The ancient house on the hill became my home. I had no interest in the closed door at the end of the corridor. I didn't pay much attention to it because it was little and concealed by a tapestry. I didn't mind the house at first, even though it seemed odd and silent.

Days passed, and the door stayed there. But one evening, while I unpacked, something changed. A sudden urge to open the door hit me. It felt like it was calling me. I couldn’t explain why. When I tried to open it, I found it locked. The feeling didn’t stop. It grew.

I searched the house. No key. The key I had didn’t fit. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Something was behind that door. Something I had to find.

That night, the dreams started.

They were blurry at first—quick, strange flashes. I woke, confused. I saw a room. The room. It wasn't mine, but I was in it. Although I was unsure of who owned it, I knew it was important. I knew I had to find the key.

Each night, the dreams grew clearer. I saw more of the room. Old furniture. Peeling wallpaper. The air, heavy and stale. I felt like I’d been there before. But I couldn’t remember when or who I was.

I saw the room in my waking hours, too. Standing by the locked door, the hallway felt different. The walls seemed to close in. I felt something behind me, its presence too close.

I eventually lost my patience. I snatched up a crowbar and pried open the door. The room looked just like the one in my dreams: dark, small, with a broken window letting in little light. The air was thick, untouched for years. But it felt familiar. I had to find something in there.

I searched. The walls were covered with photos. Some faces I didn’t know. Some were mine, but wrong. Distorted. The smiles weren’t real. The photos showed things just out of view, just out of reach. I felt dizzy. The room spun.

Then, I saw a journal.

It rested on a desk in the corner. I opened it. The handwriting looked almost like mine, but I didn’t remember writing it. The journal told stories about a woman who looked like me. The more I read, the less sense it made. The events didn’t match anything I knew.

The last entry chilled me: "The room is not yours. It never was. The memories you carry are borrowed, and they will consume you."

I couldn’t stop thinking: someone had lived in that room before me. But who? Maybe it was me, but not like I know myself.

The dreams got worse. They blurred with reality. I couldn’t tell what was real. Was I losing my mind? Or was I someone else?

I searched more. In the attic, I found another door. Behind it, more journals, more photos. All of the same woman. The woman in the room.

None of them were me.

Still, I knew. I belonged in that room. It wasn’t mine, but it felt like it should be.

Now, I don’t know what’s real. Am I the woman in the journal? Or am I someone else? Maybe both. Maybe I’ve been here before, over and over, just waiting to remember.

The room wants me. I recall more the more I try to forget.

Maybe I’m not supposed to leave.

It was a quiet, rainy evening when Clara's phone buzzed. She hesitated, glancing at the unknown number. Reluctantly, she answered.

"Hello?" Her voice quivered slightly.

"Is this Clara Reeves?" A man's voice, calm but unnervingly cold.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Doesn't matter," the voice replied. "Check your front porch."

Heart pounding, Clara peeked through the window. The porch was empty except for a soggy brown package. Against her better judgment, she opened the door and grabbed it.

Inside the box was a single Polaroid photo—a picture of her sleeping in her bed. Her breath hitched as the voice spoke again.

"Did you like the picture?"

Clara froze. "Who the hell are you?"

"Just someone who knows you better than you know yourself."

The call disconnected. She bolted the door and dialled 911, but the operator told her the storm had knocked out the local cell towers. She cursed under her breath and double-checked every lock in the house.

The landline rang.

Her trembling hand picked it up. "Stop calling me! I’m calling the police!"

"I’d hurry if I were you," the voice said. "You’re running out of time."

Clara screamed, slamming the phone down. The lights flickered and went out, plunging the house into darkness. Grabbing a kitchen knife, she retreated to her bedroom, locking the door.

From the darkness, her phone buzzed again—a text this time. It was another photo. Her bedroom door, taken from the hallway.

She barely had time to process the image when footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate.

"Who’s there?" she shouted, gripping the knife tighter.

The footsteps stopped just outside her door. A soft knock followed.

"Clara," the voice said, but this time it was softer, more familiar. "It’s me."

Her heart sank. "Dad?"

"I came back, sweetheart. Please open the door."

Her father had died three years ago in a car accident.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "You’re not him."

"I survived the crash," the voice continued. "They lied to you, Clara. Open the door."

Tears streamed down her face as her grip on the knife faltered. Could it be true? Could her father really be alive?

"Prove it," she said, her voice barely audible.

There was silence for a moment before the voice replied. "Your mother used to sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle' every night before bed, but she always got the words wrong. Remember how we laughed about it?"

Her knees buckled. It was true—only her father could have known that.

With trembling hands, she unlocked the door.

It creaked open slowly, revealing…

No one.

The hallway was empty, but a faint whisper echoed behind her.

"You let me in."

The knife slipped from her hands as the door slammed shut behind her.

There is a clock on the east wall of the living room that chimes the hour aggressively. It will not allow time to pass unaware. On the perpendicular wall rests another clock that keeps time but no longer chimes the hour. The batteries need to be changed, but no one in the household prioritizes that.

In the kitchen is a clock that tolls the Westminster Chimes on the quarter-hour. In  the bathroom, a modern looking clock unassumingly chirps the hour. A stately clock in the hall just before you reach the master bedroom authoritatively announces the half and full hour.  The mantle clocks in the bedroom and living room tick the seconds down but do not chime.

Time passes from clock to clock and the sweep of the second hands is eternal. Moments are measured over and over but remain of the same duration. Ticks and ticks, bongs, dongs, brrrings and chirrups make sure the residents are aware that time is going by.

Bong! You haven't achieved success yet. Brrring! You haven't lost that weight yet. Ding-dong-dong-ding! Your mother will not always be alive. Tick... Tick... Tick... You are wasting every breath God gave you.

Sitting on the couch, eyes fixated on dust motes hanging in a single beam of sun, Cook suddenly twitches. His ears swivel toward a new sound. I look at him with bland curiosity. He woofs softly and walks to the wall on the other side of the window. A new clock, ready to cuckoo the hour. Tick.. Tick.. Your child is half-grown and you forgot her birthday.

I avoid Cook's accusing gaze. Gavin walks in, winding his watch compulsively. I nod toward the new clock. Gavin looks, mutters "Shit," and walks back out. Three minutes and 24 seconds later he's back with Emily and  some kid whose name I never remember. The kid looks wide-eyed and Emily sucks her teeth.

Westminster chimes and redolent bells, chirruping and Gavin's watch alarm. The new cuckoo sounds and the kid touches it. Happy birthday, what's-your-name. Have a clock. Have the time of your life. Your life is nothing but time. Wasted time. A failure to account for time. All the time in the world while you do fuck-all.

Emily weeps and we all know the pressure of another clock is going to be too much for her. Plus, there's the new housemate to account for. New clock, new resident, that's how it goes. Emily won't be able to handle that. Her time is counting down. But then again, isn't all of ours?

Isn't yours?

Tell me... Tick... Tick... Are you where you want to be by this time in your life?

Bong! Bong!  Are you ever going to write that novel? Find a publisher? Finish editing chapter 8?

Tick... Tick... Did you send that email? You thought of it during your commute and forgot. You won't send it and that's another friendship stored in mothballs. Tick... Tick...

Welcome to our home.

There is a clock on the east wall of the living room that chimes the hour aggressively. It will not allow time to pass unaware. On the perpendicular wall rests another clock that keeps time but no longer chimes the hour. The batteries need to be changed, but no one in the household prioritizes that.

