconds, but go beyond it, finally realizing faster than light travel. We haven’t put it into a manned craft yet, of course, but used some unmanned rockets to test it. Everything’s held together so far, but I want to be sure before sending the Captains up in this one. We need to make sure the craft sent up will be able to withstand the forces acting on it, and be able to keep them alive through the process. It’s going to be a while, but we’re going to make sure it’s done right, and done well.

12/13/1981

It’s finally ready. The engine was just the first step in getting a manned flight into the air. We had to completely redesign any sort of craft we had. A couple of small scale animal flights were done, but the poor souls never survived the return trip. Turns out we needed to completely redo the temperature and radiation shielding, Doing that while maintaining a flyable craft was the hard part. We got it though, and the first flight goes up tomorrow. Captains Peters, Mullins, and Spencer are all due to make the jump first thing in the morning, They’ve already gone through the preliminary launch, and I’m happy to say I went with them.

Not that I’m making the jump, of course. No, turns out the Avarice Corporation has some major pull. Suppose shady government contracts will give you that, if you use it. Cue my surprise when they told me that myself and some other researchers would be able to set up here on Skylab. Turns out the “Skylab” that we in the public knew of, the one that crashed into the ocean a couple years back, was just some old prototype satellites. They kept it up here, though with some upgrades that made it invisible to the Soviets. I must say, it’s much nicer up here than the previous iterations, lots of fantastic upgrades.

Anyway, we’ll be supervising the flight and return from up here where we can get a front row view. Then once it’s over, they’ll take us back down to Earth so we can make further adjustments. I can hardly sleep. Partially because of not being in Earth’s gravity anymore, but partially because of the excitement!

12/16/1981

The past two days have been a failure that will haunt me even after my dying breaths. I’m just as responsible as the Avarice Corp. execs who wanted this. Just as responsible as the government officials who commissioned our work. I’ve damned three good men due to my negligence, and for that I am sorry.

We set up at the viewing window to watch the flight as the Captains took off. Peters was piloting this time, with the other two serving as both observation and copilots in the event of some malfunction or catastrophic issue.

Verbal confirmation came in from the pilots. The engine on their ship began to glow bright in the exhaust ports as it stored up energy, the fission causing a nuclear glow in the void of space. Then like the blink of an eye, they were gone, zipping off across space. The idea was that they would fly out to the edge of the universe, just past Pluto, then turn it around and come on back to us. Until they made it back, we wouldn’t have any kind of communications. Try as we might, we couldn’t figure out any kind of radio or otherwise that would work while they were at lightspeed.

It seemed almost instantaneous, maybe five minutes passed at the most, and then they were back. The ship though… it looked rough. Like it had been through decades of wear and tear, lost out in the darkness of space and banged up by whatever debris floated by. It docked on Skylab, but none of the pilots came through the airlock when it was secured. Finally, I worked up the courage to open the door from our side.

The smell hit me first, and it was like nothing I’ve ever had the misfortune of smelling before. Putrid, the stench of excrement and death, overpowering. It took everything in me not to throw up in zero gravity, though it was more out of fear of having my own vomit float back into my face. I held my nose, moving forward slowly as I tried to find what happened.

Spencer was the first one visible. What was left of his body was sitting there in his chair still, though there wasn’t much to call a body anymore. Bones were visible, with flesh hanging off in tattered chunks that looked as though they had been torn off by ravenous teeth. I soon saw that was the case, as Peters was locked in one of the computer compartments, mumbling to himself, blood covering his face and mouth, staining his teeth. Mullins was sitting in the third seat up front at the console, one of his legs missing, torn off right below the knee. His eyes were wide, likely in shock. The men looked older than when I had seen them only half an hour before- hair now grey, eyes sunken, and hard lines in their faces. The two living ones were thin, almost like a prisoner of war after being freed from captivity.

Peters screamed when he saw me, rage and terror in his eyes. He tried hiding from us, pressing himself into his seat as far as he could. Mullins kept staring forward blankly, off into the darkness of space beyond his window, looking into nothing and everything at the same time.

We got an emergency shuttle sent out from Earth to bring us back, but in the meantime I did what I could to talk down the two men. It didn’t go well, and eventually when backup got there we had to strap them down and float them into the rescue shuttle. They were nearly unintelligible, but Peters kept screaming about a coffin beyond light.

The shuttle got us back home to Earth, thank god, but that was just the beginning of our problems. When we tried to get them from the shuttle to the building, both started screaming bloody murder on seeing sunlight. Peters was about to be wheeled out on a stretcher by medics and managed to throw himself in a way that flipped the entire thing over, right back into the shuttle. Mullins just shrieked the entire time we were prepping him to move, finally leading to the decision to do alternate transport. They backed an ambulance up to the shuttle door, no way for sunlight to get in, and transferred them over before driving them to the medical facility parking garage and getting them out there.

