I noticed the crack in reality on a Tuesday.

It started with the crows. Every evening, driving home from my dead-end office job, I’d pass mile marker 37. Same six crows perched on the sign, wings glinting oil-black. For a month, I counted them—always six.

Then, on Tuesday, there were seven.

I swerved, tires screeching. When I looked back, the seventh crow was gone. But the sign… the numbers had changed. Mile 37 was now Mile 0.

That night, I Googled “reality glitches.” Reddit threads whispered about tulpas, thoughtforms made flesh. I laughed, shut my laptop.

Wednesday: Seven crows. Mile 0.

Thursday: Seven crows. Mile 0.

Friday: I stopped the car. Walked to the sign. The crows didn’t flinch. Up close, their feathers weren’t black but a void-like absence of color, edges blurred like static. One turned its head. Its eyes were mine.

I ran. The office was gone. My apartment—gone. Only the highway remained, stretching infinite.

A figure stood ahead, silhouetted. As I approached, it turned.

Me.

Not a twin. Me—same chipped nail polish, same scar from childhood clumsiness. She smiled. “You noticed.”

“What is this?”

“A failsafe. When too many see the cracks, the loop resets.”

Wind howled. The crows swarmed, dissolving her into feathers.

I woke in bed. No car. No job. My phone showed a decade-old date. Mom called—alive, though she’d died five years ago. “Sweetie, you sound strange.”

I wandered town. Everyone wore my face.

At mile marker 37 (now 0), the crows waited. The other me reappeared, fraying at the edges. “They’re coming. You have to—”

A roar cut her off. The sky split. Beings slid through—shapeless, hungry. They began unspooling the world, street by street.

The other me gripped my arm. “You’re real. The rest… we’re just echoes. Run.”

I drove the endless highway. The rearview showed the void catching up, consuming the loop.

When I finally slept, I woke in a white room. A voice buzzed through speakers: “Test Subject 37-A has achieved sentience. Begin memory wipe.”

I screamed.

But today, I’m back at mile marker 37. Six crows. Always six.

“Where’d you get that?” my husband, set his fork down and pointed at the necklace I was wearing.

We were eating dinner when he noticed it. I’d intentionally put on a low-cut blouse so he would see it. I was surprised it took him so long to notice since I’d been wearing it all day.

“I bought it,” I fingered the diamond-studded pendant.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“With what money?” he narrowed his eyes.

“The leftover grocery money I’d been saving,” I replied.

“That money is for groceries, not jewelry,” he snapped, “You’re going to have to take it back.” He picked up his utensil to resume eating.

When he jabbed the fork into the piece of meat on his plate, something metallic clanged against the tines.

“What the hell?” he pulled the meat apart until he found what had made the sound.

Once he’d pulled it free and cleaned it off, he held it up before his eyes.

“It’s a fucking dog tag,” he said, “What the hell was this doing on my plate?”

He tossed the bone-shaped tag onto the table between us.

“I was wondering what happened to that,” I said, “I dropped it earlier and couldn’t find it.”

“What were you doing with it?”

“It came with the meat I prepared for you,” I gestured at his plate.

It took him a moment to realize what I was inferring. Once he got it, he jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process.

“You fed me dog meat?”

I nodded, “You’ve been eating it for weeks and never complained,” I took a bite of my salad, “That’s how I managed to save up enough money to buy this,” I touched the pendant again.

“You bitch,” he balled his fists and started to come around the table to take his anger out on me but he stopped when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t move,” he pointed before leaving to answer the door, “We’re not done here.”

I ignored his demand and silently followed behind him.

“How can I help you officer?” my husband said after answering the door.

“We got a call that you have this dog on the premises,” the officer held up a flyer with a picture of a dog on it, “The dog was fitted with a GPS microchip that shows it is currently inside your house.”

“That dog was here,” I blurted out, “But it’s gone. My husband made me chop it up and cook it for dinner.” I forced tears to come to my eyes, “He must’ve accidentally swallowed the tracking chip when he ate it.”

“He what?” the officer couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It’s true,” I sobbed, “He’s been picking up dogs for weeks and making me prepare them. He’s a sick bastard. Please, help me. You have to get me away from him.”

As the police hauled him away, I smiled to myself.

My husband always said it was a dog-eat-dog world. I guess he was right.

My mother had been hiding an awful secret and I had never recognized the signs. For the last three years her mental decline had been so gradual that no one noticed, not even me. She was slowly pulling away from people and old habits and becoming more and more of a loner, but she did it in such a way that everybody just chalked it up to her age.

She was also on a lot of medication after my father died. She was the only one who seemed to be affected by his passing. As far as everyone else was concerned, he got what he deserved. Fuck around, find out. I tried to be empathetic. She was his wife. She always used to say that they were soulmates. Of course, she stopped saying that after he was caught. She wouldn’t even speak his name during the trial. I tried to be there for her and for a long time, I thought everything was okay.

She suffered a bad fall the other day and broke her hip, so she’d been in the hospital. I’d been wanting to move her into a home, but she’d been so resistant. 

Naturally, I had to go over to her house and make sure the cats were fed. I don’t know why I started snooping. 

Just a feeling I guess.

It was the same kind of feeling I had when my parents were on vacation three years ago. That same little voice in my head that told me something was off with my father.

I started by going into the basement; the place where I had found all of my father’s “trophies”. I found nothing but memories. Memories of the day where I realized that my father was a monster who preyed on children; corrupting the innocent and storing the evidence in several trunks he had stowed away. Memories of a day when I had to report him to the authorities myself because of what I found in his basement. I hoped I would never have to face a day like that with my mother. 

I looked over the house from top to bottom and everything was in order. I laughed at myself for being paranoid. I did the dishes she had in the sink and I picked up the house. I had no idea when she would be back and I wanted the house clean for her. 

I made her bed, and for some reason, I decided to look under it and my heart sank. In a small box, I found her wedding ring and a picture of her and my father.

The government had labeled him a traitor after I reported him for loaning blacklisted books to children. After his execution, any and all traces of him were ordered destroyed and here my mother was with these. 

I made the call.

Two days later, my mother was euthanized for harboring sentiments for an enemy of the state.

Principles should always be stronger than blood.

Clinging to a piece of debris from the wreckage of the Penatron, Charles Morris looked to the blackened storm clouds above and prayed to God for help. Having been a fisherman for his whole life, this moment was a nightmare come to life. There was nothing else to do besides pray for salvation for his eternal soul and wait for the inevitable end to come.

However, the end did not come for him. His prayers were answered.

A faint glow pulsed from the murky depths. The ocean churned below him with more force than the stormy seas could ever muster. Charles couldn’t see what it was. It was simply a light growing brighter and brighter until it broke the surface, and came face to face with Charles.

Through the flashes of lightning above and the creature’s own bioluminescent, Charles saw this monster from the depths was something like a jellyfish, except jellyfish don’t grow as large as this one. Most importantly, jellyfish don’t have human faces…only this one did.

Within the translucent, bioluminescent bell, there was a human face. It was pale, distorted, and its dark hair swung from side to side with the waves like seaweed. What drove Charles to the edge of madness were the dead man’s eyes. His stare felt colder than the deepest part of the ocean. Beneath that cold, stare, and beyond Charles’ comprehension, those deep, dark black eyes were pleading for help. Help which would never come either man.

Charles screamed, but it was lost in the chaotic maelstrom. The jellyfish came closer and closer, the pulse of its light giving vision to an ancient beast. Charles could see more now. It was much closer. Much brighter.