In the kitchen is a clock that tolls the Westminster Chimes on the quarter-hour. In  the bathroom, a modern looking clock unassumingly chirps the hour. A stately clock in the hall just before you reach the master bedroom authoritatively announces the half and full hour.  The mantle clocks in the bedroom and living room tick the seconds down but do not chime.

Time passes from clock to clock and the sweep of the second hands is eternal. Moments are measured over and over but remain of the same duration. Ticks and ticks, bongs, dongs, brrrings and chirrups make sure the residents are aware that time is going by.

Bong! You haven't achieved success yet. Brrring! You haven't lost that weight yet. Ding-dong-dong-ding! Your mother will not always be alive. Tick... Tick... Tick... You are wasting every breath God gave you.

Sitting on the couch, eyes fixated on dust motes hanging in a single beam of sun, Cook suddenly twitches. His ears swivel toward a new sound. I look at him with bland curiosity. He woofs softly and walks to the wall on the other side of the window. A new clock, ready to cuckoo the hour. Tick.. Tick.. Your child is half-grown and you forgot her birthday.

I avoid Cook's accusing gaze. Gavin walks in, winding his watch compulsively. I nod toward the new clock. Gavin looks, mutters "Shit," and walks back out. Three minutes and 24 seconds later he's back with Emily and  some kid whose name I never remember. The kid looks wide-eyed and Emily sucks her teeth.

Westminster chimes and redolent bells, chirruping and Gavin's watch alarm. The new cuckoo sounds and the kid touches it. Happy birthday, what's-your-name. Have a clock. Have the time of your life. Your life is nothing but time. Wasted time. A failure to account for time. All the time in the world while you do fuck-all.

Emily weeps and we all know the pressure of another clock is going to be too much for her. Plus, there's the new housemate to account for. New clock, new resident, that's how it goes. Emily won't be able to handle that. Her time is counting down. But then again, isn't all of ours?

Isn't yours?

Tell me... Tick... Tick... Are you where you want to be by this time in your life?

Bong! Bong!  Are you ever going to write that novel? Find a publisher? Finish editing chapter 8?

Tick... Tick... Did you send that email? You thought of it during your commute and forgot. You won't send it and that's another friendship stored in mothballs. Tick... Tick...

Welcome to our home.

The black iron mark on Jenny's wrist had been there since birth – a twisted swirl that looked like a goat's horn. Her friends never questioned it, assuming it was just an odd birthmark. But on that snowy December night in her family's mountain cabin, as Christmas drew near, Jenny finally learned its true meaning.

The teenagers had planned the perfect getaway – no parents, just six friends celebrating the holidays together. Markets strung with twinkling lights dotted the small mountain town below, and fresh snow blanketed the forest. Everything felt magical until the sun set.

It started with hoofprints in the snow – massive ones that no deer or elk could make. Then came the scratching on the cabin walls, like metal dragging across wood. The power flickered once, twice, then died completely.

"Just the storm," Mike said, but his voice quavered as he pulled Jenny closer on the couch. The mark on her wrist began to burn.

A terrible stench of sulfur and rot filled the air, and something massive thumped onto the cabin roof. Chains rattled overhead, dragging across the shingles. Sarah screamed as a long, curved horn punched through the ceiling, followed by another.

Jenny's mark blazed with searing pain as the horns retracted. For a moment, everything went quiet. Then the front door exploded inward in a shower of splinters and snow.

Krampus had to crouch to enter, his twisted horns scraping the doorframe. Matted black fur covered his muscular body, and rusty chains wrapped around his torso like bandoliers. His face was part goat, part demon, with yellowed fangs and eyes that glowed like hot coals.

The ancient demon's gaze fixed on Jenny's wrist. He raised one clawed finger and pointed at her. "Marked," he growled, his voice like grinding stones.

Her friends scattered, screaming. But Jenny stood frozen as understanding dawned – her great-grandmother's stories about a deal made long ago with a dark entity, a price to be paid generations later. She'd always thought they were just fairytales.

Krampus moved with impossible speed. The chains around his body whipped out like serpents, wrapping around Jenny's friends one by one. Their screams were cut short as the chains dragged them into the snowy darkness outside.

Only Jenny remained, trembling as Krampus loomed over her. The mark on her wrist pulsed in time with the demon's burning eyes.

"Your blood debt comes due," Krampus growled. "But you... you I'll save for last."

His laughter echoed through the mountains as he bounded into the night, leaving Jenny alone with the knowledge that her friends' fate was her fault – and that Krampus would return for her.

9 AM, Christmas morning,

That's unusually late for Christmas morning. Hadn't the kids gotten up yet? I lazily pulled myself out of my bed until the shrill scream of my wife pushed my senses into overdrive. I bolted like a maniac across the hallway. Amanda was shaking, pale as a ghost, at the door of Alfie’s room. Sobbing incoherently, she hysterically pointed into our son’s room, urging me to look inside.

When I peeked inside, the room seemed fine, aside from the horrible stench of burnt wood.

Everything seemed fine until I saw Alfie’s bed.

A still, steaming lump of coal shaped exactly like my son lay in his place, with a visible, scream-like gash permanently etched on its face.

I didn’t even have the time to digest the sight before Millie’s voice called out to me, I barely heard it through Amanda’s anguished wails. Barely holding it together, I turned to my daughter.

Her saucer-sized; bloodshot eyes sent shivers across my skin. My little girl was holding a grotesque fleshy Frankenstein of a ragdoll in her hand that looked more like a horror movie prop than a children’s toy.

I swallowed hard as she walked toward me, dragging the putrid plaything on the floor.

“Hey, kiddo…” I forced the words out of my mouth, “Where did you get that lovely doll, sweety?”

“The Yule Goat gave it to me, Papa. It came from Alfie’s window and did this to him too…” she tearfully choked on her words, pointing at the open window in my son’s room.

Amanda closed that window before putting Alfie to bed last night, I saw it with my own eyes...

At night I was returning home all muddy and tired, it was not the right time and a kind lady offered me a ride and while we were driving she said "corpse" I was confused and shocked and I asked her what the story was about she said "do you hid the corpse well".

This Short Horror Story comes from Bosnia and Herzegovina.

The monolith was situated at the heart of the cavern, ancient, older than any written record. Its surface was etched with words that had survived millennia.

It held a terrifying warning.

I knew why I was here. The first lines of the prophecy had come to pass.

Beware when your friends and family disappear,
Their silence marks the end drawing near.

It had been years since we last heard from the neighboring galaxies—the harmonious cycles of trade, diplomacy and communication abruptly cut off.

Alone they feast on one another, Brother turns blade against his brother.
But should their thirst for blood align, No force would halt their reign.

For generations, we heard tales of a destructive species—fighting amongst themselves, driven by thirst for conflict.

And for generations, we were warned: if they ever united, it would mark the end.

No force can halt them, nothing would stand,
For their power is touched by divine hand.

I glanced at the mural above, depicting the elders’ vision: planets burning, armies kneeling, and one species victorious in the chaos.

A myth. It had to be. No species should be capable—

Faint tremors.

Then the intense quaking.

Steadying myself, I look above through the observatory window in the cavern.

The skies once radiant with the noon starlight had now darkened as if it was midnight. A vessel had emerged—vast and eerily silent.

It dwarfed our greatest ships, mocking them with its sheer scale.

I felt like a bug who’s about to be crushed.

Gripping my comms tightly, I barked into the channel, trying to steady my voice.

"Control, this is Code Red! Repeat, Code Red! We’re under invasion. Initiate Protocol 5 immediately! Scan that vessel—every inch of it. I want a full report on structural weak points or an energy core. Whatever we find, that’s where we hit!"

No vessel is flawless. Every structure has a point of failure; this should be the sam—

No structural weaknesses detected.

