The ghost - Written by Ebrahim Mohammadi.

(All Rights Reserved. This original story was published on Medium.com. Any unauthorized use or reproduction of this content may result in legal action.)

PART 1

We didn't know much about him, nor did we ever see him. That was the issue you see, the ghost, whom we called him, was never seen. Once you became aware of his presence, you were already lost. 

I served during the Battle of the Bulge. That was the first time I saw him—the ghost. From that moment on, he haunted us, an unstoppable shadow lurking in the snow. I lost many comrades to him, one by one, until finally, I was the one who managed to take him down. 

It was during the second hour of battle. We were advancing toward a bridge along the main road, the cavalry leading with twelve Sherman tanks, surrounded by a wave of infantry. I was among the foot soldiers, and as we moved, a biting gust of wind suddenly cut through me, chilling me to the bone. Even through the thick wool of my winter uniform, the cold was unnatural, foreboding.

Then, the sky darkened with clouds of smoke, white and black, swallowing the landscape in an instant. An unnatural silence fell, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder. I barely had time to react before the world exploded around us—a barrage of bombs rained down, an ambush from all sides. Panic tore through our ranks as gunfire erupted from the forest flanking the road, bullets whizzing past, tearing through my comrades.

I don’t know how, but somehow, I dropped to the ground unscathed, lying flat among the chaos. Around me, men fell—some screaming, others shouting commands to the tanks to return fire. I watched as a tank commander, just feet from me, was caught in an explosion, his body disintegrating into blood and fire. 

A Panzerfaust had struck, hitting the lead tank squarely, and the others followed in quick succession. The Sherman beside me took a direct hit from a bomb that grazed its armor before detonating above. The crew inside screamed, trapped, and I scrambled back as their voices turned to raw, agonized wails, quickly silenced by the next explosion. One by one, the remaining tanks met similar fates, until all that remained were flames and shattered steel.

In a haze of terror and adrenaline, I stumbled toward the snow-covered forest, plunging through the deep, icy drifts. My body ached with each step, numbed by the cold and exhaustion. But something stopped me. I found myself standing still, frozen in place, unable to tear my gaze away from the nightmare unfolding behind me.

I looked back over my shoulder and saw my comrades, standing as I was, motionless, their faces pale and haunted. Some of them had wounds beyond description—missing jaws, exposed bone where flesh should have been, blood crystallizing in the freezing air. A few collapsed to the ground; others seemed suspended in their agony, paralyzed by the same dread that gripped me.

And then, in the midst of the carnage, I felt it again—that unnatural, biting cold creeping up my spine. That’s when I knew. The ghost was here, watching, waiting.

Suddenly, the first bullet struck the soldier beside me. He dropped silently, collapsing into the snow with only the faintest crunch, swallowed by the soft, white blanket beneath us. Then more shots followed, tearing through our ranks. Instinct took over, and I dove into the snow, pressing myself into its freezing embrace. Strangely, I didn’t feel the cold. I welcomed it, let it cover me, as though the snow itself could hide me from what was coming.

Minutes passed—maybe only seconds. When I finally dared to raise my head, I scanned the trees around me. My heart sank. The road was strewn with the bodies of my comrades, some lying silent, others writhing, their cries of agony cutting through the air, high-pitched and childlike in their desperation. I’d never heard grown men cry like that—raw, helpless, like frightened children.

Then, a sharp crack of branches from somewhere close by. I turned, and there he was.

The ghost.

He stood just a few feet away, clad in flawless snow-white camouflage, a mask concealing everything but his piercing, ice-blue eyes. Those eyes cut through me, cold and unfeeling, as if he were something beyond human. For a moment, we locked gazes, and in that instant, I felt it—a chilling certainty that my story would end here, face to face with the ghost in this endless, frozen battlefield.

Crawling through the tunnel made her bones grow way too fast, but at the same time, they were slowly trying to emerge.

Each movement was a sharp, agonizing screech of stinging torment. Cold sweat dribbles down her back.

A coppery, metallic taste fills her mouth and invades her nostrils.

Ugly, disorienting, callous lightheadedness fills her head as she arthritically struggles to move. The bones stiffly scrape against each other. Her mind spun and hovered over her body, making her gag and sputter.

The cold stone of the cave sits hard underneath her body.

Tears fall as splinters pierce through her skin and flowers. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes wide, and her eyebrows furl in anguish. Her body shivers and goose pimples emerge from what little skin she has left.

A low, guttural growl fills her left ear from something she can't see or feel next to her.

With bulging eyes, she looks beside her without moving her head.

Her brother's face stares blankly back at her, his jaw slack and eyes rolled back.

A silent scream hovers next to her. A ghost she once knew. She is giving up her life to give his back.