It wasn’t a sole person inside the monster, but a tangle of pale, emaciated arms and legs. What’s worse were the shuffling faces within. Their sorrow. Their pain. Their eternal struggle. Charles realized they were all still alive somehow.

The jellyfish extended its appendage toward him. It looked like a snake slithering through the water. Chares flailed his arms and legs in a desperate attempt to escape, but he never stood a chance. The tentacle wrapped around his ankle and squeezed. He felt a hot, searing pain, shoot up his leg, and it rolled through his entire body.

Pulling Charles even closer to its bell, it shined more radiantly than the brightest stars in the sky. Charles could see them all now. The remnants of people who were not wholly dead or alive pleading for release from their eternally gelatinous prison.

As Charles was drawn in, he understood his prayer from earlier was answered. Not by his God, but something else entirely. It heard his pleas. It knew he didn’t want to perish. Now, he was no longer a fisherman lost at sea. He was a part of the Deep itself. Forever another sorrowful face trapped within the pulsing light of an ancient terror.

The storm raged on, drowning Charles screams, indifferent to his fate or mankind’s.

I’ve always cared deeply about others—that’s the way my mum raised me. “If you really love your mama,” she said, “you will fetch a nice plate of sausage casserole.” Every day, I would bring a freshly prepared meal for her. In the darkness of her room, I could still see her feeble smirk while tasting my newest creation. Even though her hands were shaking, and she could barely sit up to eat, Mum always devoured the food with such exquisite delight. After she passed on, cooking became my love language. I would cook for anyone, anytime. It was a way of proving my worth, of being useful.

Now I barely do any cooking. Above all, I supervise and train the inmates who assist with meal preparation. I’m also in charge of sanitation duties, food supply storage, and occasional kitchen incident reports.

Every once in a while, however, I get the chance to earn my stripes.

Most inmates will choose something familiar: a chicken salad, bacon and eggs, a juicy steak. This makes sense to me. Why would anybody risk not enjoying their last meal? Home is where the stomach is. Occasionally, though, some will ask for a more exotic dish. Contrary to popular belief, prisons are not required to fulfil all petitions. Unusual ingredients might be replaced with available substitutes, alcohol is forbidden, and expensive requests are denied. Lawrence, the warden, told me he once paid the extra cost of one meal, even joining the inmate for dinner. “In the end, we’re all human and equal in the eyes of God.” Right, he was.

When they called me to death row, I knew that was my chance to do something of value for humanity. “I don’t think we can manage,” scoffed Lawrence as he chuckled in discomfort. “Just give him a cheeseburger or something”. How disappointing. I was willing to walk the extra mile; that much I wanted to show my love for my fellow men. This was my mother’s lesson.

Albert Clark: sentenced to capital punishment after the abduction and murder of his ex-wife. The body was found buried on his backyard, missing several chunks of flesh.

He walked down the hallway and towards the chamber. As he saw me from the distance, we exchanged a heartfelt smile. My purpose was accomplished.

“What happened to your arm, ma’am?” asked the officer, a worried look on his face.

“Oh, nothing serious. I just cut myself while I was cooking, is all.”

Just after I turned 5, I became a fairy.

I have wings and a pretty dress - just like I imagined! But there’s also things that are different. Things fairytales don’t tell you about.

Before I was a fairy, I got very sick. They had to take my ear away - I think that’s what grew me wings. But I can’t cast spells like I hoped. Are ears what makes magic? Sometimes I’m very lonely, without Mummy and Daddy. I didn’t know fairies got lonely, before.

I made friends here though! Lots of other fairy kids. My new best friend, her name’s Taya, I met her when I got here. At least I think she’s called Taya - it’s hard to hear with only one ear.

She told me, “We’re in seven now.”

I said, “No silly I just turned five!”

I’m not a big girl like Taya. She can fly higher than me so she lets me ride on her back. She says that’s what best friends do.

Even though I have Taya, I still get sad. That’s when I fly to my Mummy and Daddy.

They can’t see me - that’s one of the bad things about being a fairy. They can’t hear me either. But I can see and hear them!

I watch Mummy baking cupcakes, cutting the tops into fairy wings. Daddy helps her sprinkle icing sugar on top. Then she touches her finger to his nose. It leaves a sugary stain.

The house is filled with flowers; violets and peonies - my favourites! If I wrinkle my nose tight I almost smell them.

Mummy and Daddy cry a lot - it makes my wings feel heavy. They miss me too. They didn’t want me to be turned into a fairy.

When they cry, I fly away. I join Taya and all my fairy friends.

My friends dance and sing - I feel happy when we play. No one teases me for not having an ear. We don’t talk about scars made from becoming fairies.

Today I fly to visit Mummy and Daddy. No cupcakes today. There is lots of paper on the counter. I don’t understand such big words; ‘Meningitis’ and ‘Negligence’. But now my tummy’s twisty and my heart’s going thud-thud.

I fly away, flapping my wings as fast as I can.

“Hi Taya!” I shout and wave.

My friend looks frantic, “No, fly the other way! We have to leave Seven now!”

“Seven?” But she knows I’m just five.

“Not seven. H—eaven! Go, fly!”

“But why?”

“The Neville is coming! Fly — NOW!“

“Oh Taya,” I chuckle. “I don’t even know anyone called Neville.”

The ultrasound took away any hope we had.

The outline didn’t look like a fetus. It looked like a fetus tried to draw it’s own shillouette.

You couldn’t even tell the head apart from the body.

“Don’t expect it to live long.” The doctors said.

-

She didn’t want to abort it. I kept telling her I would support whatever decision she made.

She chose to stay home until the baby popped out and died.

I stood by her, as all husbands should.

--

Her cravings never change. 

I thought pregnancy cravings changed daily. First she wants pickles, now she wants McDonald’s.

Nope. Just anything that tastes like mangoes. All the time.

I bought nearly every mango they had at the supermarket. Bought a six-pack too.

---

I estimated the baby was conceived around late May.

I don’t remember any sex we had during that time.

I bought another six-pack.

----

Watching the news while downing a bottle really distracts from the now.

Hearing anchors spew shit about immigration and firefighters and disgraced mayors.

The broadcast tasted like hate.

I’d rather watch cities burn than look at that bitch.

-----

She’s downing two mangoes every day.

I hate having to cut them up for her. Feels like I’m some slave.

Why are mango seeds so big anyways?

------

I’m going through a six-pack every day.

I made sure to stock up on everything we need today.

Not enough beer and too many mangoes.

I’m starting to regret my choices.

-------

I’m alternating between watching anchors whine about bullshit and giving her mangoes.

She isn’t bothering to leave the bed.

Not that I sleep there anymore.

--------

I’m not even cutting them up now. I just toss them on the bed.

Let the whore have them.

I’m glad the baby’s not gonna make it.

I tried growing them once. Did you know mango seeds look like green kidneys when they’re sprouting trees?

The sapling died soon after. Good riddance.

---------

She doesn’t scream during labor.

She only tells me she’s giving birth. Not a peep afterwards.

I’m not bothering to make the trip to the hospital fast.

Maybe I’ll speed up if she fucking screams like a normal human fucking being.

But she’s not, is she?

Normal people aren’t cheaters.

----------

Back then, everything was happy. We were doing typical lovey-dovey shit.

Like trying smoothies.

She smiled as the last of the fruity orange liquid entered her mouth.

“I Like it.”

“You do?” I sheepishly grinned.

She did.