Huh?

The machine’s analysis was always correct.

And if their shadows darken your skies,
Cast off your hope, for all shall die.

I had no other option left.

“Control, activate the Cosmic Lance!”

“But sir, the recoil—”

“I’m aware! Ground mode will ravage the planet, but whatever that thing is up there will do far worse. Do it!”

“Understood, sir.”

A tense silence.

“On standby—”

“Fire!”

The ground shook violently as the beam emerged, setting the skies ablaze, streaking towards the vessel.

The Cosmic Lance wasn’t just a weapon—it was destruction incarnate. Designed to annihilate entire planetary systems with a single shot, it had ended the Great Inter-Galactic War centuries ago.

I held my breath as the light faded, waiting for debris to rain down.

Not a single scratch.

The vessel remained untouched.

Denied of death, which your soul will plead,
In their chains, it is doomed to bleed.

Death is kinder than whatever is coming.

“Control…fire at the planet’s core. Immediately!”

Beware their march, relentless, cold,
For it is Humanity, the harbinger foretold.

This happened in the years between your first beer and the day you get your driver’s license. Back then, if you went to parties, you went by bike. In our rural part of Germany, that meant two ways home: the long, lit main roads, or the shortcut through the moor. Everyone still called it the moor, though it had been drained 200 years ago for farming. The path cut through a dead expanse of fields and gnarled trees.

The twenty-minute ride always felt endless at night. Something about the place got under your skin. You couldn’t explain it, but the unease was real. The dark hides things. It always has.

But one thing in the moor gave shape to the fear: the Creepy Ass Mannequin.

It stood in a house on the edge of nowhere, staring out from a window. An old widow lived there. Supposedly, she’d bought the mannequin to scare off burglars as it made the house look occupied. But there were other stories too. She was lonely, they said. It was a presence in the house, like it filled the space someone else once had.

A friend of mine delivered magazines to her once. One day, she had no change for a tip. She told him to wait. He swore he heard her talk to someone in the kitchen: “Do you have change for the paperboy?” The kitchen was where people said the mannequin stood.

One night, after a party, I decided to take the shortcut. I’d had a few drinks, and in my headphones, rap music drowned out the quiet of the moor. I wasn’t afraid of some old doll. I spotted the house ahead, the faint glow of its single lit window. There it was: the mannequin, staring out like always.

Feeling bold, I raised my middle finger as I passed. A stupid laugh bubbled out of me.

Then it moved.

It wasn’t much. A flicker. Like a shadow shifting. I slammed the brakes, skidding on loose gravel, and hit the ground hard.

When I looked up, the window was empty.

I stared, my chest heaving, waiting for something to explain what I’d seen. Slowly, I got to my feet. I told myself it didn’t move. It was moved. The widow did it. Probably to place it on the couch and watch TV with it.

I forced myself back onto my bike, hands shaking, and pedaled home.

Two days later, the village was buzzing. The widow had been found dead in her bathroom. Slipped, cracked her skull on the tub.

The medics said she’d been dead for at least three weeks.

The day dragged on with its usual weight—a relentless grind of meetings and mounting bills that choked the breath from my throat. Now, with the clock ticking towards midnight, the tedium finally faded into the stillness of our bedroom. My wife, a slumbering silhouette beside me, drifts off almost instantly, her dreams perhaps free of the anxiety that gripped me.

  I try to slip into peaceful slumber as well, but thoughts of the day claw at me—worries swirling like a relentless storm. I clutch the sheets, starting to feel sweaty and fling them away, feeling exposed in the suffocating darkness. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the world to fade, but an unsettling silence fills the room, thick and suffocating.

  Then I hear it—a sound that crawled over my skin like icy fingers: a soft rustle, like fabric whispering in the night. My pulse quickens; I dared to open my eyes, searching the dark. Nothing. Just the unyielding blackness pressing in on me.

  As I lay there, tension coiled within me like a loaded spring. A morbid thought slithers into my mind: the narrow space between the wall and my side of the bed. It feels different now, alive somehow, as if it housed more than just shadows. I forcibly shut my eyes tighter, yet I could sense it—something lurking, encroaching on my space. I pull the covers up higher.

  The unsettling sound hummed again, gaining form—a muted phrase limping towards me, raspy breaths escaping whatever lay shrouded in the darkness. Panic floods my veins and when I open my eyes, a fleeting shadow danced across the edge of my vision before dissipating. Nothing but the empty room, yet I feel the weight of it pressing closer.

  I shift to face my wife, quelling the dread that festered in that empty space, but relief washed away as an icy sensation washes over me—a prickling awareness that I’m being watched. My blood turns cold and I can feel the breath of a presence, unseen yet palpable, gliding over the back of my head in intermittent waves.

  I summon the courage to fling my arm back, desperate to swat away whatever menace lurks behind me, but my hand meets only the void. A deceptive calm washes over me, but my frantic movement has caused my wife to stir—I must face the empty space yet again in an attempt to not wake her.  

My eyelids grow heavy with dread; a low whisper fills the air, intertwining with the oppressive silence—a sinister lullaby that twisted my thoughts. Crackling fear seizes my throat when I dare to peek through the slits of my eyelids. Two gleaming amber lights pierce the blackness, anchoring my terror.  

The breath leaves my lungs with, I throw the covers over my face, trembling as I whimper, “Leave me alone.” Words escape like a desperate prayer.

  “No,” it responds, a voice saturated with malice, a promise that this night is far from over.

Sam sat cross-legged on the damp basement floor, opening the ghost-hunting app on his phone. The air carried a faint scent of mildew. Ellie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her foot tapping softly against the concrete.

“These things are so stupid,” Ellie said. “It just spits out junk—your camera sees a window, and it says, ‘window.’”

“Exactly. It’s for fun.”

The cheesy green radar spun. A faint tone signaled the first tinny word: "Window."

"Spooky," Sam gestured at the cracked pane near the ceiling.

“Cutting-edge tech,” Ellie said contemptuously.

The app beeped again. "Sun. Seat."

"Maybe it wants to go to the beach."

Ellie rolled her eyes, but her foot stopped tapping.

“Who took our baby sister?” Sam asked, voice firm. “Her name is Riley. Is she still with us or has she passed?”

Ellie froze.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snapped.

Sam shrugged, eyes locked on the phone.

The radar paused, then said: "Atlanta."

Ellie’s face went pale.

The app chirped again: "Car."

"You said they drove off in a car," Sam said, clearly intrigued now.

“It’s random garbage! Turn it off.”

Another voice: "Ellie. Riley."

“Wait.” Sam leaned closer. “Did you mess with this?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Then how’s it—”

“TURN IT OFF!” Ellie’s shout cracked.

The radar spun faster, then locked. "Heat. Hours."

Sam stared at her, the pieces slotting into place. Window. Sun. Seat. Atlanta. Car. Ellie. Riley. Heat. Hours.

“Ellie… you said someone took her. You said—”

"I panicked!" Ellie’s voice broke. "I left her in the car while I—while I talked to someone at the gas station, and when I got back, she was—she—"

“What? You lied?!" His voice rose, shaking. "We searched for months. We buried an empty coffin!"

"I thought if I said she was—" Ellie crumpled. "Mom couldn't—she'd hate me, Sam, I thought—"

"Where the fuck is she?!" Sam’s voice cracked with rage. Ellie opened her mouth to answer, but the phone buzzed again. A guttural voice read the text:

"River."

Ellie's sobs were drowned by the scream ripping from Sam's throat.

I live-... actually, I don't want to tell you, so let's just say, I live in the middle of nowhere.