I heard it outside my door. It got closer each night. Despite being unable to make out what it was saying, I could hear its despair. Its weeping kept me up. Tonight was different. It had finally reached my door, and finally opened it. I was relieved in a way, I could finally put a face to what used to be unidentified misery. I braced myself. I wasnt prepared, nothing could prepare me. You could have told me what to expect, I could have seen it thousands of times over yet I would never be ready. I wasnt, I never will be. Before I even laid my eyes on it I was hit with a putrid scent. Rot. This thing was decaying. I could hear it clearly now, its desperate gasps for air throughout each round of crying made me shudder, its breathing was laboured and raspy. Every unfulfilled breath sounded like popping and gurgling.

Even its movement sounded unbearable, a slow dragging of feet, followed by a thud. It was pushing itself off the walls, its legs too decayed to withstand its weight. And then it stopped. It was in my room, no it was closer then that. It was in my face. Despite my vision being obstructed due to my eyes that were forced shut, I could feel its hateful glare pierce through my withering soul. I pushed through, fighting off every instinct and fear trying to revoke my vision, I opened my eyes.

This thing was still weeping, silently now. It's face wasnt filled with tears, instead being swapped with bloody writhing maggots. Its barely attached jaw and punctured lungs were the main causes of its struggled breathing.

The worst part was the lacerations inflicted on my soul. Despite having only looked at it for a few seconds it was enough to put me into a spiraling pit of mental agony. In that moment I had felt a fraction of this things experience. My eyes started to tear up, something felt wrong. I knew it had to be tears, but as the drops fell on my hand the pure dread hit me as I realised that I was crying blood. My soul, like its, was decaying. My body's purpose was torn apart, dimished to a worthless husk. Through a mix of dread and pain my breathing became pointless, my oxygen depravity was unable to be replenished.

I'm decaying at a faster rate. My increasingly loose and rotten flesh gets stuck on everything I touch. Even shifting my weight feels like endless suffering. My minds instincts are dragging me along, I need to find someone, not to help me, but to kill me. I think I've found the person. He will bring relief to my soul, I just need to find a way to get into his room.

A siren pulled my attention away from the trash heap I had been going through. The first call signaled the start of the dread; I still had another hour before it became too dangerous.

I buried myself back into the rubble. The colony needed a new Phillips head screwdriver, and we had been looking for months. It's weird what you don't have lying around anymore when the world ends, tools became extremely important - go figure!

The bounty for this damn screwdriver was extra rations for a month and my family needed it badly.

A whistle came from behind me and a thin voice wavered, "Hey boss, what're you looking for? I bet I have it back over here." Turning around I saw some crates near the back edge of the garage the voice had come from. The dread gave me the chills, but it was never that clever.

"Yeah, sure buddy, I'm definitely falling for that one." The dread had no reply to my snarky remark.

See - the trick is not to fall for dread's lame attempts to lure you in when it first comes around; it was later when you actually had to be more cautious.

Another blare of the siren came from in the distance. I stood up and made my way out the garage door; looking up I saw that it certainly was getting dark in a hurry.

What the fuck? I thought to myself, I had at least another hour! The dread must be coming in quickly tonight.

A baby cried out to my left. Startled, I jerked my head around and saw a stroller rolling down the alley, with no one pushing it.

Nice try.

This is where the dread really started to pick up steam, it plays on your heart strings, toying with your emotions to trick you.

I really ought to make my way back, if I ran, I think I could make it to the front gates before it got too dark.

I ran the opposite way down the alley, then up 3rd Avenue where our colony was holed up at the old Pikes Place market. Rounding the block, I spotted Kojack scampering from the front of the Market. How the hell did he get out? Although extremely needy, I had grown quite fond of the pesky mutt we had rescued on our last supply run.

The third and final siren blasted out, frightening Kojack. Haunches raised he ran across the street, pushing nose first into an adjacent store front.

God dammit.

I couldn't leave Kojack behind. If I hurried, we could still make it.

Running through the open storefront door, my boot caught on the bent door frame. I fell face first into the store. Feeling stupid, I quickly got up onto my knees and looked up for Kojack.

The dread stood there above me holding a Phillips screwdriver like a dagger ready to strike - ready to plow down right into my dumbfound face.

"Looking for this?"

I know it’s just my mind at play,
A trick of light, a shade of gray.
But every corner feels so tight,
Something whispers under the moonlight.

I walk the streets, the world feels strange,
A dance of thoughts, a subtle change.
I tell myself it’s all in my head,
Yet dread creeps in, a silent thread.

Footsteps double, though no one’s there,
A fleeting glimpse, a breath of air.
I touch my neck, my heart's a drum,
In empty spaces, it will come.