I think this was during May.

-----------

Funny, only when the baby was leaving did she scream.

“DON’T TAKE IT OUT! I NEED IT!”

But they had to. They had to.

I could hear them gag as the dropped her child to the cold tile floor

I laughed as I saw a green, breathing kidney on the tiles, with no doubt a umbilical cord of roots attached to her womb.

“Congratulations!” I giggled.

I didn’t have to worry after all!

“It’s a fruit!”

The soil is still wet from the rain that fell last night. The sound of leaves rustling and branches creaking accompanies him as he threads through the dense woods. A thick blanket of mist envelops the landscape, every detail blurring into the haze. The darkness surrounding him makes it harder to manoeuvre his horse across the terrain.

Fleeing the battlefield was not the outcome he had desired when he, along with hundreds of other cavalrymen, had charged at their unsuspecting enemy. Neither was watching most of his companions die right before his very eyes. Their surprise attack was an audacious move, but it was a risk that they had to take given the overwhelming numerical disadvantage that they faced. Defending their homeland was an oath they had sworn to uphold, and they intended to honour it, even if it meant going down in flames.

The forest begins to open up now. And although he can't see it, he can hear the distant lapping of water on a riverbank, probably the same river by which the battle was fought. At times, he fears that he is merely going around in circles. With the clouds obscuring the stars tonight, he can't be too sure.

When the arrow struck the King, chaos ensued. The situation, which was already unpromising, had become unpromising and chaotic. Some warriors chose to keep fighting until the very end, while others retreated towards the city. He, however, along with a few other cavalrymen, rode into the forest, where they exchanged knowing glances, silently agreeing to regroup and attack when the time was right.

He emerges into what feels like a rocky, uneven terrain. The rugged landscape causes his horse to stumble and skitter nervously. With all the darkness around him, he cannot see where he is heading; the sound of the river is his only companion in the eerie stillness that surrounds him.

With a distant rumble, rain begins to fall, and the mist around him clears. A bolt of lightning illuminates the night sky, and he realises something.

Those weren’t rocks he was riding over. Those were dead men.

I was going the speed limit. I was driving safely. I was sober…

But a compact car is nothing to an eighteen wheeler. The collision was like a sledge hammer against a soda can, a hydraulic press against a tupperware. an eighteen wheeler against a compact car. When the ambulance got there, it was a horrid sight meeting their eyes. the chance I still was alive was slim, that I’d survive, next to non existent. After having cut up the car from behind, they were able to get me out, or what was left of me.

Surprising everyone, I still had a pulse. They rushed me to the hospital. I was hooked up to life support. 21 hours of emergency surgery commenced and they attempted to patch my body up. During these twenty one hours, I died thrice, but was brought back. When asked about what happened, I said I didn’t remember, but I did.

The first time, all was black, for several years. I lost all concept of time and space. Forgot what the sun looked like, I forgot how words sounded, I even forgot my loved ones. A sharp light pierced my eyes. After so much time in darkness, it took a long time for my eyes to readjust. I saw an old man. I asked him who he was. “I am you… Or what you could have been.”. My second question was “Am I dead?” “Yes and no. Your soul is leaving your body. all of it hasn’t left, but most probably, yes.”

After that all went black. I felt the life returning, not in my body, for I wasn’t awake, but I felt alive. This was immediately followed by deep unconsciousness.

The second time the man was there, but something had changed. His expression had lost all warmth, all happiness and all colour. His friendly demeanor was replaced. Instead he looked sadly at me. We looked at each other for days. Nobody said a word.

The third time, there was no man. instead I was left alone, in the white room. I walked around, trying to find the famous gates of heaven, but there was nothing. After having spent years walking, I once again met the man. I asked one last question. “Is this all here is?” “Yes. I created earth, as a heaven for my creation. But they would not appreciate it, if it was limitless. The afterlife is limitless and therefore it could never satisfy a human.” After that, he left impossibly fast. I tried running after him, but was never able to catch up. Within a few minutes I could no longer see him. I spent millennia walking around the afterlife, trying to find anything, anything at all. Finding nothing, I lied down to cry. I spent eons just crying. Crying from loneliness, crying from anger and crying from pain, because I could still feel the wounds of the accidents, just as badly as when I passed out.

The brain: that mysterious walnut-looking organ which sits proudly atop its spinal-columned throne, hiding behind the hard shell of the skull. Its impressive structure, theorised to be hundreds of millions of years older than that which we call consciousness.

It beats the heart, it moves the stomach. It produces trillions of electrical signals a day. (All of which it does without consulting consciousness). The busyness of the world... all those rushing legs and flapping mouths.... they're all ultimately being controlled by the brain.

Its goals and motivations owe to an ancient time which we can only guess at, and there's no doubt that those goals influence human behaviour. To what extent, is currently up to debate.

For example, there's a theory that consciousness is merely a screen which the brain projects, like a 24/7 TV show. The brain acts as the executive producer who oversees the content of reality, making sure we only see what we're supposed to see.

Look back across your life for a moment and consider your actions. How many decisions can you actually say were yours? Do you even remember why you've done things? Or did things just kind of... happen?

As you sit now, do you sense its silent whisperings? Do you feel its desires marching into your bloodstream?

Consciousness? It's a trick. A television show in our heads.

The human factory... the revolving door of reproduction... We've been programmed to behave exactly as nature intended. We don't actually have a choice.

But, let's all pretend that's not the case.

Deal?

At 3:17 AM, I got a text from my mom.

"Sweetheart, can you come to my room?"

My stomach dropped. Mom was out of town.

Before I could process it, another message arrived.

"Don’t text back. Just come."

The hallway was silent. Her bedroom door was slightly open, a faint light spilling out. My phone vibrated again.

"Do NOT go in. That’s not me."

This time, the message was from my mom’s real number.

The door creaked. I heard breathing—deep, raspy.

Then, a whisper from inside:

"I know you’re there."

And my bedroom door behind me slowly clicked shut.

In a place without light they stare at me, never blinking, only moving to observe what I observe in this prison built just for me.

A hammer rings in the distance, sparks on an anvil allow me to see my frame in the the reflection that contains my eyes.

In the spark light I see myself, emaciated and withered. The tile floors of infinty stretch away from we to the infinity they are chasing but will never find.

The mirror is tall. My eyes in the mirror look down on me from their height.

The sparks are gone, too quickly. The ring of the hammer hangs in the air.

When next will I see myself? Maybe the next time will be never.

The hammer rings and sparks fly. I wave my arms and pump my legs. My mouth falls open but I can't speak.

Long ago I dried up. My tongue is but a withered piece of leather trapped behind my too long teeth which are accentuated by my lack of gums.

From on high I see the marionette that I am dancing a sickly jig.

I don't deserve this.

I think.

I know he can hear me, but he can’t respond.

“I’m so sorry, Alex. I know you can hear me. Please hold on. I know you’re hurting.”

“Please, please, please stay strong.”

“I know you want to die, but Alex. I need you. Can you stay with me? Stay for us.”

I writhe, strapped in a chair, unable to free myself. Tears stain my eyes.

“Please, Alex. I love you so, so much. I can’t live without you.”

I scream. A camera pointed at me. Probes attached all over my body and head.

A searing hot, thought-deleting pain, scrapes slowly across his skin.

I cry out.

“Alex.” I sob. “Fuck.”

Ice-cold water drenched his clothes, making me shiver.

“I’ll... be here... the whole time...”

My body shakes, and my teeth chatter.