Considering Spencer’s remains couldn’t scream at us, we didn’t try moving it any different way. We didn’t have any kind of body bags up there either so he had been wrapped in one of the thermal blankets and transported that way. We put him on a gurney and wheeled it out of the shuttle, into the sunlight, and suddenly there’s this ungodly scream and smoke rising up from inside the blanket. Sunlight managed to hit the body, making it hiss and steam before bursting into flame. I swear to god, I don’t think it was necessarily… him that was screaming. No, it was something else, because within seconds the darkest plume of smoke I had ever seen erupted from the blanket and dissipated into thin air. Only his remains were left on the gurney, just charred now.

We got him to an autopsy table and determined his death was the result of massive trauma and blood loss. Which was pretty obvious from the get go, if we’re being honest, considering much of him had been torn to pieces.

Peters and Mullins have been under observation since we got back. Both are in deep hysteria, with Peters still going on about some coffin and how it was going to open soon. Mullins just sat there, staring ahead at the wall, only demanding that the lights be turned off wherever he was. Peters did the same, practically knocking out the bulbs in his room, saying that the light was going to hurt him.

We had some security cameras on the ship that I’m having pulled so we can see what the hell happened. Will update when I get the footage and have a chance to thoroughly review it.

—-

FROM THE RECORDS OF DR. JAMES NEELY

12/20/1981

I”m pulling the plug on these experiments. There’s no chance in hell we mess with faster than light travel any time in the foreseeable future. I still don’t know what the root cause of all this was, but we’re cutting it until we can find out, thoroughly and definitively, what the hell happened here.

The footage I pulled from the ship feed only left me with more questions. There wasn’t much to it, and half of it was… I don’t know, degraded? It was like something had destroyed it. Considering Mullins finally started talking though, I don’t know that we’re going to need it.

Everything looks normal as they’re making prep for the jump, but once they actually hit lightspeed, everything changed. It’s around then that the degradation started being obvious, with the three men all in their chairs at the main consoles. As soon as they hit speed though, three more people appear in the footage. Nothing… nothing defining on them, just tall, almost shadows, standing right behind each man as they hit lightspeed. It stays like that for about two minutes, these figures just standing there before the footage finally cuts out into static. It never comes back on after that.

Mullins had a while where he was clear last night, said he wanted to speak to me, but only in the dark. I clarified that I would need to record what he said, and he reiterated the “no lights” rule. I agreed, foregoing even a small flashlight for note taking for the sake of getting answers. It was dark, with only his vague silhouette visible sitting across the table from me. What follows is my conversation with him.

(How’s your leg feeling?)

I can still feel it, even with it not being there. I can still feel… them… gnawing on it too.

(Them? Was it Peters who took it?)

No. He didn’t do any of that… it was the shadows. The dark.

(I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Captain Mullins.)

You sent us up there with a mission, right? To go faster than the speed of light. A whole new avenue of travel that could make human lives better. Right? Take something that would normally be years of travel time and cut it down so we all have more time to build a new world, free in the light of the sun.

(Sure, yes. We wanted to find a means of travel through space to, hopefully, find new worlds that humans could build and live on.)

Doctor, do you know what happens when you move faster than light can travel?

(I’m assuming I don’t, no.)

You’re left in just the dark. They’re finally able to catch up. No light to stop them.

(They?)

Came in right through the windows. At first we thought it was a trick of the eyes. Gravity and speed warping what we were seeing. It was like the darkness outside the windows was pushing over itself to get through, bending the glass and plastic as it pushed. Well, eventually it figured out it couldn’t get in, and started… I don’t know, feeling it’s way around. It searched out a spot where it could crawl through, the smallest little crack in the paneling, between the window and the frame, a slightly loose screw… it made its way in.

God, it was like it moved in slow motion. Looked like smoke at first, that’s why Spencer got up. He thought there was a fire going somewhere under the floor panels, went to get the fire extinguisher and stepped through the whisps of darkness coming out of the ground. That was it. All it took was for them to touch him and he just… stopped right there.

(What did he do next?)

Just stood there for a second, then he attacked Peters. Jumped at him, tried forcing him off the console. He hit the accelerator, pushed it to the damned limit, and when that jump hit Peters was able to knock him back in his seat. We both jumped up and tied him down, had some duct tape we situated away and got him secure to his chair. By the time we got that done though we had been at the max speed for… god, it was probably only minutes but it seemed like hours. Days, even.

Peters sat back down and eased off the speed until we were steadiy drifting. Spencer was just screaming at us the entire time, telling us we still had further to go. Not really sure where the hell he was plannin’ on taking us but… well, I’m afraid to know what could have been further out after what we saw.

(How far out did you end up, Captain Mullins?)

When we finally stopped my gauge read 2.9 million light years. Not in Kansas anymore, that’s for fuckin’ sure.

(Fascinating. You must have left the Milky Way Galaxy in that case. What did you see?)

Not a damned thing. Just darkness. Big, empty darkness far as the eye could see. The only light came from the stars behind us, light years away at this point. There was nothing to speak of, not a single star, for the foreseeable distance in front of us.