The eyes that watch, they pierce the dark,
I can't see its shape, I can feel its spark.
I know it’s fear that clouds my view,
But still, I wonder—could it be real?

Each rustle sends a shiver down,
A ghostly presence, my mind's its town.
I laugh it off, I try to cope,
But still I search, I cling to hope.

When daylight breaks, it's behind trees,
Wherever I go, worries never cease.
I fight the thoughts, I know the game,
But it lingers, still the same.

So here I stand, in this strange fight,
A mind at war, both day and night.
I know it’s just a tale I weave,
But still, I can’t shake what I believe.

I opened the door and gave a dramatic bow to Kailey, motioning her inside. She giggled a bit and stepped through, and I slipped in behind her, closing the door softly behind me.

“Well, what do you think of my place?” I asked, a hopeful and excited color to my voice.

She looked around my decently-sized, clean apartment for a bit before nodding approvingly.

“Your place is amazing, Hubert! Why didn’t you bring me over before?” She asked, walking around.

I smiled. Kailey was one of those girls who always talked with that confidence and passion that makes you smile whenever you’re around them. We had been dating for three months now, and I finally invited her to my place. We spent most of our time together at her place, because it was significantly nicer than mine, with her being a year older and already established on her own.

“Well, your place was so much nicer you know? I mean, compared to mine, you live in a mansion.”

With another giggle we sat down together on my bed. I looked deep into her eyes, and she looked back, those perfect, brown eyes glowing softly.

“Wait here for a second.” I whispered, and stood up slowly. I went into the bathroom, leaving her giggling there softly. 

Her expression turned to confusion when I came back out. I had grabbed a face cloth and an opaque bottle.

“Hubert… what are we going to do?” She asked, clearly intrigued.

I smiled widely.

“Oh you’ll see baby.” 

With that, I rolled up the towel and put it near her mouth. She was clearly into it, and she bit in willingly. Then I opened the bottle, and poured it over the face cloth.

Out came viscous, crimson blood that doused the face cloth. Kailey tried to spit it out, but it stuck in her mouth.

I took a few steps back and waited.

“Hey Kailey, does the name Eric mean anything to you?”

Her eyes opened wide in terror.

“Oh yes, I know all about it."

Her body tensed up.

"You cheater."

Kailey’s body lifted up, shaking slowly. Her terrified screams were drowned out by the bloody and constricting gag, as her eyes went back into her head. Blood erupted from her torn limbs and the whole room grew ice cold. A pale, shifting figure began to appear, staring hungrily at her tortured and disfigured body. 

And then it started feasting.

Chunks of flesh were torn off greedily. Thick, dark blood covered the walls and my bed, accompanied by the wet, and inhumane chewing sounds that enveloped the room.

Soon enough, Kailey was no longer in my room. Her body had been entirely consumed, and was gone into its endless, hungering being.

It turned towards me, and floated over.

I smiled.

It smiled back.

“That’s what happens to cheaters, right Drew?”

He nodded and we bumped fists.

Being best friends with a cannibalistic spirit has its perks you know?

I come home from a long day of work. I smile at the beautiful sight of my wife and daughter and greet them. It’s been a tiring day, but I’m glad to have come home to my family… and a tasty-looking dinner. I go to my bedroom gather fresh, clean clothes, and stack them on the bathroom counter. I close the door, trying to lock it. The door finally locks, I definitely need a new door knob. I turn the hot temperature switch in the shower and then proceed to undress. 

I step in, sighing in relief that the day was over. The water sprays on my head, flowing down to my chest, arms, legs, and feet. The sound of the shower is oddly comforting, almost like a small waterfall. Thinking that, my mind spaces off visioning a big waterfall in front of me. It’s very beautiful if only it were real though.

I could stand in the shower all day, even if I’m clean; I enjoy the warmth and comfort of the water. I blink coming back to reality then proceed to scrub my head with a scentful drop of shampoo. Cleaning my hair, I slightly hear things. I can’t make out the sound, but I brush it off as it seems like nothing to stick my mind on. I know my mind likes to fake sounds sometimes; so it’s nothing at all.

I rinse the shampoo out, next applying conditioner. I can’t help but focus on that sound again… that sound. I stop for a minute, trying to focus on whatever I’m hearing through the loud crackles of the shower. I hear voices; followed by thumps. It sounds too real.

I peek my head out of the shower curtains to confirm what I’m hearing. No… this isn’t happening. I rush and slip out of the shower, slipping to get out. The door… its not opening! I’m trying to open the door but the knob is too broken. As I’m trying to get out, I hear my wife scream at someone.