The feeling flickers.

“Alex! Stay with me! Don’t fall asleep, or we’ll lose each other!”

“Listen to me. Remember our wedding? Remember how my mom had never used heels before and tripped into the cake?”

He laughs weakly.

“We were so upset that we made her not clean up. I had my mother-son dance with cake on her face.”

A tear falls down his face.

“Then we both stuck our faces in the cake. Your mom got jealous and did it, too.”

Something dull is forced into his nail.

We both tense up and get nauseous.

It rips off.

We both wail and squirm. Gritting down on our teeth.

Blank darkness.

No pain.

“ALEX!”

“Hi, honey,” I said, pouring my guest a glass of wine, “Ms. Cici is joining us for supper, if that’s alright?”

“Ms. Cici” was our neighbor, a widow from some island off the coast of Italy. She’d shown up at my door one evening with a bottle of wine, and that was that.

We became fast friends.

Sighing, Thomas peeled off his work boots as I fetched him his evening beer.

“Wonderful”, he said, flatly.

“Long day, Thomas?”, Cici asked in her unidentifiable lilt.

“Like you wouldn’t believe”, he said, snidely.

Thomas believed in traditional gender roles. I used to dream of being his kept woman behind a white picket fence. But I was quickly discovering his “traditional family values” were a ball and chain around my ankle.

We were halfway through supper when Cici asked me a question.

“So, Samantha”, she said, “have you ever considered working?”

Before I could speak, Thomas interjected.

“She’s a homemaker”, he said between bites,“That’s her job.”

Cici ignored him, her inquiring eyes burning into mine.

“I’m…usually pretty busy here,” I said. She looked like she’d been expecting my answer.

“I understand. Still, I know of an apprenticeship you’d be perfect for. How about we discuss it further over dinner at my house tomorrow night?”

She cast a pointed look at Thomas.

“I wish to repay your generosity.”

As Thomas and I got ready for bed, I decided to press the subject.

“Couldn’t we consider it, at least?”, I asked.

“Absolutely not”, Thomas said, “I make enough for the both of us.”

“But we don’t even have kids yet”, I said, “Maybe I could…”

“I said no”, he shouted, his eyes full of fire, “And tomorrow you’re going to tell her so.”

As dinner was served, I looked around Cici’s house with awe, more museum than home. Tapestries and marble statuary littered the halls. The air hung thick with incense, its scent like the memory of a dream.

Thomas was too busy sulking to care.

Once dinner was served, she took my hand.

“Have you had a chance to consider my offer?”

Thomas motioned for me to remain silent.

“She has. No, thanks.”

The look she laid upon him could have shattered steel.

“I was talking to Samantha…”

I could only stare, too mortified to speak. But as Thomas raised his fork to his mouth, he froze, his expression contorting with unseen pain.

That’s when it began.

His hands changed first, the fingers snapping and contorting. His handsome face began to melt into a brutish, gnashing snout. As his flesh began to boil and writhe upon his bones, Thomas’ screams were replaced by a pitiful sound.

The ear-splitting squeal of a frightened hog.

As I stared, awestruck, at the pig now snorting confusedly within Thomas’ clothes, I finally spoke.

“Cici, what is this?!”, I stammered.

She smiled as she placed a knife in my hands.

“The name’s Circe, sweetheart,” she cooed, her smile full of maternal warmth.

“And we have work to do.”

More people showed up than expected. No seats left in this secluded cabin we rented for the event.

The crowd is lively, chatting loudly while devouring the mini pizzas someone volunteered to bring in for the occasion. I step onto the makeshift stage and signal for attention.

“Hi, everyone. You probably don’t know me, but I’m the Bone Weaver—your host. Hope you’re enjoying our annual Serial Killer Awards. We’ll soon call up the candidates for Serial Killer of the Year to present their cases. In the meantime, help yourselves to the snacks.”

A few claps follow me before I step down to check the candidates we gathered on our forum. I didn't even have time to eat.

The first name I call is The Cannibal Arsonist. He jumps onto the stage, snatches the mic from my hand, and grins.

“How are you doing, serials?!” he shouts like a cheerleader. Some laughs ripple through the room.

He gestures for me to start his PowerPoint. Slide after slide displays incinerated buildings and a long sequence of charred bodies. He carefully explains how he pulled off each death.

“This is why I deserve the award. The scale alone is unmatched,” he concludes to a round of applause before heading back for more pizzas.

“Thank you, Cannibal.” I continue. “Now, please welcome The Worcester Butcher.”

A fat, bald man steps onto the stage. Less flamboyant than The Cannibal, he barely speaks as I click through his presentation. The audience, however, is stunned.

Photo after photo showcases grotesque sculptures made from human body parts. Where a leg should be, there’s an arm. Where a nose should sit, a severed member replaces it. A macabre display of artistry sends the crowd into a frenzy. They cheer for over five minutes before he exits, having spoken fewer than ten words.

A clear favorite.

“Thank you, Butcher.” I move on. “Now, Cyanide Reaper, please come to the stage.”

Silence. People exchange glances.

Strange. He applied and even submitted his presentation.

“Well, seems like he’s not here,” I inform the audience. “Let’s take a look at his work anyway.”

I open the file on the projector. Only two slides in it. The first shows a hand pouring a green liquid into what looks like tomato sauce. The second captures the same hand carefully placing the sauce onto a mini pizza, one among dozens in the background.

Chaos erupts. People bolt for the exits, desperate to get out and reach a hospital. They make it to their cars, only to find every tire slashed.

The number of bodies I had to clean up the next day was exhausting, and definitely not worth the small fee I charged to organize the event.

After I cleaned it, a tall, shadowy figure arrived to claim his award. The Reaper.

I gave it to him. He earned it.

I wasn't expecting CPS to turn up.

Jem, my nine year old son, followed me to the door.

There was a blonde woman with a top-knot. “Hello, Mrs… Noa Carlisle? “I'm from Child Protection Services.”

Her gaze flicked to my son, and then back to me. “Noa, how old are you?”

I noticed the tiniest flake of red glued to my thumbnail. I smiled, sticking my hands in my pockets. “I'm nineteen.”

The woman cocked her head. “Which means you had Jem--”

“I'm a young mother.” I snapped.

“Right.” She pulled out a scrap of paper– and I immediately recognized it.

Jem’s homework from the night before.

I didn't understand what she was talking about until she flipped the drawing over, and there, written in bright red crayon, was one word: “HELP.”

“Your son’s teacher reported this,” she said. “May I speak with him?”

Next to me, Jem stiffened up.

“Oh!” I laughed. “Oh, my son does this all the time!”

“Is that true, Jem?” she asked.

Jem hesitated, and my heart catapulted.

“Yes.”

Allie chuckled. “Ah. Well, I apologize! You are quite the artist, young man!”

She ruffled his hair. “Have a good night, Mrs Carlisle!”

I slammed the door, my hands trembling. Jem was already grasping my hand and squeezing tight.

“Mama, do you remember what happened last night?”

“Yes.”

I lost my breath, my mind whirring, as I entered the living room.

It was pitch dark, except the flickering static of the television screen. Conrad, my brand new husband, was sitting stiff in a plastic chair, his wrists strapped down, body slumped, wide eyed taped open.

I knew exactly what it felt like. Before I became a Mama, I was a student.

I knew the buzzing in my ears, the flickering static twisting and contorting my brain, jolting me from side to side.

If the tape wasn't clumsily holing my eyes open, I would be a fully converted Mama.