I checked our navigation. We managed to overshoot the Andromeda Galaxy completely, so I tried to get us lined back up to make the jump back. Peters was busy trying to get some kind of distress signal out for a second, but then he suddenly just stopped.

(Do you know why?)

If I had to guess, sir, it’s because of what was floatin’ by outside our window.

(What?)

It had to be miles away from us, but the damn thing was huge. Probably the size of a planet, I’m just amazed we didn’t get sucked into it, it had to have its own gravity as big as it was.

(What was it?)

It looked like it was made out of stone. Reminded me of those old coffins you would see in horror movies. Carved stone, a giant slab on top to make sure whatever was inside stayed inside. That wasn’t enough for whatever was in this thing though, I guess. It had chains. All around the thing, just these massive links of metal covering every possible inch, wrapped right around it so tight it had made notches in some of the areas on the stone. It was just barely visible in the light shining from the Milky Way far behind us, but I swear those chains… they were shining like they were just smithed. Not a blemish on them, reflecting the little bit of light that made it this far out.

(Chains? But what could make chains that large?)

God himself, I guess. Sir, I don’t know what else to tell you. I know what I saw.

(Yes, yes, I’m not doubting you, and I appreciate your honesty. I’m just having a bit of trouble wrapping my head around the concept.)

You and me both, sir. Think it broke Peters’ brain seeing it. Poor guy kind of just… shut down. I managed to get us turned around, Spencer was screaming at me still, telling me we still. needed to go further. Something about opening the way. I tuned him out best I could and got us fixed in the right direction. Hit the thruster and got us back up to lightspeed as quick as I could.

(Were there issues with the return trip?)

As soon as we hit faster than light, yeah. Whatever had attached itself to Spencer… sprang right out of him. It was like darkness that was made solid, looked like an octopus’ tentacle reaching out of him. Sounded like he was choking for a second before it came right out of his mouth. Stabbed through My leg and started ripping its way in. Hurt like hell.

(What happened to Peters?)

Well, I was a little preoccupied with my situation, but I saw more tendrils work their way in between the panels outside. The dark moving in just like it did to Spencer, but this time it latched onto Peters. He threw himself over me, trying to get to the thruster. At first I figured he was trying to take us out of lightspeed, turn us around or something. He hit it forward though, back to the top speed. I fuckin’ let him at that point. I had another issue to take care of.

(Your leg?)

I could feel it inside. Like… felt like worms in my damn veins, working their way up trying to get from there to my head. I knew if they made it all the way up that it was over. There was no way I would be able to think clearly if they got to me like they did the others.

(So what did you do?)

There was a toolkit for repairs in one of the side compartments, where we kept some of the spare computer parts for navigation. Got the hacksaw out of there and started cutting while I still could.

(Peters let you?)

Shit, I had to knock Peters over the head with a hammer to get him to leave me alone. He jumped after me, teeth going for my neck practically. Knocked him right on the forehead. Locked him up in that same compartment and kept going. Sawed through as much of the skin as I could then used the hammer to break the bone, twisted it off. I’m sure I only lived because of the adrenaline and shock of the situation, but finally made my way back to the thruster and took us out of warp speed.

(And that was when you arrived back outside of Skylab?)

I fuckin’ wish. No, the way he hit the thruster, it jammed in lightspeed. I had to figure out a way to get it out before things got even worse.

(How did you manage to fix it?)

The old fashioned way- I hit it with a hammer.

(That dropped you out of faster than light speed?)

Slowly but surely. Judging by the gauge I had, we were going at least a thousand times the speed of light, so it took a few minutes to drop it back down. The thing is… even going faster than light, in the opposite direction, I swear when I looked out the window it was still there.

(The coffin?)

Yeah, the coffin. It was like it was the one constant, even as stars and planets flew by in fractions of blinks, it was just there. Except since we were traveling faster than light there was nothing to reflect off of it now. I swear there were… it was doing the opposite of glowing. Like from the little crack under the slab and hairline fractures on the surface where the chains were gripping it tight, it was absorbing in whatever stray light was out there. For a second I could swear that we were being drawn in with it, whatever little bits of light coming off the shuttle drawn to it. I hobbled around the cabin as best as I could and turned off every light possible, trying to hide from it. Whatever was inside though, it knew. It knew we were there. I think it let us go on purpose.

We dropped below lightspeed not far outside the edge of our solar system. I saw the other planets pass by pretty quick before I pulled the brakes hard once Skylab was in view.

(You managed to dock the ship.)

Huh. Well, color me impressed. I don’t remember much after seeing Skylab. Think that’s around the time everything started to go blank. Adrenaline wore off, I guess. Last thing I remember was the sun pouring in through the window. Spencer… whatever was in Spencer, didn’t like that. The darkness came back, started eating at him, trying to find a way out of the light. Is he doing okay now?

(I’m afraid Captain Spencer passed away before reaching Earth.)

Damn shame. How’s Peters?

(The head wound has taken some recovery time, but he’s getting there.)