Twenty years ago, a devastating fire destroyed the area, killing many residents. Thirteen souls were never found, all of them children. When the media arrived, they'd already been dubbed as "The Missing 13." Over time, stories began circling that their ghosts haunted the ruins and outer areas, scaring newcomers into absolute madness.

I built my home here from scratch, all on my own, and thankfully it's situated away from where the fire hit, so I didn't receive any damage.

My house is something magnificent, not just a home. It has spiraling towers and sprouting platforms for bedrooms, and underground rooms like "The Hot Room" for winter and "The Cold Room" for summer. Mundane names I know, but they serve their purpose.

“Let’s call it, The magical talking mushroom house,” Laura said today, followed by her sweet, annoying little giggle.

Jack rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t talk, and it’s not a mushroom, you little weirdo.”

“Shut up, Jack! Yes it does!” Laura snapped, slamming the spoon down on the table.

“Does not!”

“Does too!”

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Laura’s a weirdo, Laura's a weirdo,” Jack sang.

“I am not!” Laura stomped her feet.

“Enough!” I bellowed, rubbing my temples. "Dinner's ready. Go get the others before I lose my mind.”

Grumbling, Jack stood up and stomped off. "Come on, Laura.”

“Why do I have to go?” Laura whined, dragging her feet whilst following him down the hall.

"Because you’re a baby!”

“Am not!”

A few moment later, they all gathered around the enormous tree stump I’d designed as the dining table, each sitting in their wooden chairs with their names carved in. Markus leaned back, smirking. "Bet Tina can’t finish her stew without spilling it.”

“I can too!” Tina shot back, clutching her bowl tightly.

“Yeah right,” Jack muttered, grinning. “She’s even worse than drippy Danny over here.”

“Shut up, Jack! You're so mean!”

“You shut up!”

“Quiet!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the table. "Anyone who can’t behave themselves goes straight to The Cold Room again! And this time, it'll be for two weeks! And on the maximum setting!” That soon shut them up.

Later, I cleared the table, counting as I pushed back the chairs with their names carved in.

"...eleven…Jack is...twelve…And Laura is…" I huffed from exhaustion. "Thirteen.”

The room, and my mind, was finally empty and quiet again. But, they'll be back.

They always come back.

“And that why I am here to destro-”

There's a tug on my cape.

I have planned EVERYTHING - there are wards and guards and gun turrets and minions manning consoles and lazer-sharks-with-knife-teeth but no, now, someone has broken through enough to tug on my fucking cape?!

Heads are literally going to roll, but I'm curious - I turn, she smiles, and I recoil.

It's fucking Junior Miss Impossible.

“I hate my dad,” she grinningly lisps by way of explanation.

“So do I,” I mumble in an attempt at conversation.

Resources retreat and focus inwards and that's when she gets even more terrifying - nothing is amiss. I have no idea how she got in…

…And also she seems to be a fan of me?

“Dad hates this villain shit,” she sneers, condemnation dripping with each syllable. She's trying so hard to be cool that her words are literally freezing mid-air. I climb past shit and villain to get closer to her. I want to ask her how she did this and shut it the fuck down so I can go about my victory, but the thought and instinct freezes and I find myself unable to move.

I forgot her mother was a telepath.

“You'd better not lie to me, Mister Evil,” she chides and I know I can't.

All I can do is sit and wait, and what she eventually proposes makes me requestion my profession, for she wants to be my apprentice so help me god-

—)----

I'm unenthusiastic about training but she quickly realizes that and finds ways to motivate me. I'm fortunate to be skilled with icing burns. Molecular Man can control-

"The name is shit," she sneers.

Sometimes I wonder who is leading who but then we dive into another session and all I can think about is evading her attacks.

She's skilled in a way I've never seen. It's terrifying - as the training continues, I keep thinking about what someone like HER would be like unleashed.

I had once thought a protege would enhance my own nature and skill, but seeing someone with such raw talent has terrified me.

I want no part of the world she is making.

–)--

And so I surrender myself, while babbling about her. I'm not the danger - she is.

I can't be a villain in a world where I hate what villainy has become. So lock me up, keep me safe, because I know she's coming for me first.

I trained her.

I made her.

I know her.

And she lies.

—)---

“And how was your day at work, dear?”

She kisses her papa on the cheek and settles into a seat at the table. It's roast lamb with mint sauce - her favorite.

“I think I did well, daddy,” she says, brightly smiling and haloed in innocence.

"Only took five training sessions to get him.”

And then her mouth is full, consumption overriding, as she eats.

She likes lamb.

Emma watched as young little Ava slept in her bed, cuddled up in her teal blanket. Oh, how Emma envied her for being a child! For being young and innocent, instead of having seen terrible things like she, Emma, had; For being merry and carefree instead of cautious. Emma would have happily traded her life for one like Ava's. To still be tucked into bed by her loving parents and sleep without fearing what the future may hold.

Ava turned around in her sleep, murmuring "Goldie is talking to me...Hi Goldie! Lets play with the other toys!"

Emma sighed in her head as to not wake up Ava. To play with toys! Emma let herself shudder. Innocence can fade away so easily. To think that she was once a child, too...

Emma continued watching. Ava was still sleeping peacefully. It was unlikely that she would be in danger. And yet...

Emma would have liked to protect the girl from all dangers, but she couldn't. Ava would have to learn to grow up and face the world on her own. And when she does, what would become of Emma? What will happen to her then? She didn't want to think about it.

Emma grew wistful. An unexpected tear ran down her porcelain cheek. She never really asked to become a doll...

“Hey bud, what’s up?”

“I had a bad dream.” I cry, wiping my eyes. “Can I sleep here?”

“Aww, sure, hun.”

I climb into the bed.

“The blanket smells weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dunno, it just smells different.”

Mom pulls the blanket to her face.

“Hmm... I don’t notice anything.”

She shrugs.

“Come here.” She pulls me into an embrace and rubs my hair.

I snuggle into her. “Thanks, mom.”

She stops rubbing my head.

She’s entirely still, not breathing.

“...Mom?”

“Run... David...” She gurgles.

“MOM!”

Orange-grey pustules erupt from the warm, now sticky blanket, reflecting a sheen of grease in the moonlight.

It makes a moist, swallowing suction sound, like it's gagging on something too big for its mouth with quick, squicky jerks.

The smell emanated of sickly sweet fabric softener.

My mom's mouth frozen in a silent scream as her skin boils and sloughs off into the ‘mouth’ of the blanket.

Her skinless teeth open wide, and a sound comes out: “Rrrr...un, David! Runnn!”

I wail, paralyzed, staring at the pile of flesh.

The blanket crept closer.

I find my feet, scrambling to the door, screaming into my dad’s arms.

His clothes were sticky and shining, pustules oozing onto my face.

I was taking a trip to visit a pen pal. Nice little break from America to visit elsewhere. I was led to a smaller village area where her house was. Quite a beautiful place, lush with dense trees, vibrant colorful plants, and a beautiful view of the ocean over a cliff. It was way better than anything I've seen living in the states all my life. I connected with my pen pal, Bridget, talking about Irish folklore over a forum at one point. Been a few years back and forth before this trip to visit the lands it supposedly exists in. I can't say I'm not interested, but I highly doubt any of this stuff exists.

I settled in and opened my book on mythical creatures while she spent her day at work. Not the most eventful day, but it was nice being in such a quiet place without the commotion of a city and gunshots everywhere. Late evening came and I made a quick dinner for us. Plenty of chatting between me and Bridget as we share our personal lives face-to-face for the first time. She's a lovely woman with an interesting background. Her family is quite...odd and superstitious, I will admit. After washing the dishes I decided to chill in the kitchen while she went to bed.