Conrad was the perfect husband, the perfect Papa.

Kneeling in front of him, I swiped sweat glistening on his skin, dabbing blood crusted under his nose.

When I was finished washing his face, I noticed it; a red crayon lying under his chair.

The fucking idiot forgot to hide the crayon.

I picked it up, stuffing it down my shirt.

“Mama?” Jem said, joining my side. “Is Papa ready?”

I didn't reply, watching the slow trickle of red seeping down Conrad’s nose.

The boy jolted in the chair, his eyes flying open.

A newly minted Papa.

The TV flashed on, and Conrad’s eyes flashed blue.

”Welcome to Parent™️! Please ensure you destroy this tape after use.” a scratchy voice streamed through the speakers. "State your name, and await further instruction. We are ready to help you conceive the PERFECT child, for the good of your country. Remember! America needs babies!”

“America… needs… babies.” Conrad drawled, his wrists twitching.

“Be honest,” I murmured, squeezing my son’s hand. “How old are you?”

Jem chuckled.

“Fifty three.”

There is a woman sewing a blanket of bits of hexagonal shaped cloth. Quietly sewing, slightly humming to herself, her kind eyes watch me from across the waiting room. She is patiently sewing, her face lined with a lifetime of laughter and love.

She doesn’t know anyone here today in this outpatient surgery waiting room. And in fact, she never does. Every day, she wakes up and has her lonely cup of coffee on her porch looking out over her garden and enjoying the birds and start of the day. Then she packs her bag and makes her way to the hospital.

She starts her visit with a stop at the lost and found desk where she chats with the orderly while picking out a random shirt or lost blanket. And after a wave and cheerful smile she consults the hospital map and picks a waiting room.

She knows that somewhere in these halls are those that have no one waiting for them. No one to comfort their pain with good company and a sweet supportive smile. They are here alone and they are scared. So she will sit in a random waiting room, sewing, and watching. Spending the day creating a blanket sewn with love.

And she will eagerly wait for the energy of despair to flit in to her soul, and feed her.

I took the babysitting job because the pay was insane. Cash, upfront. The Craigslist ad specified three rules:

1. Do not enter the attic.
2. At 8:30 PM, give Felix his “vitamins” (the red pills, not the blue).
3. If he asks to play hide-and-seek, refuse.

The house smelled like antiseptic. Felix was small for seven, with doll-like eyes and a high, rehearsed laugh. His parents left swiftly, avoiding my questions.

At 8:30 PM, I shook two red pills into my palm. Felix stared, his smile flattening. “You’re new,” he said. “New ones always peek in the attic.”

“I follow rules,” I replied.

His giggle grated. “Sure.”

By 9 PM, the silence felt deliberate. Felix hummed nursery rhymes, scribbling in a notebook. I glimpsed names—Emily, Jess, Tara—each crossed out.

“Friends of yours?” I asked.

“Previous guests,” he said.

The attic door creaked open on its own.

I told myself: Don’t. But the stairs beckoned. Inside, I found polaroids. Dozens. Babysitters, bound and gagged, in the very living room where I’d sat. Felix stood in each, grinning, holding a butcher knife nearly as tall as him.

The newest photo showed me, snapped through the window earlier.

Cold crept up my spine. I stumbled backward, tripping over a box of medical vials. Testosterone. Growth inhibitors.

Felix’s voice echoed behind me—deeper now, guttural. “You peeked.”

He blocked the doorway, his limbs too long, joints cracking as he straightened. Not a child. A man, stunted and warped, eyes blazing.

“Mom and Dad need new photos,” he rasped.

I bolted. He lunged, fingers snagging my sleeve. I kicked, connecting with his jaw—a sickening crunch. He howled, clawing at his face as I fled downstairs.

The front door was deadbolted. I smashed a vase, grabbed a shard, and hurled it through the window. Sirens wailed in the distance—a neighbor must’ve heard.

Felix’s parents returned as police lights stained the street. They wept, begging officers to understand. “Our boy is sick!”

But I’d hidden the photos in my bag. Evidence.

The news called it a kidnapping ring. Felix—real name Ethan—was 31.

I survived.

But tonight, another ad popped up:
Babysitter needed. Discreet. High pay.

I can’t move. I can’t speak.

My world is a bed, a ceiling, and the steady hum of machines keeping me alive.

Emily takes care of me. She feeds me, washes me, speaks to me like I can answer. Every night, she smooths my blankets, kisses my forehead, and whispers:

“Sleep well, love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then the lights go out.

I always hated the dark.

At first, I thought I was lucky.

The accident should’ve killed me.

A shattered spine, a collapsed lung, brain trauma—the doctors said I wouldn’t make it.

But I did.

And Emily never left. She dressed me, played music, even took over my medical care so I wouldn’t have to live in a facility.

She said she couldn’t stand to be away from me.

I thought that was love.

Now, I know better.

It started with the feeding tube.

One day, it was just gone.

Emily smiled, stroking my cheek. “You don’t need it anymore.”

I panicked. How would I survive?

But she kept me alive—dripping crushed pills into my mouth, just enough to keep me barely conscious.

Just enough to make me sleep more.

I tried to fight it, to resist.

But Emily was patient.

And I was helpless.

One night, she sat beside me, smoothing my sheets. But this time, she didn’t whisper goodnight.

This time, she just stared.

“You don’t need to be awake all the time,” she said softly.

I screamed in my head. No, no, don’t do this, please—

She touched my cheek.

“You always worked so hard. You never let yourself rest.”

She sighed, wiping a tear from her eye.

“But now I can take care of everything for you.”

I tried to move. I tried to blink.

She kissed my forehead.

“Sleep, love. You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

And then she pushed the plunger on a syringe.

A slow, numbing warmth spread through my veins.

My mind screamed.

But my body stayed still.

I don’t know how long it’s been.

Time slips away when you can’t measure it.

I drift in and out. The sensation of being lifted, cleaned, turned. The sound of Emily humming softly. The flicker of light through my eyelids when she opens the blinds.

She still tucks me in every night.

Still kisses my forehead.

Still whispers: “Sleep well, love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

But I wake up less and less.

The drugs are stronger now. The sleep lasts longer.

I can feel my body wasting away.

I don’t know if she notices.

Or if she’s waiting for the day I don’t wake up at all.

But I know one thing:

I will never escape this bed.

And one night, she’ll tuck me in for the last time.

And I won’t even know it.

She was playfully complaining about how I had forgotten her. But her complains soon changed into concern when she saw my face. I made shit up about work being hectic. I was happy to see my lovely wife, but fear soon crept in as I realized what might happen once we retire for the night. I hugged her, and to my zombified self, that hug felt like heaven.

Throughout evening, I did a mental countdown, I was scared to let my wife into my room. I even suggested her to take the guestroom to have the whole bed to herself, but she wanted to sleep in my "safe" arms. Safe, yeah right! At bedtime, she snuggled up next to me, and drifted off to sleep like a baby. Having her next to me was both a relief and a trigger to my impending fear. I closed my eyes, trying to catch some sleep. Like clockwork, I woke up to the gargle-roar of the entity that has been haunting me for the last month. But this time, there was something else as well. I heard my wife whimpering. That was enough for me to come out of my castle of cowardice. I threw off my sheet to see what was wrong. My wife was still like a log, but she was hyperventilating. Between vehement sobs, she managed to mouth some words - "Babe, you see it too, right? Tell me it's a dream". My immediate reaction was very selfish - that I wasn't hallucinating after all. Then reality hit me like a truck - my wife could see the entity as well. Both of us were freaking out. I tried to think straight between my wife's sobs and the entity's silent roars.