I’m panicking to get this door to open. I yell out to her. She screams out my name for help but to no avail. I sob as I’m trying my hardest to get through this damn door. Her screams stop, and I let go of the door, breaking down in pain from what occurred. 

All I hear now is the sounds of the shower pouring and my weeps of guilt and devastation. As I lay crying, I hear the sound of footsteps arrive to my door.

Mom and Dad had been hinting at a surprise for weeks.

Something special.

Something big.

“Something that’ll make all our lives better”, Dad said. I hoped for a family vacation, or maybe a swimming pool.

Instead, I got a brother.

His name was Ian. Only 8 months old. Dark hair, little eyes even darker. They’d adopted him through the same agency they’d used to adopt me.

I hated him.

We had to share a bedroom. Soon, half of my stuff was boxed up in the attic to make room for a crib. He wasn’t much fun either. He screamed whenever I touched him. But no matter how much he wailed and fussed, Mom and Dad were wrapped around his chubby little finger. “A new baby is a big adjustment,” Mom said when I complained, “so we all have to be patient and work together.” I tried. I really did.

But they couldn’t see what I saw.

I began noticing things within a few months of Ian living with us. Strange things. Like how Ian’s cry never seemed to reach his eyes. I can’t recall a single tear ever wetting his cheeks. Almost as if it was all for show. And he was strong, strong enough to pull out a handful of my hair when I tried to give him a bath, howling all the while. I tried telling Mom and Dad that he was weird, but they chalked it up to jealousy. Their lives now revolved around Ian, with little time left for me.

I finally discovered why late one night.

I awoke at about 3 am. I glanced at Ian’s crib, only to find it empty. I almost cried out for my parents, but the sound of their bedroom door creaking open stopped me. I poked my head around the corner, where I saw it.

Ian, his head split open like a blooming flower.

He sat atop my father’s chest, his limbs jutting crookedly from his body. His tongue, now a long, wet rope of flesh, reached down my father’s throat. He was feeding on them. I crept back to my bed, unsure of what to do.

Until the next evening.

Mom and Dad needed a break. They decided I was old enough to babysit while they went to dinner in town. Once we were alone, I laid Ian in his crib. His little black eyes looked surprised when I laid the pillow over his face. It took a long time for him to stop kicking. When it was done, I called Dad, putting on my best frantic voice as I told him Ian wasn’t breathing.

Mom and Dad were devastated.

At the funeral, they both held me tight, sobbing that they were sorry. As I hugged them back, I almost pitied them.

They didn’t know what Ian was.

They didn’t know what I was.

They didn’t know that I’d been starving while Ian gorged.

And they didn’t know that I don’t like to share.

There’s a legend in the city of Cancún, México, that goes like this:

It’s said that there’s a group of people on social media, specifically on Telegram. These individuals collect hit-and-runs and usually go out at night to run over homeless people, workers heading home in the early morning, any poor soul that crosses their path, even children.

They go out like hyenas and record everything as evidence of their disturbing fetish. They view them as trophies; the more destroyed the body is, the more reputation they gain. In a place like Cancún, where the law and corruption go hand in hand, impunity spreads like a virus, and these people's madness has no limits.

You should be more careful next time, or you could end up a trophy on the asphalt, and no one would know that it was all premeditated, where the devil set its eyes on you on purpose.

“Please hand in your group assignments!” the teacher yelled in the usual impatient tone. John and Clara looked at me in anticipation. “Don’t worry; I got it in my bag.” I casually took out my backpack and unzipped it. However, when I looked for the burning red cover of the group work booklet, I found nothing but sheets of snow-white exam papers.

“Wait a second…” My hands start digging through the exam papers like a money counter machine. “This can’t be, I can’t be making such an elementary mistake…” I can feel the sweat pouring out of my palm, my fingers becoming numb as the exam papers cut on my fingers, delivering sharp, acute pain. A chill starts crawling on my back, creeping into the back of my brain.

John and Clara's anticipation was quickly replaced with frustration. “You didn’t forget to bring it, did you, Kyle?” John couldn’t hide the irritation in his voice, breathing heavily as he asked. Clara looked at me with a pale, blue face that was a mixture of confusion and disappointment.

“There is no way! I made sure to check everything before I packed up last night! I swear to God!” I refuted out of reflex. “You know how much this means to me! We spent so much time on this, and we all had to get an A on this course to be considered for admission! It just can’t be…” I started throwing out the exam papers in my bag, but there were so many. I flipped my backpack and began to shake everything out, but the exam papers… just wouldn’t stop pouring out.

“This is due today Kyle! You know Mr.◼◼◼◼ won’t be accepting late submissions. We need it now, NOW!” John grabbed me by the collar and shoved me to the ground, and yet the temperature of his breath was the only warmth I could feel. Clara hadn’t said a word. She was just sitting there, curled up. 