"Don't face West tonight. The Sluagh tend to stir." Those words were confusing but slightly familiar to me. I simply ignored it as it was probably gibberish from her exhaustive day at her job.

I sat down with some tea near the window facing outside to watch the sunset. As I remember, the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. My brain was barely putting things together and I couldn't really connect the dots. I opened the window for some fresh air when the moon came up and that's when I saw it. Its wings were tattered shadows, and its face twisted between human and beast in a way that defied reason. I fell into shock causing me to trip and fall backward, slamming the back of my head into the corner of the counter. The last thing I felt was pain, the sensation of being picked up, and the sight of blood coming down my neck. A weightless sensation of flight washed over me as I was dragged away in my groggy state. I felt my soul running...cold and hollow.

When I awoke hours later I found myself in the cold damp woods overlooking the village I was just at. At least a dozen of those nightmare entities were around me within the shadows. I couldn't speak, I could barely think, all that was in my brain consisted of vivid memories and hazy thoughts. All I crave now is to move the deceased to join us. Fly with us. Cause torment with us. We are the ones cast from both the heavens and the pits of hell below. Forever to stalk this mortal realm.

I couldn’t stop staring at the landlord, my heart pounding in my chest. He repeated himself, slower this time, as if I hadn’t understood him the first time.

“The apartment’s been empty for nearly two years.”

I laughed nervously, trying to shake the chill creeping up my spine. “No, no, you’re mistaken. I’ve been talking to her. She brings me food, for God’s sake!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re alright, mate?”

Before I could respond, the landlord finally managed to unlock the door. It swung open, revealing an empty, dusty apartment. The air was stale, and the faint scent of decay lingered, like it had been trapped in the walls.

“No way…” I whispered, stepping inside.

The living room was barren, save for a few cobwebs. The place didn’t look like it had been lived in for years. But I knew what I heard—the laughter of children, the thuds of running feet above me.

“This can’t be right,” I muttered.

The landlord didn’t seem too concerned. “I’ve got to get this cleaned up before the new tenants arrive. You take care, yeah?” He locked the door and walked away, leaving me frozen in place.

That night, I lay awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The apartment above was eerily silent, the kind of silence that presses against your ears. I couldn’t stop thinking about her—the kind woman, her soft smile, her kids’ laughter.

At around 3 a.m., I heard it. A faint, rhythmic thud.

My stomach dropped. It wasn’t the playful running of children this time. It was heavier, deliberate, like someone dragging something across the floor.

I got up, my curiosity overriding my fear. I opened my door and looked up at the apartment above. The hallway light flickered, and I could’ve sworn I saw a shadow move past the window.

I grabbed my phone and dialed the landlord. It went straight to voicemail.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, grabbing my keys.

I climbed the stairs to the apartment above, my legs shaking. I knocked on the door, expecting no answer.

Instead, the door creaked open.

The air inside was suffocating, thick with the metallic tang of blood. And then I saw her—standing in the middle of the room, her back to me. She was holding something in her hands.

“Mrs. Keating?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

She turned slowly, her face pale and sunken, her eyes lifeless. In her hands was a plate.

“I made this for you,” she said, her voice soft, but wrong—like two voices speaking at once.

I stumbled back, but my feet wouldn’t move fast enough.

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it?” she said, stepping closer.

I glanced down at the plate. A piece of pie sat there, but this time, I could see something sticking out of the crust—a small, brittle bone.

I gagged, backing into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind me, and I bolted down the stairs, locking myself in my apartment.

The next morning, I woke up to a knock on my door.

When I opened it, there was no one there—just a plate of apple pie sitting on the ground. A note was tucked under it.

It read: Thank you for keeping me company.

I looked up at the ceiling. The faint sound of children’s laughter echoed above.

I looked at the clock.

It’s time, I thought after seeing that it was a few minutes past midnight.

I’d been waiting for my parents to go to bed so I could sneak out into the living room and wait for Santa to arrive.

My parents never stayed up past midnight which meant it should be safe to leave my room.

To make sure the coast was clear, I tiptoed over to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, trying to see if I could hear either one of them,

When I didn’t hear anything, I eased the door open and peeked out into the hall.

It was almost completely dark, the only illumination was the dim light being cast down the hallway by the Christmas tree in the living room.

Smiling, I crept out of my room and down the hall, stopping when I got to the living room.

When I saw the stacks of presents under the tree the smile fell from my face.

I missed him.

I was too late, Santa had already come.

Disappointed, I started walking over to the tree to try and cheer myself up by seeing how many presents I’d gotten.

I’d taken four steps before I heard a squeaky little voice cry out. Which was followed by something crunching under my foot.

What the heck?

I hopped back so I could see what I’d stepped on. At first, I thought it was one of my little sister’s dolls. That was until I saw the red liquid pooling around the body.

“Jangle?” a deep voice asked, “Where are you? It’s time to go?”

I looked up and was shocked to see Santa standing next to the fireplace.

“Oh no,” Santa said when he saw the broken body of his little helper crushed into the carpet, “What’ve you done?” he glared at me.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident,” I said, “I didn’t see him.”

Santa walked over and knelt next to the body.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, Timothy,” he said to me as he scooped up the body and put it into his pocket.

“I just wanted to see you,” I replied.

“You’ve gotten your wish,” Santa said, “Now come along, we must be going,” he motioned for me to follow him.

“Going where?”

“To the North Pole,” he said.

“Why?”

I didn’t want to go to the North Pole.

“Because you can’t stay here looking like that,” he pointed at my face.

I had no idea what he was talking about so I walked over to the mirror on the wall and looked at myself.

I gasped when I saw that my hair had turned green and there were two red circles on my cheeks. That wasn’t all that was different, my ears had also changed, becoming pointed.

“What’s happening to me?”

“You’re becoming an elf,” Santa said.

“Why?”

“To replace the one you killed.”

The lights flickered once. They told me it was fine. Now, it’s dark, and I float alone. My oxygen tank feels heavy, too small, as I clutch it tighter.

The shadows came first. They moved when the fish didn’t. The tech said it was just an illusion. Then he screamed. I ran.

Now, I hear scraping. The lab shouldn’t make that sound. I can’t see, but I feel it—closer. Ahead, there’s a glow. It’s faint, blue, and pulsing.

Maybe it’s safety. Maybe it’s not.

If loneliness was an entity, well let's see... He'd weigh about twenty tons and be made of rotting foliage.

And his movements would be hidden by the wailing of the wind, and his form would blend in with the trees.

So his leaves would rustle and his legs would thump along. But not so much that you'd notice.

She'd want to wander the empty fields, to take solace in the barrenness.

That's what loneliness would do if it was an entity. It would delight in the open skies but also never rest for a moment.

It would be hungry and want to lurk around. It would want to look for sustenance like any lifeform.

It would be a scavenger. It would prey on the bereft and the lost.

And when the bereft and the lost came around, it would snatch them up and never let them go.

It would asphyxiate them very quickly among its dense growths, and use the nutrients in their blood to fuel its starving roots.

The news would talk of people that went missing in the hills and the forests.

But Loneliness doesn't have time to listen to sad stories. It only knows how to make them happen.

I wake up, cold and hungry, to water dripping on my head.

For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Then I remember.

I’ve been in this tunnel for what feels like weeks. I don’t remember how I got here - everything is fuzzy. It’s strange - I don’t remember there being a tunnel here before. But even stranger than that…

I can’t find my way out.