That's when I saw the entity for the first time. I don't know what I was expecting, but this thing, it was close to 7 feet, with glowing red eyes and gangly arms. But this time, it wasn't standing next to me, it had shifted its position and was towering over my wife instead. It had its slender arms placed on my wife's very pregnant belly. It was caressing her belly as if it was a pet or something. Its glowing eyes were still directed at me, though. I was enchanted, but that was broken by my wife's blood-curdling screams. I looked at her, her face was twisted in an expression of pure pain and horror, and then I saw it. The entity's hands were no longer caressing her belly. They were now inside it.

And then, it yanked my baby out. My beautiful baby was now in the arms of this creature, and I could do nothing, except stare at horror while my wife lay in a pool of blood, crying the most dreadful cries I have ever heard. The entity was gone, and so was our baby.

All that was left was a grisly scar on my wife's belly, and bloody footprints from our bed to one of the walls.

Patrick...

laughing

Patrick...

sobbing

Please kill me, please kill me. I beg you. Puleezz..

Huh... but... but how can I, or should I? Really?

Alright. Your wish is my command. I slashed Jake’s throat immediately.

Guilt consumed me afterward, but how could I resist when he begged? He was constantly punishing himself, scratching, biting his own hands and legs. It was too horrific to watch. He would have killed himself if I hadn’t listened to him anyway.

Two days later

"No, you don't get it. I just do not agree with your point of view at all," said Samara as we conversed about the demerits of WiFi.

"So, Samara, you don't agree with me? You think you're always right, don't you?"

"Of course I am," she replied.

Without saying another word, I immediately left for home, stopping at a gas station to fill up.

"So, you, the idiot, are now going to tell me what to do? You think I’m wrong, don’t you?" I shouted at the gas station attendant, who kept telling me I hadn’t parked properly. He asked me to move the car.

"Yes, of course. You're wrong, you fool," he shouted, insulting me in front of others.

Upon reaching home

"Patrick... Patrick..."

sobbing

laughing

"It's... amazing but... no. but yeah. please, please, just kill me," Dad begged.

"Huh... Dad! No. I can’t, I just can’t. You’re my dad."

"Please... please... kill me, son."

"Wait, don’t, don’t scratch yourself like that anymore. I’ll turn the spell back," I said, a wave of guilt washing over me. After all, he was my dad, and I had to forgive him.

With those words, I reversed the spell, but it was too late. Dad had already beaten himself up—blood dripping from his arms, legs, face, and ears. He was even missing an eye. It was too much. I couldn't bear it any longer.

Dad immediately stopped beating himself, though he continued begging me to kill him.

I had to call an ambulance, or he would have died from the wounds in just two days. That’s when I told him— not to disagree with me. He just wouldn’t listen. So, I used the spell I learned from my granny, who revealed it to me just before her death.

The spell, I must say, is remarkable. It doesn't do much but turns your enemy into a masochist. Over time, it makes them wish for their own death, Meanwhile they keep torturing themselves, haha. It's a beautiful spell.

And by now, I’m sure you’ve guessed that I’m not going to leave Samara or the gas station guy alone.

Moments later

"Patrick... Patrick..." I heard Mom calling out my name.

"Yes, Mom? What is it?"

"Your room is too messy. Please clean it up; it doesn’t look good!" she said.

"Does it?" I asked.

"Oh, well... no. It's perfect, Patrick. It's just perfect," she said, fear visible in her eyes.

Well, thankfully, she knows what to say. She’s a wise woman.

I stood before the mirror, examining myself. My heart was pounding - I hadn’t been this nervous since the night I escaped. If I could handle this…

Dana was coming tonight expecting to see her brother Mark, but I wasn’t him anymore. I was finally living as my true self, but I knew my family wouldn't understand - there was a reason I’d run away. I was happy cutting them and their “moral superiority” out of my life forever.

But Dana wasn’t like them; she deserved better. So when she’d reached out asking to meet, I’d agreed as long as she didn’t tell the rest of her family where I was. But, despite warning her in advance, I knew my transition might be difficult for her.

There was a knock at the door. Steeling myself, I answered.

Dana’s eyes widened when she saw me, her hand frozen mid-knock.

“Mark?” she asked hesitantly.

“Mara now. C'mon in.”

She entered slowly, trying unsuccessfully not to stare.

“So… when did this happen?”

“This happened a few months ago.”

She winced at my tone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok. I know this is unexpected. I’m just trying to live my truest life and be happy.”

“You weren’t happy before?”

“Honestly, no. I felt like I was playing a role people wanted. Now I can finally be myself. Don’t I deserve that?”

“But why couldn’t you be happy without all this?”

I thought for a minute. “You love to dance, right?”

“More than anything.”

“What if you were told you could never dance again? That you had to give it up forever to make everyone else comfortable?”

“But that’s not the same,” she protested.

“No - it’s worse. Dancing is something you do. This is who I am. I couldn’t be happy denying that, denying myself. I just couldn’t keep pretending.”

She paused, thinking. “OK, I get that.”

I sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

“Ok,” she smiled, bringing out a bag, “enough of that, let’s eat! I made brownies - figured we’d gorge on chocolate like we used to.”

I bit into one as she watched.

“These taste funny…”

“Surprise!! They’re special brownies! Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, just buzzed for a few hours.”

But my species couldn't process tetrahydrocannabinol. The left side of my face started to dribble like melting wax.

“What the hell?!?”

I looked at Dana - she stared, horrified.

Dammit.

“I really wish you hadn’t seen that.”

I relaxed my conscious control and my body began flowing across the floor until I reached Dana. She finally tried to move, but too late. I flowed up her legs, over her torso, covering her entire body until I reached her head, enveloping it completely until her breathing stopped and her body was absorbed.

Once she was gone, I reintegrated and adjusted myself in the mirror. I’d fled my people to adopt this new body, and nothing would ruin it. I’d finally live free, as I was meant to.

I’d never pretend again.

I was just outside my house watering the plants in the back garden when suddenly an unexpected call came from over my fence. The watering can fell out of my hand without me realising it as I just stared at the fence where the voice had come from. They called out again and press my face to the wooden boards of the fence peering through the gaps to make sure I wasn't mistaken.

But I wasn't.

They call out for a third time this time I responded and tell them to wait a moment. Unlocking my front door, walking out to the back I saw a happy middle age man who greeted me with a warm smile as if we were old friends. It was my next door neighbour, Mat, standing there on the grass as clear as the sun is on a cloudless day.

He was like his usual self, talking to no end about everything and anything. I managed to ask him what he had been up to the last week to which he responded that he had went on a trip to France. Pulling out his phone from his pocket, he showed me some pictures of him at the Eiffel Tower and eating French cuisine. They seemed real, very real.

I nodded along keeping a cool head as he continued to talk to me and then when he finally left I couldn't move any faster as I rushed to the shed. Coming back out with a shovel in hand, I walked to a certain spot in my garden and started digging. I shovelled up the soil as quickly as I could until finally I saw a face of a man.

The face of Mat my neighbour who I had killed last week.

I always walk my dog outside before going to sleep. We usually walk several blocks and take about 30 - 45 mins.

This particular night is a bit different. I finished with my work a bit late, so I was only able to walk my dog past midnight.

I was pretty tired, so I didn’t plan to walk her that long. It also looks like it would rain. I figure I have about 20 mins before it pours.