I remembered that she was always like this when something bad happened, but back then John and I would take turns to comfort her, which neither of us can do at the moment. Come to think of it, the last time she was like this due to being the only one that failed the admission, we threw a party together to make her feel better. I remember I said to her, “How about we do something fun, like for example, climbing Mount Everest?” Wait, we graduated?

I remembered. We've already graduated. We decided to climb the mountain to celebrate graduation. We were almost there and I should be waking up anytime to join them at our destination.

But why wouldn’t my hands stop digging in the exam papers? Why wouldn’t the snow stop outside? Why did it feel so cold? Why was I still looking for the burning red booklet?

Ah, it wasn’t the booklet I was looking for, it was the oxygen tanks.

The library where I worked was nothing special – just another brick building with worn carpet and that distinct smell of aging paper and wood polish. Rain drummed against the high windows, creating shadows that danced across the empty reading room. Ten minutes until closing, and I was already dreaming of my couch and the leftovers waiting in my fridge.

The book return slot clattered. Unusual for this time of night, but not unheard of. Probably someone desperate to avoid late fees.

I walked over and reached into the return bin. A single book lay inside, its cover worn and spine cracked from use. "The Language of Flowers" by Sarah Mitchell. I flipped it open to scan it back in, and a pressed flower fell from between its pages – a purple hyacinth.

Strange choice for a bookmark. The flower was fresh, its petals still soft. I noticed writing on the checkout card still tucked in the back of the book. The same name appeared over and over:

Emily Chen. Emily Chen. Emily Chen.

Each entry exactly three weeks apart, as if she'd been checking out the same book repeatedly. I remembered her – quiet, always wore oversized sweaters even in summer, kept to herself in the botanical section. She hadn't been in for a while.

Something made me check the system. Emily had renewed this book eight times in the past six months. My cursor hovered over her address: 156 Maple Grove Lane. Just around the corner.

I noticed a note added to her account: "Patron requested home delivery service due to mobility issues - Denied (not eligible)."

Emily was twenty-three. I'd seen her walk here plenty of times.

The purple hyacinth lay on my desk, and something nagged at my memory. I pulled up a flower meaning website. The page loaded slowly, the fluorescent lights humming overhead.

Purple hyacinth: "Please forgive me" or "I'm sorry."

Thunder cracked outside. The lights flickered once, twice. In that strobe-like effect, I saw more pressed flowers falling from the book's pages. All purple hyacinths. All fresh.

A newspaper clipping fluttered to the desk. It was folded to show only the classifieds section, with one ad circled in shaky red ink:

"Found: Peace at last. Remember me with flowers."

My hands trembled as I called the non-emergency police line. The dispatcher's voice was steady as I explained about Emily, the book, the flowers. They said they'd send someone to check on her.

I looked up her last check-out date.

Today. 3:42 PM. Due in three weeks.

The police called back fifteen minutes later. They'd found her apartment door unlocked, windows open to the rain. On her kitchen table sat a vase full of fresh purple hyacinths and an empty bottle of sleeping pills.

The officer asked if I knew why she'd chosen that particular book to return. I looked down at "The Language of Flowers," its pages still sprinkled with purple petals.

She'd known exactly what she was saying. She'd been saying it for months. And none of us had been fluent enough to hear her.

My existence could be compared to that of a hamster: a man stuck in a small cage, ambitiously pushing and striving for a bigger, better life outside his enclosure. All the while, he’s too stupid to realize he’s stuck on a wheel going nowhere – unable to go anywhere, in fact – and hand-fed just enough to survive, but never enough to feel content. It seemed every other hamster around me had figured a way out, so I pushed harder. And as I pushed, I aged, my memories of a younger, happier self fading, until I couldn’t tell if they had ever existed in the first place.       

I assumed I was destined to suffer – until I realized:

This was my hell.

It was the only plausible answer. I must have died without realizing it and been thrust into an infinite punishment of struggle and mediocrity.

After this revelation, I couldn’t unsee the signs: my wife giving me the cold shoulder when her warmth was what I needed most; a medical bill pulling me back into a sea of debt just as refuge came into view; once close friends reduced to yearly birthday texts and the occasional unfunny meme sent at two in the morning; my children flaunting their defiance as if my words and authority meant nothing. And the most telling sign of all – the ever-elusive words of acknowledgement.

This was my hell.

For weeks, I searched for a way to break free from Satan’s grasp, but it was futile. After all, what kind of hell would it be if it offered the answer to your own salvation.

But then a thought struck me.

Hell can’t exist if I destroy its means of torture.