Good. Good to hear. I know this seems bleak, doctor, but I think this is only a bump in the road. I think we’re on the verge of something big here.

END TRANSCRIPT

My conversation with Captain Mullins ends there as I run out of tape and excuse myself. As I open the door, bright fluorescents from the hallway spill into the room, falling squarely on him. Only the dark silhouette is still visible though, as if the man himself has been consumed by darkness.

I received word later in the day that Peters was awake and wanted to speak to me. I visit him in a hospital room. He’s requested almost the opposite of Captain Mullins, demanding that the lights stay on at all times. Bright fluorescent bulbs underscore the hard lines on his face, now clean of blood. A line of stitches runs across his forehead, accentuating where Mullins must have struck him.

(Good evening Captain Peters. I’m glad to see you’re in better shape.)

You can see it, right?

(I’m sorry?)

You can see it, right there! (He starts waving his hand around beside his bed, pointing at something on the ground). I need a flashlight. Please. Bring me a light.

(I reach for the exam light on the wall, bringing the coiled cord over and shining it over him. He sits up, letting it shine over his hand and project a shadow on the ground.)

Oh, thank god. Thank god. It’s still outside.

(Captain Peters, do you remember what happened up there?)

Mullins attacked me. Threw me in the compartment. He’s fuckin’ dangerous, Sir. You’ve got to get him locked up.

(Captain Mullins says that you attacked him, Captain Peters. You mean to tell me something else happened?)

He tried to drive us right into that coffin, Sir! Bastard was going to run us into it at lightspeed so whatever was inside could come out. They got him! They got Spencer, then they got him!

(Slow down, Captain. What do you mean by ‘they’?)

Mine is still outside, sir! They didn’t get me! I saw it take over the other two though…

(Please, Peters, I need you to explain calmly.)

We made the jump to faster than light, right? And when we were in the jump, I looked back behind to speak to them. There was… I could see my shadow projected on the wall and ceiling behind me. The console lights, I was the only one they hit. The other two… when I looked back their shadows were taking them. They were in their seats, but there were these huge… I don’t know, beings made of pure darkness standing behind them. I saw Spencer’s grab him. It grabbed at his face, holding his mouth open, then it just kind of… stepped in. Like it was putting on a human suit.

Mullins… his tried to grab at him but I moved at the last second. The light that hit him kept it from taking him right away, I think. I don’t know. Spencer started attacking us then and we had to tie him down to the chair. He managed to grab Mullins leg though, I think that’s how it got him. I pulled us out of lightspeed before anything else could happen.

(I’m not following, Captain Peters.)

Spencer’s shadow took him over, sir. I think that’s what it was at least. The dark… when you go faster than light all you’re left with is the dark. There’s no more boundary between us and our shadows. They took over Spencer, and started working their way through Mullins. When we stopped and saw the coffin… I tried to stop him. Whatever got into his leg started working its way up, he wanted to open the coffin up. I snuck up on him with the saw, hoping I could get it out of him…

(He told me he cut his own leg off.)

He probably wants to go back up there, too, doesn’t he? You can’t listen to him sir. Please, believe me. I took his leg off and that slowed him down enough so I could get us turned around. Then he hit me with the hammer and threw me in the compartment. God, I must be the luckiest son of a bitch alive, the lights in there were probably on when he shut me in. Only thing that kept this bastard out. (He looks down to his own shadow on the ground again, grimacing in fear.)

I swear sir, shine a light on him. He won’t have one anymore. It’s inside him now.

(I think you should rest, Captain Peters. I’ll come back by tomorrow and check in.)

END TRANSCRIPT

I must admit, his words have left me shaken. I can’t get rid of this feeling of paranoia. Despite the bright sun outside, weather surprisingly warm, I shiver upon catching sight of my own shadow on the ground. I don’t know yet that I’ll try what he’s asked with Captain Mullins. Perhaps I just need sleep. It has been a few days since I’ve had more than a couple hours of rest.

Misfortune seems to have my number today though, as I’ve received a letter from my benefactor. Mr. Puller is insisting that trials continue, whether with new pilots or with Mullins going back up. He also warns that I may get a visit from some men with the Collective in the next few days, and that I’m not to speak with them under any circumstance. It’s obvious at this point that he only has his own preservation in mind, and these gentlemen may threaten that. I’m looking forward to having a chat with them.

12/21/1981

Some strange individuals arrived today, requesting to speak to Captain Mullins and Peters. They’ve identified themselves as agents from The Collective. To tell the truth, I’m giving them everything. I don’t trust Puller or anything that Avarice may have its mind set on at this point.

They requested to speak to Peters first, and received his story firsthand. When it came time to meet with Mullins, they requested that I go in with them. Something tells me they know more than they’re letting on.

When entering Mullins’ room, I can see that he’s gone a few steps further now to ensure no light gets in. Glass from the fluorescent tubes above litter the ground of his small room, making uncomfortable crunching noises as we stepped in. Upon flipping the switch, none of them came on, with only a loud crack heard from one of the still intact sockets that was desperately trying to route electricity.