I know that sounds ridiculous - just keep going until you reach the end. But there doesn’t seem to be an end. Seconds have turned into minutes, hours, days. No matter how far I walk, I never seem to reach the exit. Still, I keep going - it has to end eventually.

——-

Lately, I’ve gotten the feeling I’m not alone. It’s hard to explain, but I feel a… presence.

I’m not convinced it’s on my side.

——-

I awoke today with a pain in my shoulder. I thought it was from falling, but when I looked, I saw bite marks.

What the hell?

——-

Walking down the tunnel today, I heard a noise. At first I thought it was a car. Or hoped. But as it grew closer, it started to sound like… growling??

I don’t want to be here anymore.

——-

THERE IS NO ESCAPE. THERE IS NO HOPE. ALL IS LOST.

——-

I had an… episode… a few days ago. But I’m better now. I won’t let this place break me. There has to be a way out. There has to.

——-

Today I found myself just staring at the tunnel wall for what must have been hours. I know it’s crazy, but after a while, I could have sworn I saw it… blink?

Keep it together, Jack. You can’t let this place win.

——-

Today I rounded a bend in the tunnel and saw large outgrowths from the top and bottom. They reminded me of the stalagmites and stalactites I saw in caves as a kid. Funny I should remember those now.

——-

This place isn’t a tunnel. It’s hell. It wants to destroy me, and I don’t know how long I can hold it off. My only options are forward or back. I don’t know what either holds. But I have no choice. I have to try.

Someone help me. Please.

——-

This is it. Today will be the last day, one way or another. I see what looks like a light from around a bend, beyond the stalactites and stalactites further down the tunnel. I’ll have to navigate them carefully, but I have no choice - I can’t stay here any longer. Whatever happens, it ends today.

I move through the protrusions carefully, when suddenly I feel a… rumbling. The sharp protrusions above and below begin to rapidly close on me. As they pierce my chest, I realize. No. They aren’t natural formations - they’re tee—!

——-

I woke up in this tunnel with no idea how I got here. I can’t find my way out…

When our father died, my siblings and I cried crocodile tears at his funeral.

We were all thinking the exact same thing. The fortune our father had been teasing us with since we were kids.

It was always his go-to threat. “Isabella! Eat your broccoli, or you won't be receiving your inheritance!”

Exactly one week after the funeral, an unmarked envelope came through my door.

Dad. Letters and notes were always his favorite– cyphers we had to crack to avoid curfew and gain extra dessert.

This one was simple, a code leading me back to the house I grew up in.

When I arrived, the door was already open, but I wasn't surprised.

I was considered the least intelligent out of the four of us.

Nicholas, the oldest at twenty, and daddy's favorite was already inviting me in with a smug smile, a pair of raybans pinning back unruly dark curls.

He led me into our father’s old study, where the others surrounded his desk.

Mari, my younger sister, didn't even look at me. Roman, the middle child, shot me a smile with too many teeth.

Two single envelopes were presented on Dad’s desk.

One was red, the other white. Nicholas snatched up the white one.

My brother was ready to laugh, his eyes almost feral, lips spread into a grin.

He started confidently.

“Hello, children!” Nick read out, mocking our father's voice, before something in his expression darkened, his lip curling.

“You want my fortune so bad?” Nick dropped the envelope, paling.

"Fuck." he whispered. “Kill each other.”

His eyes turned frightened. “I'm not… I'm not fucking killing for blood money,” he stepped back, and I think he was going to leave– before Mari grabbed a glass, shattered it, and lunged like an animal, plunging it through his skull.

Mari blinked, the glass slipping from her fingers. “Oh, god, Nick! I didn't mean–”

“Bullshit!” Roman spluttered, staggering back.

Roman was already diving onto my back, but I was ready.

With Mari’s weapon, I drove it through his eye.

Mari, screeching, tried to run.

I grabbed her, puncturing her throat, warm blood splattering my face.

They were dead, and I was covered in them.

Alone, I tripped over Nick’s body, tearing into the red letter way too fast.

Fuck.

A single bead of red landed on yellowed paper.

Paper cut.

"Congratulations! For my children, I leave you both a blessing and a curse I implanted during your birth. Immortality. I give you rebirth."

Movement caught me off guard. Mari’s body twitched.

Roman’s head snapped back, a monstrous snarl escaping his lips.

Reading the letter, I inched toward the door.

“And to Isabella, the daughter of the man your mother fucked! Just as I thought, your siblings would self-destruct.

Nick’s arrogance, Mari’s impulsiveness and Roman’s overconfidence leave you, my true heir.

I leave you…my wisdom, and a new game. Survive my newborn children and take it all. Start in the foyer, my darling.”

Sometimes on a passing glance they looked grey, maybe blue, depending on the light, but when I stared into my wife’s eyes I knew they were green. I don’t remember much of what she looked like, but I remember that.

I know she had a name. Probably a pretty one, if it was fitting in the slightest. I don’t know what it was for certain, but let’s call her Eliza for the sake of clarity. Everyone tells me that her name was Charlotte, but I think they’re mistaken. She felt like an Eliza.

My memory is patchy and inconsistent. I do remember that she acted with kindness in everything she did. Eliza volunteered at the animal shelter every Friday evening and tutored students on Saturday mornings. She never raised her voice to anyone- I’m pretty sure she once thanked a waiter for adding peanuts to her order without her knowledge because it “tasted better”. Eliza was mildly allergic to peanuts.

Everything about her was perfect. That’s why this is all so confusing. The doctors told me that I had a nasty fall and split my head open on the sidewalk, but my nurse Beth said that was just them trying to spare my feelings until I get better. She says that Eliza is why I’m in the hospital, why I can remember nothing but those beautiful eyes. She says she smiled when she drove an axe into my head. I’m not sure why I believe her.

Perhaps it’s for the best that I don’t remember what she looked like. But something in me must. Why else would Beth look so strangely familiar? Eliza’s eyes didn’t look so fake, though. My nurse’s eyes are far too glassy. I’ve never seen someone with entirely black eyes, but I probably just forgot they existed. No one else seems to mind.

Beth put some sort of new medicine into my IV a few minutes ago. Said it would help ease the pain.

I told her it burns. She just silently added more, flashing a soft, radiant smile. Why does it burn? It’s getting so dark… I think those black eyes are sucking in the light. I don’t- I don’t want those to be the last thing I see…

Only now do I realize that my dear Elizabeth’s eyes are no longer green.

My niece and nephew gathered around the coffee table, watching a Christmas movie and waiting for the best part of Christmas Eve. My famous gingerbread.

Every Christmas Eve, my brother Kevin brings his family over to my apartment, and we feast on my Gingerbread. They sleep over and we eat even more gingerbread in the morning.

However, this year is different. Kevin’s wife Martha died. She got ran over while skiing in the forest on December first. Or at least, that’s what Police assume. They never found her body, only a small patch of snow with her blood.

The children were upset, but Kevin was destroyed. From what his kids told me, he has barely moved from his bed for weeks.

They came to my house earlier than usual, and had been living here for a few weeks now. Kevin needed to get back on his feet. His children have taken a few weeks off school to mourn.

I love his children so much. They’re so young and cute. I can never have kids, no matter how much I wish and pray. So I try my best to be the worlds greatest aunt. Baking gingerbread. Helping with the tree. Buying the best toys.

When I brought over a fresh tray of Gingerbread, each beautifully decorated, Kevin emerged from my spare room. He had clearly been crying again. The dark shadows under his eyes had gotten darker. He wiped a tear away with his sleeve. But when he ate a small bite of gingerbread, a tiny smile emerged.

“Thanks Samantha.” He said, lying on the couch with his kids. They all grabbed the cookies and gobbled them down.