Culling the little ones was… difficult. Not because I perceived them as my own flesh and blood, but because in their final moments, they exuded the innocence and repentance I had longed for. But it didn’t matter. I saw it for what it was – a ruse, a fake-me-out, a last-ditch effort from the devil to keep me trapped here, suffering for a reality that could never exist.

My wife, though – I found her hiding in our closet, communing with the devil himself, warning him of my master plan.

“I’m sorry, for whatever I did! We can fix this! I’m your wife! PLEASE LISTEN!”

I pulled the trigger, painting our musty linens and cheap, off brand clothing with her corruption. But not soon enough, it would seem.

“Come out with your hands up!”

Her call for backup had been answered. Satan’s soldiers surrounded me, their red and blue lights flooding through my windows, showcasing my offensive contempt, and proving that, yes – I had found my path to salvation.

Now, what’s yours?

Every day I wake up. That's when it starts. I force myself out of bed with the least amount of energy possible; sleep has lost its refreshing effect a long time ago. I wonder where it went. My first steps lead to the bathroom, no exceptions. I get ready and dressed only to look at the clock at the usual time; it tells me that there is no room for breakfast. There never is. Dust swirls up from my uncleaned car seat as I sit down at the same time as yesterday. The steering wheel feels cold, and the cheap leather does not hide a heating function, no matter how hard I wish for it. I never wait to warm up my engine; the key turns the ignition without hesitancy, and the old, creaking vehicle starts moving, cruising along the same streets as always. The thoughts normally start at around fifteen minutes into my thirty-minute commute, twenty-five on Fridays; they creep into my brain in a way that I cannot defend myself against. Letting them roam freely, I realize that there isn't much that keeps me from certain death. One wrong turn of the wheel and... Would anybody even miss me? I always wonder why I never did it before. As long as I didn't crash into someone else, nobody would get hurt, right? Both I and they know how replaceable I would be. I merely am but an ant in this giant hill of reoccurring events that color everything gray. I wouldn't be surprised if even the blood that would eventually come dripping out of my crushed body was equally as gray as the tone that my life slowly turned into. Every returning situation, every empty conversation that I think about, turns my hand a little further to the right. Further and further until my wheels cross the white stripes, signs of another forced structure. That's when I catch myself. I'll eventually do it, maybe tomorrow. I'll do it when the gray finally turns dark and swallows the last bit of energy. But is that ever going to happen? I wake up the next day and force myself out of bed with the least amount of energy possible. The sleep I get is never refreshing.

There's a dream I have on the regular. 'Mystic Meadows Lane', my old street I lived on when I was 3. The dream is always so warm; it's such a fond memory. I stand in the middle of the street with my old baseball cap. I can feel the breeze on my neck. I can hear the gentle rock of the trees' branches. It was 75°, and sunny. I've always taken this dream as a blessing; an escape from any and all bad thoughts.

That is, until a week ago.

I heard a faint scratching noise in the dream that night. The dream was still just as peaceful and warm, don't misunderstand me, but the scratching? That was new. I looked around for any cause of the noise, until I saw it. A tall grey figure with no jaw.

It had to be over ten feet tall, and skinnier than a stick, but the jaw? I don't get why that was all that mattered in my head. Shockingly enough, this figure wouldn't move. It just watched me from the treeline behind my childhood home.

The next night was no better. The dream was the same, but the figure stood closer now. It was near my house, almost 30 feet closer than the night before. It just kept staring. That wasn't what bothered me though. The temperature had dropped by a whole 10 degrees, and the trees were swaying from the wind. I quickly woke myself up, not wanting to be there any longer.

Each night, it got worse and worse. As the figure reached my front porch, the sky turned red. As it made it to my mailbox, the temperature dropped to 45°. It was hard to enjoy the dream like this. I couldn't take it. Two nights ago, it stood right behind me; it breathed down my neck, and as the trees lost all their leaves, and the pavement cracked more and more from the frigid air, I turned to it, and began to sob. The tears rolled down my face, freezing in the negative temperatures. It just kept staring.

This brings us to last night. I fell asleep in fear, needing to take melatonin just to get my brain to give up fighting the sleep. My dream began, and to my horror, everything had returned to normal. A large scratch mark trailed away from me down the street. Curious, I began to follow it. I walked for hours, down an interstate, through various towns, and finally...

To my home I live in now. I walked inside, continuing to follow the scratch mark, and followed it to my room. There the figure was, but he wasn't watching me. It was watching the real me, in the bed fast asleep. I tried to wake up, but I couldn't. It was making me watch myself sleep.

I fought and fought and fought. I wanted to wake up. Anything to wake up. I watched as the real me slightly turned over in bed. There was no point in trying. I sat down, defeated, as the figure with no jaw continued to stare at the real me. When I finally woke up, he wasn't there, but the scratches were.