He demanded we leave, insisting that no lights be turned on him. From what I could tell, he was in the corner of the room, only a dark, amorphous shadow on the wall to give any hint that someone was in there. One of the agents had shown me before going in that they were holding a small handheld light, over three thousand lumens in brightness. Said it was enough to light up underground caves when they had to occasionally search for lost artifacts, though what kind of artifacts he was talking about eludes me.

When he flashed it on, Mullins shrieked. He jumped from the corner, launching himself up almost to the ceiling where he stuck himself to the wall, like a vampire evading the light. I expected to see pale, waxy skin like from an old Dracula movie, but instead every inch of skin visible on him seemed to just absorb the light. He was a being of pure darkness, light oozing around him like it was bleeding into an event horizon. The Agent continued shining the light, telling him to come down and he would lessen the brightness. Mullins refused to comply, leading him instead to crank it higher.

Eventually the former Captain fell from his perch near the ceiling, his face finally visible in the bright handheld light. His eyes were gone, hell, his entire face at that. In its place was a singularity, drawing in all the light it could from the small handheld. The agents didn’t say too much, simply keeping the light on him as they wheeled in a small gurney with a box on top, sliding his body into it while doing their best not to touch it directly.

Through the whole process, even outside of his being cloaked in darkness, something didn’t seem right. I didn’t realize it until going back in my mind now, but the entire time the bright light was on him, there was no shadow cast from his body. It’s like the light simply went right through him, no semblance of a human or even animal there in his stead.

They took him away and transferred Captain Peters to their custody. I’m sure Puller is going to jump down my throat when he hears about this, but at this point… he can kiss my ass. The agents that were here gave me a number to call, said they may have some work for me in their aerospace division. I don’t know that I’m going to call them though.

After all that, I think it’s time I retire. Someplace sunny sounds nice. Perhaps I’ll move between the poles. Chase the midnight sun, as it were. Anything to ensure my shadow stays behind me.

Ever since I was a very young lad, I always pondered the existence of extraterrestrials... perhaps like all of us from a certain age. For me, growing up in the north-east of England, no older than ten, the existence of aliens, or UFOs for that matter, was as mysterious and uncertain as the existence of God himself. Even the existence of other things like vampires, werewolves, bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster (Nessie, as we Brits like to call her) was either as likely, or unlikely to exist.

As that young, blonde-haired boy with pointy ears, the only aliens I knew of were from the movies I watched... Whether it was War of the Worlds or Independence Day, these movies could only imagine the possibility of alien life and the consequences of that, without providing the real thing. But by the year 2012 and barely into secondary school, it would seem I may finally have my answer - whether I really accepted it or not...

I have already recently shared both – yes, both of my childhood UFO experiences before. But being a writer by trade, I thought I’d use my craft to revisit them, in the hope of fleshing out as much of these two mysteries as possible, so I can decisively decide if what I saw as a boy was indeed real or not... For the reader, it will also be up to you to decide if the events I witnessed happened as I saw them, or if my childhood imagination got the better or me - or if I’m really just full of it. Not that it’s really worth much of a damn without any evidence, but the following of what I’m about to tell you did in fact happen... as I saw it, and to the best of my recollection.

By the year 2012, I had been growing up in the East Riding of Yorkshire for the past seven years, in the average-sized, but oddly named port town of Goole. This town was of no particular interest, except perhaps for its two landmarks - two rather tall water towers, humorously named the Salt and Pepper Pots. Settled besides a tributary river, Goole was sparsely surrounded by patches of farmland and large crop fields – perhaps the perfect setting for a UFO story, like the crop circle stories I knew of in the United States... However, my first UFO experience wouldn't happen in some field on the outskirts of town - but in the town itself. More precisely, it would happen no more than 100 meters outside of my bedroom window.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember the precise year this first event took place - although I do know it happened in either 2011 or 2012. Therefore, I was either in my final year of primary school, or my nerve-wracking first year of secondary. Regardless, I would have been around eleven years old. As a child and even through my teens, I was always a bad sleeper – either getting no sleep at all or waking up in the very early hours of the morning. It was on one of these early mornings that I woke up to my silent, pitch-black bedroom, with everyone else in my house fast asleep. Not having an alarm clock or phone to tell the time, I wondered what time of night it was – perhaps to know how much more sleep I could get.

As I said, this was all a regular occurrence for me - as was peeking my head through the curtain next to my bedside to see if the sky was still dark. By looking out from my bedroom window, I would have seen my twenty metre-long garden which I regularly played football on, as well as the neighboring house on the other side of my back-garden fence... But what I then saw, in the short distance over the roof of this particular neighboring house, would be a complete first...

What I saw, flying, gliding, or simply just moving, one hundred metres or less away from my bedroom window, was what I can only describe as a flying saucer-shaped-like object. In the past, I described this object as the most stereotypical flying saucer shape you could ever see or imagine. The night was too dark to see its colour, but I remember it making a distinctive humming noise as it moved over the town beneath it. But how I knew this object was saucer-shaped, was because as it moved, or indeed hummed, a single row of small bright lights moved around and around.