“No problem!” I replied. I set the tray on the coffee table, and began to brew hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. Only the best for his kids.

They sat and watched the movie, and I waited patiently for the call I knew was coming. A few hours passed, and eventually Kevin’s phone rang. My husband Mike was calling.

“Hello?… What? WHAT? They caught him? I’ll be there in 20.”

He sprinted out the door, and I put his kids to bed.

I knew Kevin wouldn’t return.

Mike was waiting for in the same place Martha died. The same place he ran her over.

I will get Kevin’s children, the best gift of all.

I hope the children won’t notice the slight difference in taste in this year’s gingerbread.

The flour was much more powdery and grey than usual. No need for it to go to waste. I’m getting more soon.

Eventually, the kids will forget that I’m their aunt. That Mike is their uncle.

I’ll finally be a mother.

“Go slow, buddy,” said Paul, or Brian, or James. I don’t really know him; he just sold me coke and now wants to share a line, and I let him have it.

“I’ll be dead tomorrow,” I replied, “then I’ll go slowly”. I proceeded to take the biggest hit of blow I’d ever done in my life.

The next day, the hangover and headache almost made me regret it all. I heated up a pizza in the microwave and cracked open a can of beer. It was the day I had been waiting for since I was fifteen.

That was when I had my first contact with the Gray Man. I heard his deep voice in a dream, telling me I would meet Death on December 7, 2024. Yes, he was very specific about the date. After wetting the bed, I ran to tell my mom, who dismissed it as a bad dream.

But it happened again when I was eighteen, and the same voice now had a head. It was a gray head, ethereal and floating in the air—devoid of a torso, and it's only striking feature was a large diagonal scar running across its entire face. “You will meet Death on December 7, 2024.”

The man then reappeared every year of my life—sometimes repeatedly—leading me to be absolutely certain that, yes, December 7 would be the last day of my life. Twenty years went by, and as the fateful day drew nearer, I spiraled into drugs and sex.

And, finally, there I was, on the day of my death. I wouldn’t spend it sober.

I called the same dealer from the day before, who arrived at my place within an hour with every substance my ten-year loan could buy. The bank would have to collect from my grave.

The dealer asked to keep me company again, and I let him. It didn't take long for me to pass out, and when I woke up, I saw him rummaging through cabinets, holding my wallet and phone in his hand.

In a fit of rage, I charged him. He responded with a punch, knocking my drugged ass to the ground. But there was an empty bottle of scotch within arm’s reach, and I grabbed it and stood up.

In one swift motion, I smashed the bottle against the man’s face with all my strength, making him collapse to the floor. He didn’t move.

I spend some time sitting next to him, waiting for the drugs to wear off. I gathered the courage to look at his body, and saw a face I recognized. A face with no distinctive features except for a large diagonal mark caused by the strike I had just delivered. 

Look at her. Just fucking look at her, chatting to my beloved Sean as if I’m invisible, standing here right next to him, bagging our groceries. Hello? Can you see me?

So fucking disrespectful. I literally can’t stand women who flirt with your man right in front of you. She totally deserves what’s coming to her. Bitch. I clock her name tag. Cindy. We’ll be meeting. When you get off your shift.  

I get it. I glance up at Sean. He’s so handsome. How could Cindy not be totally into him? He leans forward a smidge, and smiles, showing his teeth and I can feel my heart flutter. He’s so tall and broad. Like Jon Hamm, but with kind eyes and a sweet smile. Like, not a massive asshole. I understand where Cindy Bitch Cashier is coming from, returning his lean-in and giggling as she hands the receipt to him, even though I fucking paid for the groceries.  Yeah, grocery receipts are hilarious.

I can’t be mad at Sean. He can’t help it. Women fawn over him wherever we go. Restaurants, offices, shops. It’s like they look up at him and lose their goddam minds. And don’t get me started on the dms on social media. Jesus fucking Christ.

The bots and east European shit, I can’t do much about. But Cindy Bitch Cashier, I will deal with. Just like I dealt with Helena, the dentist receptionist, who literally spilled her boobs out at him leaning over the desk- don’t they do dress codes in these offices?

I strangled her with one of the flashy thick gold chains she was wearing in the parking lot– so incredibly satisfying.

Men will cheat. It’s their nature. If women as sexy as Beyonce, as stylish as Kate Middleton, as smart as Hillary Clinton couldn’t keep their men from straying, what hope is there for me? I regularly check Sean’s phone and laptop, and for now, as far as I know, he has been faithful, but I know it’s only a matter of time.  

I glance up at him, his powerful hands on the steering wheel, and my heart swells with love. I have matured so much. Only a few months ago, I would have given him mad shit for the Cindy thing. “Marry her already why don’t you? You were basically fucking on grocery line.” Rage and hurt would cloud my mind and he’d respond by something inane like “you’re imagining it baby. I swear – I was just being polite!”

Then, scrolling though his phone one night, shaking at the increasingly hot messages Shania, his colleague had been sending him, “You were amazing at the meeting today! Pls remember to send your powerpoint tomorrow!” I had a two-fold epiphany- First, I realised “powerpoint” was a powerful metaphor for dick (I’m an Eng Lit major), and second my rage was actually misdirected. It’s all their fault. Theirs!

I killed Shania in a hit and run the next day.

It must have arrived in the middle of the night.
No engine sounds, no lights.
Nobody knew anything.
As if it had always been squatting malignantly in the middle of Main Street, blocking the passage.
A pristine, featureless, cold as sin white shipping container. Sheriff Grady Weaver first heard about it in the early morning from Agnes Morrow, the postmistress, her voice trembling on the crackling phone line. “Sheriff... someone left a...
thing... in the street. It’s blocking the road.”
 

By the time Weaver’s dusty cruiser rolled into Marrow Creek, the dawn’s grey light painted the world in bleak shades of indifference. The container loomed, stark and silent.
No tire tracks.
No footprints.
Just smooth pavement and a large container.
 

He circled it warily, boots crunching on brittle grass that hadn’t been brittle the day before. He tapped the container with his flashlight, a hollow, metallic clang echoed longer than it should have, as if the sound were swallowed and digested.
 

“Public works prank?” Deputy Carla Burns suggested, though her voice wavered. Weaver only grunted, eyes fixed on its cold surface. He’d seen weird things in his thirty years of law enforcement, but this was different.
 

By noon, strange reports filtered in. The Petersons’ dog went rabid, foaming at the mouth after trying to do what dogs do against the box. Reverend Harker claimed he saw “shifting shapes” within the metal walls, muttering scripture in a frenzied whisper.
 

And then Billy Harris disappeared.
 

Teen bravado and too many dares led him to touch the box while his friends watched from a safe distance. He reached out and touched it.
and then... silence. He was gone.
No flash, no smoke.
Just... gone.
 

Weaver cordoned off the area, calling the state police, but no one came. Radios spat static, cell signals dead. Internet was also not an option.
Marrow Creek was alone.
 

That night, the wind carried voices. Broken, distorted cries, pleading, accusing.
Weaver stood at the edge of the perimeter, listening, his breath frosting despite the summer heat.
His late wife’s voice drifted on the wind: “Grady... help me... please...”
 

At dawn, the container’s door hung slightly ajar, a dark invitation. A black substance dripped from the edges, staining the street like old blood. The air tasted like rusted metal and distant storms.
 

The townsfolk gathered, hypnotized. From within, a hum grew louder, resonating deep in their bones. Some wept. Others stepped closer, entranced.
 

Weaver shouted, pleaded, drew his revolver, but they moved like sleepwalkers, vanishing into it.
 