I've been stealing for about 4 months now.

It's not because I'm in desperate need of money. I have a steady job. I only go out of my way to do this for a few extra bucks.

My method was simple: steal any package on any person's doorstep, hold it for a few days, and then sell it. It didn't matter if the contents were expensive; it only mattered if I could make money.

Today I was tipped about a package at the Bautisas' house. I've heard rumors about the couple who lived there, weird people who only left their house at night. I didn't believe or care about the rumors, I only cared about getting my loot.

I quickly drove to their house and saw a black box on the porch. I swiped it and fled to my vehicle; the sound of glass rocking back and forth caught my attention. It was probably something fragile.

Upon returning home, I placed the package on the dining table and excitedly opened it. Inside held 4 large bottles of red liquid. Jackpot. This had to be my best score yet.

In celebration of this, I called one of my buds Chad, and invited him over for a fun night of drinking and showcasing what I snatched up. At first, Chad was impressed. He asked where I got it from and when I told him his expression changed.

"You...do know there's rumors about that couple...right?" he asked, looking at me nervously

I rolled my eyes at this. There was no way Chad was also one of those people afraid of the Bautisas. I expected better for someone like him.

"Chad. For the love of god, those are rumors, you don't know if what the shit people are saying about them is true or not," I said, "I mean come on, it's not like this shit is poisonous, it's just red wine."

After a few minutes of arguing, Chad eventually caved in much to my liking. We spent the rest of the evening drinking until we got flat-out drunk, while also watching the greatest of trash TV, just having a good ass time.

I didn't realize I had fallen asleep until I awoke to the sound of vomiting and choking. My eyes landed upon Chad who lay on my couch, convulsing and choking. His eyes rolled up as they bulged and became bloodshot.

I rushed to help him, but someone grabbed my arm. Their grip felt ice cold as it tightened. I turned around and stared at a large pale man with jet-black hair and a plaid suit. His eyes glowed red as he cocked his head.

"So, you're that porch pirate we've heard about lately." he spoke, "I must admit, I didn't know that this type of blood could harm humans this badly, but that doesn't matter now."

"Even though you drank most of what we ordered, I believe you will be a perfect substitution for what we lost".

I stepped outside, just a normal day,
But something small got in my way.
A baby crow, fallen from its nest,
I didn’t see it—the thing of flesh.

With a crunch beneath my shoe,
A flutter of wings, a sudden shrill.
From every corner, they took to the sky,
Cawing and swirling, oh, how they cried.

They started to watch, with beady eyes,
From rooftops high, they seem to rise.
Every rustle makes my heart race,
I can’t shake the feeling—I’ve lost my place.

I tried to run, but they followed close,
A dark cloud hovering, they see me as foe.
Each caw echoes, a haunting refrain,
A reminder of guilt, a weight of pain.

At night, they gather, a swarm of black,
I feel their presence, they won’t hold back.
I wish I could turn back the hands of time,
But the crows won’t forget my hedious crime.

Now I walk in shadow, always aware,
Of the crows that circle, that linger in air.
In just a moment, I changed my fate,
And I’m haunted now

By their relentless hate.

Let me tell you an unknown truth: Vampires are the greatest disco dancers ever.

Some of us, of course, have danced through the ages: the waltz, the Jitterbug, and so forth. However Disco is the pinnacle of human achievement. The Bee Gees, Ottoman, Boney M, The Trammps and not forgetting our much missed colleague, Michael Jackson.

When I entered the club that night, hundreds were grooving to ‘Born to be Alive.’ They all looked stylish in their bell bottoms and peasant blouses. The air was filled with the crimson smoke of blood cigarettes.

“You’re late!”

Shannon, my best friend these past hundred years, berated me before hugging me tightly.

“I'm sorry,” I said, adjusting my midi skirt after being released. “My coffin was too cosy. I had a bit of a lie in.”

Shannon tutted and pointed towards the dancefloor.

“Plenty of hot young guys here tonight,” she teased.

I sighed. “They won't fancy an old girl like me.”

Shannon laughed. “They're men - they’ll fuck anything.”

“Thanks!” I said. “That makes me feel so much better!”

My friend waved my complaint away.

“You bring experience to the table. All three hundred years of it.”

Grabbing my hand, she pulled me to the bar. ‘Jump to the Beat’ was just starting up and the dancefloor was full of guys and girls flying and leaping about.

At the bar, a new batch of barrels were being hooked up. I fancied the look of the twelve year old girl so I ordered two glasses. Young blood is so much nicer. Fruitier.

“See anyone you fancy?” Shannon probed. “I mean when was the last time you got laid?”