At that age, if I imagined a flying saucer, I would have pictured a particularly large craft – but this object seemed no larger than a car or a small van. The speed at which this thing moved was not particularly fast or slow – but fast enough so that what I was seeing, was gone in the next five to ten seconds. Not knowing if what I had just seen was in fact real or just a dream, I pinched and slapped myself, hard enough to wake up almost anyone– but I was awake, and as you can imagine, I was in disbelief.

If any one thing - paranormal or otherwise, that you didn’t already know or believe in just appeared to you, confirming absolute proof, whether it was God or Jesus Christ, a heaven or a hell – even ghosts and yes, aliens... I think anyone would have had the very same first reaction... ‘This can’t be real’, ‘I must be dreaming’, ‘Do I need to question the meaning and my own understanding of life’... That was the reaction I remember having – rational in the face of the unbelievable... If you were to ask me what I did next, having witnessed such an extraordinary and incomprehensible sight, you’d be surprised to learn that what I did, was simply lay back down on my pillow and eventually fall back to sleep... You’d probably be surprised, but that’s what I did.

The very next day, with the event of last night still fresh in my mind, I found my mum putting laundry away in her and my dad’s bedroom. Feeling comfortable enough to tell my mum almost anything - even which girls at school I fancied, I told her exactly what I saw the night before. Like any parent would, having been told a fictitious-sounding story by your young child, my mum showed no indication of surprise or even shock, instead responding in the lines of ‘Oh wow’ or ‘Oh really?’ as she carried on folding the laundry on the bed. I asked her if she believed me and she said she did, but even before I confessed to her what I saw, I knew she wouldn’t.

Maybe I just needed to get what I saw that night instantly off my chest, and telling my mum would be the best way to do it - without facing ridicule from my friends, being laughed at by my sister, or simply just ignored by my dad. As unbelievable as this story that I told my mum was, I knew what I saw that night was real, and I think most people on this planet know when they are dreaming and when they are not - and I just knew I wasn’t.

If this was the case, then what I saw from my bedroom window that night was indeed a flying saucer – a UFO. It may then come as a surprise to whomever is reading this, as it did for me, to learn that despite bearing witness to what appeared to be an unforgettable UFO experience, I had almost completely forgotten about what happened that night - not fully recollecting what I saw until the latter part of last year... Was I in denial at what I saw? Did my mind just choose to repress the memory of it?

When I first wrote of this experience only recently, an online user speculated as much to me – that my young brain couldn’t comprehend what I had seen and therefore repressed the whole experience... But, like I have already said, this would not be my only “potential” UFO encounter... and the next time, thankfully, I wouldn’t be alone.

During the summer of 2012 and having just graduated primary school, my six friends and I ventured almost every day to the exact same place along the outskirts of town. We had found a field with a small adjoining wooded area, and very quickly, this area became our brand-new den – which we spent most days climbing trees or playing tag-hide and seek. At the very end of our den was a 4-feet-wide creek, separating the field we played in from the town’s rugby club that was also on the outskirts of town.

The reason I bring up this creek is because my friends and I, upon discovering it, would also spend a lot of our time there that summer. We enjoyed playing this juvenile game where one of us had to leap over to the embankment on the other side, or cross via a narrow wooden plank we found to make a bridge. Being the attention seeker I was at that age, I was always willing to jump up and over to the other side. In fact, I was the best – anyone else who tried mostly ended up with one foot in the less than sanitary water.

Several months later, however, and nearly half-way through our first year of secondary school, our tradition of jumping creeks and field hide and seek had sadly become far less frequent with the ongoing school year. That was until one afternoon - or maybe it was evening (I don’t remember) my friends and I ventured back to our den and the nearby creek – crossing over and entering behind the grounds of the rugby club.

These grounds consisted of two large rugby fields and a smaller patch of grass by the side, which is where the creek had led us. What the five or six of us were doing there, I’m not sure. We did sometimes use the grounds to play tag-hide and seek, or other times we just explored. But what I remember next from that afternoon/evening, in whichever Autumn month it was, was we caught sight of something flying in the not-too-distant sky – and heading directly our way.

At first, we must have thought it was nothing more than an airplane or Royal Air Force craft - as our town had them passing the sky on a regular basis. The closer this thing got, however, the more it started to look like something else – something none of us had probably ever seen before... It started to look like, what our juvenile, imaginative minds could only interpret as an alien spacecraft of some kind - so much so, that one of my friends said something in the lines of ‘Is that a UFO?’, as though speaking the minds of all of us...

Whatever this thing was, it was still coming our way, and flying curiously low. As close as it was now, I think we were all waiting for this craft to visually clarify for us that it was some kind of plane... But what I can still remember vividly, is this thing being directly over our heads... and my next thought while looking up to it was... ‘THAT IS A UFO! An alien spaceship!’...