Since we won’t be staying out long, we didn’t wander too far from our place. We live near a mall, so we always go there during our walks.

There’s a particular area in that mall that’s quiet but creepy at night. It’s at the back of the mall that cars rarely pass by, especially when the mall is already closed.

It’s well lit, so it’s a good area to walk my dog without worrying about cars. Once we got to the halfway point of the road it started to rain.

So, we turned around to rush back to our place. But after several steps, the rain stopped.

Weird, I thought to myself. We went back to continue our walk.

It started to rain again after reaching the halfway point. This time I chose to continue since it might stop again after a while.

But the rain got heavier, like its preventing us to continue forward. I was also starting to feel dread, which creeped me out.

We turned around again and I decided to just go home. As we did that the rain started subsiding again, but this we went straight home.

I was still creeped out but just chalked it up to fatigue and went to sleep. Come early morning, I took my dog out for walk again.

I noticed a lot of commotion around the mall area. I asked one of the guards what was happening.

“There was a huge accident last night,” he said. “A large truck passed by the back of the mall, but lost control and crashed.”

“It caused a lot of damage,” he added. “They’re still cleaning up the area.”

A chill ran down my spine after hearing this and dread crept up to me once again. I looked at the crash site and I turned pale.

It was the area that me and my dog usually goto hang out for a while.

The night was oppressively still, and the fog rolled in, adding an eerie veil to the dark hills. The heavy silence was broken as the last bus from town, labored up the incline, it’s whining progress an affront to the slumbering hillside.

The bus slowly rounded a curve past an old cemetery, when a young man in his twenties, waved for the bus to stop. He was oddly dressed in a dated plaid jacket and trousers, topped with a battered fedora, all stained with patches of damp earth.

The boy climbed on, scanning the nearly empty bus, before sitting two rows away from a middle-aged man.

“It’s a chilly night huh?”, the boy said vying for his attention.

The man half-opened his eyes and nodded. He was your typical working-class stiff, wearing what was once a freshly pressed shirt, his face dog tired after a long day.

“Funny I feel cold. I’m Joss, what’s your name?”, stuttered the boy.

"Raju," the man said, his tone inquisitive yet hesitant, unsure if he wanted to continue the conversation.

 “Ra..Raa..Raaju, I am going to see my ex after a long time”,  said a flustered Joss, adding  “It’s been twenty five years and I’m nervous”

The man, now fully awake, gave Joss a once-over before replying, "Hmmmmmm okay."

 Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, Joss said, “The last time I saw her, was through her bedroom window. Watching her kiss another guy hurt far more than the sharp blade slicing through my wrists.”

"I couldn't go on without he..hee..her" Joss wept, revealing a raw, deep wound on his wrist.

The man sat up, more annoyed than scared and looked at Joss with furrowed brows.

“Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I can’t help you”, retorted the man, before standing and banging twice on the roof for the bus to stop.

Once off the bus, the man quickly headed off a jungle road up the hill, but Joss's voice stopped him again.

“He…hee..elp me Raju, I’m stuck here?”

The man turned around, looking paler now and said, “Cut it out and go back home”

"You don't bebe..be..believe me, do you? What did you expect, ghosts to show up with fangs and claws, scaring you on sight?" By now, Joss' sleeves were stained with blood at the wrists, and more blood trickled down his limp fingers.

Raju took a step forward, losing control for the first time and placed a bony hand with long, discolored nails on Joss’s shoulder, and said "Dear boy you're sadly wrong, ghosts do scare you on sight. Trust me."  That’s when the boy noticed the distorted orange pupils boring into him and a dark purple tongue flicking across jagged sharp teeth.

Following morning, Joss was found, pale and lifeless beside the lonely road. The only item on him was a diary, stained with fake blood. The last entry said, “Getting over stammering step7: Play a ghost prank to learn how to handle awkward situations”.

It all began with Buster.

We met freshman year of high school and it was love at first sight. I knew in my heart we’d be together until “death do us part.”

I just didn’t expect his to be so soon.

Buster got in a car accident an hour before our Senior Prom. I’ll spare you the rotten details, but it was devastating.

It took a long time to get over Buster, but eventually I finally found my second boyfriend, David. Davey as I liked to call him. There was a certain magnetism about him that I found irresistible.

Davey was the one who first suggested I was being haunted.

One morning I couldn’t find my keys, even though I swear I set them down on the counter.

Davey said,” Maybe Buster took ‘em.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s mad you found a new lover, so he’s seeking vengeance from beyond the grave.”

“Just help me find my keys please,” I said. 

Davey found them tucked between the cushions of the couch.

Ever since that morning, more strange things have continued happening.

My stuff goes missing only to turn up in unexpected places. Sometimes there’s a chill in the air, or a knock at the front door and nobody there. It was all starting to drive me crazy.

The strangest part was the bruises.

Davey would get out of the shower and he’d have a huge bruise on his back, or his arm, the location was always different. 

“Buster’s trying to get rid of the competition,” Davey laughed, but I didn’t think it was funny. I was actually starting to believe this haunting business.

Then, late one night after I went to bed, I heard a scream. I instinctively reached over for Davey, but he wasn’t there.

I ran to our living room and Davey was on the ground in the fetal position, a black eye already beginning to form.

“I saw Buster,” Davey said, “and he’s fucking pissed.”

I had never seen Davey so worked up before.

Davey went to the kitchen to grab some frozen peas for his eye, and I grabbed my laptop.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I set up a nanny cam earlier in the day while Davey was at work. I know it’s foolish, but I did it because I wanted to see Buster one last time. I never got to say goodbye to him.

I played back the footage from the nanny cam, and I saw Davey leave our room.

He grabbed my car keys off of the counter and placed them under the couch.

Then he took a deep breath, punched himself in the face, and started screaming.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

I was so flabbergasted that I didn’t see Davey walk up behind me. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the back of my head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from Buster,” he said, “as long as you stay with me I’ll keep you safe.”

The phone calls from my twin are the best part of my day.

“Hey Nat!” She always starts.

“Hi Bec!” I’ll reply.

We’ll chat for 20 minutes and I’ll feel all warm and bubbly inside. Then she’ll hang up — without saying bye. I usually blink back tears, prepare to go on with my day.

I’m not overly sensitive anymore. I don’t cry at every spill. But Bec’s the only one who gets me - we’ve been through so much.

Shocker, I know. My twin understands me the best. A cliche yes - but that’s just how it is. It’s not even our matching chromosomes, it boils back to how we were raised.

“Nat, do you remember what Mum used to always say?”

I laughed into the phone, “Go to hell, little fuck?”

“No!” Bec replied.

“You’re worthless, I wish you were more like your sister?”

“Not that!” Bec exclaimed, “Never mind, now I sound stupid. I was thinking ‘never buy an axe and bleach from the same store’.”

“Are you trying to imply something?” My voice raised an octave.

“Of course not! Nat, you know I don’t hold grudges.”

I cried for an hour after that call.

Bec and I, we try not to think about our mother. Instead I’ll walk around the yard, go workout or talk to my roommate. Anything but think about Mum.

If the world gets too silent, if I’m not doing enough; I can still see her glaring down at me — like I’m weak and a crybaby. “You don’t deserve to be my daughter!” She screams over again.

“Hey Nat!”

“Hi Bec!”

“How was your day?”

“Same old, same old,” I pause and consider, “Did you get up to much?”

Bec’s evasive as always, “Not really.”