Alone now, the Sheriff stared into the container, breath shallow. A feeling like an awareness seeped from the box, ancient and immense. This wasn’t a container.
 

Whatever it was, it was waiting.
 

The last entry in Sheriff Weaver’s battered journal, found miles away, ink smeared from the rain:
 

“The box is not from here. It is not holding something, it is something”

“Big Pharma don’t want you to know about these!” Jarred’s friend said as he opened the Onion Browser. The webpage had a solid gray background, plain text and a single picture of a bunch of pills.

They clicked on a link called testimonials, a series of photos of very lean people, all had their eyes censored out, and they were all smiling, but it seemed very forced.

They proceeded to place an order.

Once it arrived, a small card with the following instructions was with it:

• Bottle contains 15 pills.
• Take 1 pill per day prior to any meal.
• Food consumption must increase during this period.
• Activity level must remain at a minimum. 
• Must stay in isolation during the dosage period.
• Results will not be evident until day 16.
• Side effects: headaches, fever, hallucinations. Not to be alarmed.

Eat, sleep and lose weight? Jarred knew it was too good to be true, but he was desperate.

After the first couple of days, the headaches were the first to be experienced, at the beginning they were unbearable, but he soon got familiar of when they arrived and how long they lasted.

The fever came next, he was constantly sweating and worn down, but even at that state he kept his appetite.

The hallucinations were the worst.

He first thought that it was due to the fever, it started by him noticing some shadows moving, but for some reason they were white, he would wake up at all times of the night seeing lights move around his room, and hear what seemed to be people talking to each other. 

What really bothered him was that he was getting bigger, not fatter, but he believed his body was ballooning backwards to the extent that when he looked at his profile in the mirror, bags of flesh were hanging from his head, back and legs, but he chose to ignore it, he was almost done. 

The 15^(th) night came with a sense of relief, eager to see what will happen tomorrow, he couldn’t lay on his back, something felt wrong, he turned and slept on his stomach.

Something woke him up, it was still dark, glancing at the alarm clock he saw the time at 5 minutes past midnight.

He then saw his arm as it pushed off the bed, slender and lean, saw his legs and thighs as he placed his feet on the floor, skintight and sculpted, he saw his back as he got up, muscular and tapered, he saw his abs and chest as he turned around, divided and symmetrical.

He saw himself a new person.

He saw himself…

Perfection.

He saw himself, covered in blood like a new born.

He saw himself … standing over him, as he laid on the bed face first, paralyzed.

He saw himself… surrounded by a group of people in hazmat suits. 

He saw himself looking down at him, with a forced smile.

I'm 17 years old damn it, I've never kissed a girl, never got to go to school, never had any friends. I've been stuck in this big house with just my father and mother all 17 years of my life. The road from our house stretches a good half a mile before taking a sharp right. I can never make it that far. I've tried to run away. He always finds me, my father. Every method he has done. First, it was monsters, when I outgrew monsters, it was for my own good, when I didn't give a shit anymore, it was tranquilizers.

I even tried to escape the backdoor into the large forest behind our house. I ran for miles and miles only to turn around and I was still only 20 feet short of being back inside of my hollow home.

I can't believe it's turned to this, but I think there is only one way I can get the hell out of here.

I have to kill them.

I waited until it was almost time for dinner, and when no one was around the food, I slipped some arsenic into the food. Let's watch them fucking choke on it.

Dinner time comes, and we are seated at our three-person table as always.

My father tries to talk his usual talk about how "work" was tiring and that we should go play catch in the back later. Yeah, work dad, you mean sitting in that fucking office you won't let me see all day? Mom tries to cheer me up by saying my 18th is coming up and that I can get whatever I want for my birthday. She frowns when I mention getting out of the house and going somewhere together.

"Anything but that honey, you know this."

She shoves more of her foul cooking in her gullet.

My mom starts to cough a little, "Honey why aren't you- ahem, why aren't you eating?"

"Just not hungry mom."

Dad's face begins turning red and swollen. The coughing worsens, and they begin heaving and vomiting all over. I sit and watch with a smile as they choke and wither away right in from me.

After they stop moving, I pack what I can in a backpack and start my run to the corner.

I'm finally here, and I'm finally free.

I round the corner and..

What the fuck...

There's nothing.

Just empty darkness, nothing exists past this corner.

I return to the even more empty home and walk past my parents' corpses into the office dad never let me into.

I look through and see notes that catch my eye.

Teleportation Attempt 272 - Succeeded, but Where Are We?

My experiment worked, I managed to teleport the few acres that covered my house and the surrounding area. But somehow, we are stuck in an endless void. I don't have much time, Jacob will be born soon, and how do you explain to a child we might be trapped forever?

The new office was everything I expected: standard, cheap, and uninspiring. After all, the management made it clear they didn’t care about aesthetics as long as the rent was low. The building wasn’t terrible—basic and functional—but smaller and quieter than our last space. I didn’t mind, though. I was just here to work.

Most days, things were fine. But tonight was different.

I had deadlines to crush, so when everyone packed up and left at 6 p.m., I stayed behind. The clatter of keyboards, idle conversations, and office banter faded away, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning. By 8 p.m., I was so engrossed in my work that I barely noticed the creeping silence.

At 10 p.m., a loud knock jolted me out of my focus.

I froze. The office was on the fourth floor, and the main door was always locked after hours. Who could it be? My first thought was that maybe a coworker forgot something.

I glanced at the clock. 10:03 p.m. Feeling uneasy, I stared at the frosted glass panel of the main office door. No shadow. No silhouette. Just my own reflection distorted by the dim office lights.

I shook it off, pretending not to care. "Ignore it," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. I dove back into work, typing furiously to distract myself.

Knock. Knock.

This time, it was louder, insistent. My pulse quickened. Who the hell was it? I debated going to check but decided against it. Something about the sound wasn’t right. It wasn’t just a knock—it was too deliberate, too… slow.

I grabbed my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

I stood up, scanning the office. It was dead silent, save for the hum of fluorescent lights. My desk faced the entrance, so if I wanted to leave, I’d have to walk past that door. The thought made my skin crawl. I glanced at the clock again. 10:15 p.m. Time had never felt so slow.

"Hello?" I called out weakly, my voice barely audible. No response. Just that oppressive silence.

I texted a coworker. “Hey, did you forget something? Someone’s knocking at the door.” No reply.

Then, the knocking stopped.

Relieved, I started packing up, deciding to leave everything and finish the work tomorrow. I slung my bag over my shoulder, turned off my monitor, and walked toward the door. I steeled myself, heart pounding, and unlocked it.

The hallway was empty. Completely empty.

As I locked the office behind me and walked toward the elevator, I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around. Nothing. The fluorescent light flickered above, and a chill ran down my spine.

I practically sprinted to the elevator, jamming the button repeatedly. The doors opened, and I stepped inside, hitting the ground floor button. Just as the doors began to close, I saw it.

A reflection. A figure standing at the far end of the hallway, staring at me.

The elevator doors closed before I could get a better look. My chest heaved as I gripped the railing, heart racing. When the elevator dinged and the doors opened, I rushed outside without looking back.

The next morning, I arrived early to find the office manager waiting. Her face was pale. “Did you lock the door last night?” she asked. “Yes, why?” She held up the office key. “This was left at the security desk… hours before you left.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Then I saw the CCTV monitor behind her. It showed the hallway outside our office.

Rewinding to 10 p.m., I saw the knocking start. But no one was there.

And when I left? The camera captured me sprinting to the elevator. But in the far corner of the hallway? The figure wasn’t just standing. It was walking toward me.