Before any other thought could then enter my mind, whether it be one of awe, dread or panic, I hear one of my friends a metre or two behind me shout ‘SHIT!’ By the time I look behind me, all I see is every one of my friends running away towards the embankment of the creek, as though running for their lives. If I recall, it was just me and my friend George who didn’t. I’m sure I thought of running too, but I must have been in such awe or disbelief at what I was seeing - and even if I did run, I thought it was sure to abduct me. Whether I ran or stood right where I was, I felt convinced there was nothing I could really do – if it was going to take me, it would.

When I turn away from my friends to look back up at what I see to be an “alien craft”, what I instead see is some kind of low-flying military jet, turned slightly away from us now and flying off. My friends also must have noticed it was just a military jet, as they had stopped running and now joined slowly back with the rest of the group, realizing there was nothing to be afraid of anymore.

Although my memory of the following conversation is hazy, we did discuss what we had just seen, with every one of us indeed thinking it was a UFO at first, only to then realize it was a military jet. I don’t remember the conversation going any further from there, or what we even did afterwards for that matter. We probably just went back into town and played football at the park.

However, something I discreetly remember to this day, is that in the next two years that I still knew them, before packing up my things and moving abroad with my family, is that not a single one of us ever talked about the experience again... not even for a laugh. There was no ‘Remember when we all thought we saw a UFO but it was really just a plane?’ I did drift away from most of these friends by the following year, as we were all in separate classes in school and played for rival football teams. So perhaps they did talk about the experience, except without me there...

In my last year before moving abroad, however, I did reacquaint myself with my best friend Kai - who was there that day at the rugby club. We had drama class together that year, and it was in these lessons that we learnt all about these terrifying urban legends, in which the class afterwards had to dramatically perform them. It was also from these lessons that Kai and myself became obsessed with urban legends, so much so that we would watch scary YouTube videos about them.

But in that same year, enjoying to be scared together, not once, to my recollection, did either of us ever bring up that experience at the rugby club... Not once. Kai was one of my friends I saw run away that day, so he was obviously scared by the craft as well. But I never brought it up either. In fact, I think I almost forgot about the experience altogether – just like my first experience a year prior to it... But what’s even crazier to me, is that I seemed to forget about both of these experiences, regardless of what they were... for the next ten years.

If you’re wondering why I am talking about this second experience, even though it only turned out to be a military jet, it’s because since recollecting my first experience recently, and becoming aquatinted with UFO lore and history... some things about that day at the rugby club just don’t seem to add up to me.

Number one: if this was an RAF jet, then it was flying dangerously low – potentially 100-160 feet above us. From what I’ve researched, RAF jets can fly as low as 100 feet, but when it comes to populated areas containing vehicles and civilians, then it can go no lower than 500 feet. If this was a jet, it may not have even seen my friends and I - but it was still flying in and around a populated town...

Number two: I was 100% convinced that this craft flying over me was an alien craft - 100 feet or so above me and that is what I believed I was seeing. It was only when I looked to my friends running away and then back again, that it was somehow now a military jet.

Number three: and perhaps the most confusing aspect of this experience, is that the RAF jet, from my recollection, made barely any noise... From what I’ve read, RAF jets at only 25 metres after take-off are so loud, it can rupture your eardrums. Like I said, this jet was no more than 160 feet above us, yet I could still hear my friend cuss the S-word behind me.

Having recently fallen down the UFO rabbit-hole in the past year, I did come across one video, whether real or a hoax, of a spinning, bright glowing light in the clear day sky, that slowly morphed into a standard airliner. Although in the video, this transition took the better part of a minute, I then wondered if the craft I saw that day could possibly have done the same thing.

However, when I previously shared my experiences online, only several months ago, one person rationally suggested that the craft I saw could have in fact been the Avro Vulcan XH558, which was active in 2012 and based at Doncaster-Sheffield Airport – not that far from Goole. The Avro Vulcan is indeed a very odd-looking military craft, with wings resembling something like you would see out of Star Trek (maybe that’s why it was called the Avro Vulcan?).

From what I remember, in the few seconds that I fully believed this thing flying over me to be a UFO, it didn’t strike me as flying saucer shaped – not like the one I had seen a year before. Regardless, whatever this craft was, it definitely struck me as alien at first - and maybe what I thought I was seeing was a different kind of alien craft... Or maybe it really was just a military jet... an oddly shaped one at that.

If you were to ask me now, in the year 2024, if what I saw in 2012 was either a UFO or simply an RAF jet, for the sake of rationality, I would say it was just a jet - whose strange appearance merely confused a group of twelve-year-old boys. However, to conclude the speculation of this second experience, I will leave you with this...

Not long after posting of my experiences, an online user advised me to share my story with a specific UFO investigator, who particularly focuses on UFO activity in the Yorkshire area. Feeling in need of answers, I emailed this very same investigator. Intrigued by my story, he requested a conversation over the phone with me – and after relaying this second experience with him, highlighting how this jet was supposedly flying dangerously low, without producing much sound at all, he simply said to me ‘That wasn’t a military craft’...