She pauses too, “I’ve been thinking about the past a lot.”

I don’t reply.

“Dressing dolls with you. Watching Mum’s old murder mysteries. Playing hide-n-seek with all the kids on the block. Do you remember when I scribbled on the wall in red marker?”

“Yes,” I say dryly, “Mum blamed me. Is this going somewhere?” I ask impatiently.

“I just wanted to remind you — you’re forgiven, ok? We were just kids. It’s not your fault, Mum made you so jealous.”

“I know!” I start to cry. “I know you forgive me!”

“But, Nat?” Bec says softly, “I think it’s time you forgive yourself.”

“Forgive myself?” I jump back from the phone. “Forgive myself for killing my sister - my twin? Forgive myself for letting Mum’s words get to me … until I was the one standing over you with an axe?”

“Yes,” her voice crackles, the receiver fades.

I sob into the phone, ugly, gasping sounds. Bec’s gone completely quiet, I can’t hear her at all.

“Hurry up!” A voice snaps.

I whir around hysterically as someone taps my shoulder. My breath catches in fear.

“You know prisoners are only allowed 20 minutes.”

William West was the first witness of the white light in the nighttime sky.

“It’s one of them damn UFOs!” He cried.

It was unofficial town policy to avoid him like a cross between plague and fire. He wasn’t that bad per se, but he… was kind of a conspiracy nut.

The whole town was gathering for midnight mass. Sure, the weather was cold and wet, but with a very religious community like ours, it was nearly the law here.

Before the preacher could utter a word, we heard the crash at the church’s parking lot.

West was the first man to the scene.

“It’s… I’ll be damned…” He muttered.

The whole crowd of us stepped forwards.

“It’s a goddamn martian…” He proclaimed.

We approached the creature. West just backed away.

The being was huddled in the crater of asphalt it made.

The whole herd of us just stood before it, in a combination of fear and awe.

Some kid approached it.

They reached out for the being, witnessing its gory glory.

Most of its skin was burned off. The rest was scarred and sagging like wet tissues.

Its bloodshot eyes were dropping out of its sockets.

The kid felt one of its mangled six appendages.

More of us stepped towards the being that fell from the sky.

We started petting it, delicately feeling its rough flesh.

Then, the prodding started.

Fingernails scraping gangrenous flesh. 

When it weeped in unknowable misery, the first blow landed.

I didn’t know why I joined in. Perhaps it was that mentality that defined our very species since Cain killed Abel:

This is different from us. This is terrifying to us. Destroy it now.

Soon everyone was kicking and punching and scratching at it.

It tried to cover itself in what no doubt appeared to be its wings, now devoid of feathers.

It was only when it stopped moving and breathing did we realize what our community just killed.

So we all walked away from the body.

It’s still in the parking lot. Nobody’s bothered to touch the thing. Even West shys away from the thing, he knows too.

And now in our holy lives we all ask the same question:

Was it really a bad thing for us to do? Fallen angels are evil, right?

It’s not the broken windows or the crumbling walls. 

It’s not the rusted vehicles with their skeletal drivers forever stuck in traffic.

No, it’s the silence. 

What were once bustling sidewalks—lively restaurants and bars—playgrounds filled with screaming children.

All gone quiet. 

All gone still. 

You can’t really fathom the background din constantly humming through a city until it’s no longer there. An ever-present cacophony that you become deaf to over the years—your ears so attuned to the steady vibrations of the lives of strangers that you don’t even notice it. 

Until it’s gone. 

That’s the worst part of being the only one left—the all-encompassing quiet. 

Well, at least it is now. 

At first, it was the smell. 

Rot.

Rancid… Fetid…

Millions of bodies, baking in the relentless, summer sun. 

It was inescapable. 

For months, I breathed air poisoned with the scent of melting flesh and leaking organs, until all that remained were bones and teeth.

Every hour, I begged for it to dissipate—I begged for one fresh, untainted gasp of air. 

But now, absent its nauseating putrescence, I find that some days, I miss it. 

Some days, I’d welcome the vomit-inducing odor.

Because it was my last link to the rest of humanity. 

Because the pure, clean breeze drifting through my window serves merely as a reminder that I’m alone. 

That I’m one. 

And I have no idea why. 

All I do know, is that at 8am on an average Tuesday in July, everyone else died. 

Everyone. 

There were no signs, or warnings. No message from “The Almighty” declaring the age of humanity ended. 

I was just sitting at my desk when every single person in my office simply dropped dead. 

Stan was pouring a cup of coffee, Erin was telling Megan about her dance class, Mark was on his way to the copier—and then, as if someone flipped a switch, all of them, simultaneously, collapsed around me. 

Panicking, I checked their vitals and I shouted for help, but no one responded. 

I imagined there must be a toxin spreading through the office, and fled outside while dialing for emergency services. 

Yet, no one answered the line. 

And, exiting the building, I was met with a scene of utter chaos. 

Crashed vehicles—fires—sparking, severed electrical lines. 

And bodies. 

So. Many. Bodies. 

Overhead, a plane screamed, far too low, above the rooftops.

I didn’t know then, that death had taken them all. 

I didn’t know then, that I was the only one left behind. 

My family, my friends—people I hated—people I never met. 

All gone. 

I’ve spent countless hours poring over the whys and hows of my survival over every other person in this city, and I have one leading theory. 

I think that maybe it has something to do with the titanium plate in my skull. 

I think that maybe, everyone else actually was “switched off.” 

Because sometimes, at night, I see lights in the sky. 

Hovering above the skyscrapers.

Watching…

This year has been tough on me and my family. When my dad got sick last month, I decided I should be nearby, just in case. Luckily, there was a house for sale on the same block, and for so cheap I couldn’t pass it up. Of course, I wanted to look at it and ask some questions first. No 2 story house in this state is going to be that cheap without a catch. 

But when I followed the real estate agent through the front door, I had the worst case of deja vu. And he’s been acting bizarre this whole time. He won’t wipe that cheap, car salesman type smile off of his face and he’s dodging my questions about the house. 

I asked, “Can you tell me about the people who lived here before?”

What type of answer is, “A young man just like you”?

I pressed him, but all he did was give me the physical description of the guy, as if that’s what I meant. 

I’ve been feeling a bit strange too, outside of the deja vu. My nails are uneven, like I’ve been biting them, and my fingers hurt a little. I’ve never had a habit of biting my nails and I don’t really remember doing it. I’m guessing I’m biting them in my sleep. Maybe this whole ordeal has me more stressed than I’m aware of. 

I spotted some aspects of the house I wasn't pleased with- scratches on some of the walls. Whoever lived here before thought it was funny to scratch creepy phrases like ‘get away’ and ‘leave now.’ Some cheap horror movie stuff to try and mess with potential buyers, I suppose. Strangely, I knew where to look to find these messages. I don’t know how, but I knew it would be behind the dresser in the bedroom. 

I realized I had been alone for a good few minutes looking through the bedroom. I found a notebook with uncannily familiar handwriting but I can’t place where I’ve seen it before. It’s saying stuff even creepier than the scratches on the wall. 

I had gotten lost in the old pages of the notebook when I heard the door shut behind me. I can’t open it, the agent locked me in with his final words to me,

“Welcome home.”

That, plus the final message in the notebook clicked everything into place like a bolt of lightning passing through me. I’m recording this as a last ditch effort to get out of here.

Because just like the notebook says, in my own handwriting, “Tomorrow, I’ll forget again. Tomorrow, I’ll visit the house for the first time again.”