If you were also to ask me whether I believe in aliens, I would say that I do... Not because of what I saw – I still don’t know if what I saw was real. I do believe in aliens - or whatever they are (there are countless theories) simply because since I first fell down this UFO rabbit-hole, learning of the experiences of many others, the existence of extraterrestrials no longer appears irrational to me... After all, can we really be the only intelligent beings to exist in this universe? The answer is I don’t know... But what I do know is that for me, like it will be for countless others, the truth is still out there somewhere... maybe even right here on our very own planet.

“Don’t fall asleep in the snow.”

That’s a phrase I heard multiple times growing up. Other phrases such as “don’t sit still in the snow” and “don’t lie down in the snow” were also common. I think most people who have grown up in snow related areas have heard those warnings as children. Snow is fun but you can’t sit in one place for too long. 

     Then, why shouldn’t you sleep in the snow?

     Because it’s cold.

     That’s the reason.

To sit or lie down in the snow without any heat source is dangerous. Even if you have appropriate clothes you still shouldn’t be sitting in the snow for long periods of time. The cold will eventually get to you and lower your body temperature.

     Here’s a little sign I was always told to look out for when I was young:

     “If the snow starts to feel ‘warm’ or ‘not that cold’ you need to get up and start moving immediately.”

     That’s a sign that your body temperature is getting dangerously low.

     In other words, falling asleep in the snow can easily result in your death.

     Which currently seems to be my fate.

I guess I should explain.

I’m revisiting my old home town, a tiny place that’s covered in snow half the year, for the first time since I moved to the city. It has been a few years and when I got back here the fresh air and untouched snow covered landscape had enchanted me. It was nothing like the grey slush that muddied the streets in the city. Seeing the natural beauty of my childhood intact had given me the brilliant idea of taking a walk in the forest. Now, this forest is not particularly large and because it’s frequently visited by humans most large animals stay away from it. There’re also clear walking paths without any steep hills or other obstacles. In other words it’s a safe forest where townsfolk let children walk around unsupervised. Sure, some people had fallen over and hurt themselves, but there had been no deaths. At least until now. I guess I’m finally the first at something?

     No, but joking aside, I don’t think I’m going to survive this.

During my walk I had spotted something off the side of the path, a spot of red in all that white. Thinking that it might be a lost object of some kind I decided to go and have a closer look at it. As I walked closer to it I was completely focused on the red before me, a mistake I would regret.

A bird startled by my getting closer suddenly flew up right in front of me. The suddenness of its appearance surprised me and I lost my balance and fell backwards. I landed on my back with a thud and a crack. I don’t know what it was but I landed on something, probably a rock. It didn’t seem like a bad fall, but something important within my body must have broken because I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t move my body.

I tried again and again to stand up, to sit up, to roll around to the side but I couldn’t. None of my limbs worked, neither my arms nor my legs. Not even my neck worked as it should. I couldn’t even turn my head! All I could do was lie there in the white and wait for help.

Despite this accident I was lucky that it wasn’t actively snowing. I didn’t need to worry about being buried by it. That was at least one fear alleviated.

At first, as soon as I understood my predicament, I started to scream and shout for help. I was hoping for anyone walking the path to hear me and come to my aid, but nobody came. There either weren’t anyone else walking the path right now or they were ignoring me. I’m not sure which option was the worst. Either or I still wouldn’t get help anytime soon.

I would love to at least be able to turn my head around a bit and see if there were anyone passing by but the only thing still in my control was my face. I could move my eyes and mouth, but I can not get out of this predicament without someone else’s helping hand.

The only thing I can do while waiting for someone to come by is to look at the sky. It’s a clear and beautiful day. The type of day and weather that made people want to go out. I too had been fooled by it and now I was in a bed of tiny ice crystals.

I tried to scan my surroundings but as I mentioned earlier that was a lot harder than it sounds. There were a few branches above me and no matter how many times I opened and closed my eyes they stayed exactly the same by swinging slightly in the breeze.

Then I saw something in the corner of my eye, something red. It was the red object that had led me astray. My curiosity and need to know what it was that had caused me this horror gave me new focus and strength. I clenched my teeth and put as much force as I could muster in my facial muscles in an attempt at shifting my head slightly to the side.

     It didn’t work.

     In the end a gust of wind passed by and blew the object into my line of sight.

     It was a red plastic bag.

     I am stuck in this situation because of a worthless piece of plastic.

I kept shouting for help but it only resulted in my strength being drained. I can’t speak anymore.

Now the sun is down and the stars dot the dark night like white freckles. I guess I should be glad there aren’t any large predators around here to eat me alive. If this truly is my end it will at least be peaceful.

I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t feel the cold anymore, I don’t think I’ve been able to for quite a while. The snow is nice.

     I’m sleepy.

     I close my eyes. It’s actually pretty comfortable here.

I fall asleep.