I shrugged, sipping my ichor. I knew of course. Fifteen years ago. Before my husband committed sunlight suicide.

“I'm not really looking.”

“Well I am,” Shannon scoffed. “I’m getting screwed tonight. You should too - get rid of those cobwebs between your legs.”

I prodded Shannon playfully. “You are so disgusting!”

She took my hand again and this time dragged me onto the dance floor. The disco ball glittered kaleidoscopically, the colours moving to a circular rhythm. The DJ, Grandmaster PlasterBlaster, spotted me and put on ‘Moskau’ by Dschinghis Khan. It was my favourite; it reminded me of home.

As the crowd was boogying, a guy sidled up to me. He was stuck in his twenties - and recently. He smiled. Not bad looking either. When the music stopped he asked if he could buy me a drink. Shannon winked me a ‘go for it’ kind of wink.

At the bar, I asked for another glass of twelve year old. He reached into his wallet. A prophylactic fell out.

“Sorry.”

“You know vampires can't get pregnant,” I teased.

“It's not that,” he apologised. “I overheard talk of a new blood disease. I think it could really hurt us.’

“Okay….” I replied unbelievingly.

I’m glad we played safe that night all the same. AIDS eventually ended up wiping out sixty percent of the vampire population.

Including my friend, Shannon.

Three knocks echoed off her front door and rang through the house. It woke her from a dead sleep and she glanced at her phone—3 in the morning. She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door, peering through the peephole.

An old man stood there hunched over, leaning on his cane heavily. He wore a suit and tweed hat with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

She cracked the door open until it caught on the chain.

“Hello?” she said to the old man.

“Sylvia?” he responded.

She shook her head. “There’s no Sylvia here. Do you need help?”

The old man didn’t respond. He turned and slowly walked down the steps and up the sidewalk. She quickly closed and locked the door, then went back to sleep.

The following night, three knocks echoed off the front door at 3 in the morning. She again glanced at her phone and huffed, quickly making her way there. Outside the peephole stood the old man.

She unlocked and pulled the door until it caught on the chain.

“Hello?” she said in a far more annoyed tone.

“Sylvia?” he responded.

“Sir, there’s no Sylvia here. It’s 3AM. You need to stop coming here,” she said scowling.

The old man turned and slowly walked down the steps and up the sidewalk. She tried to crane her neck and see where he was going but he disappeared behind the bushes.

She closed the door and called the police station.

“Willoughby police department,” answered a woman.

“Yes, I didn’t know if I should call or not but there’s this old man that keeps coming to my house and knocking at my door early in the morning,” she said.

“An old man? Did he threaten you or try to force his way inside?” the police woman asked.

“No no, nothing like that. He just knocks and asks for Sylvia, then walks away down the sidewalk,” she responded, her cheeks now flushed. “But it’s 3 in the morning, and it’s the second night in a row.”

The woman typed something on the other end. “Well, we can send a cruiser to take a lap around the block but I would suggest just ignoring him if it happens again. He obviously lives in the neighborhood if he’s walking there, perhaps he’s just confused.”

She sighed into the phone.

The next night, three knocks echoed off her front door. She rolled over and grabbed her phone. 3:00AM brightly flashed in her eyes. She growled and set the phone down, pulling the covers up over her head. Another three knocks sounded at the front door, louder this time. She stayed under the covers and closed her eyes trying to ignore the sound. A handful of seconds passed without any further knocks.

“Thank God,” she whispered to herself.

She started to relax and drift off to sleep.

Three knocks echoed off her bedroom door…

“Hey, kids,” Mom said as she came into the room, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Are we going to the fair?” my sister, Janice’s, face lit up at the prospect.

“I'm sorry, honey,” Mom frowned, “We can’t go this year.”

“But you said…,” Janice started to protest but Mom cut her off.

“I know what I said, and I’m sorry,” Mom apologized, “But we just can’t afford it.”

“What’s the surprise?” I asked.

My mom turned to me and smiled, “Since we couldn’t go to the fair. I brought the fair to you.”

“What?” that sounded impossible.

“Well, it’s not the real fair,” she clarified.

“What kind of fair is it?” Janice asked.

“Come downstairs and see,” she motioned for us to follow.

Not knowing what to expect, the two of us followed her down the stairs where we found that she had turned the living room into a series of carnival game booths constructed out of cardboard and various items she’d found around the house.

They all looked really lame but I could tell Mom had put a lot of work into them so I didn’t say anything.

Janice, who was four years younger than me was more forgiving of them.

“Are there prizes?” she asked.

“There are,” Mom replied, “They’re over there.” She pointed at the dining table which held several plates worth of cookies and cupcakes that she’d baked along with a few stuffed animals that she’d clearly picked up at the thrift store.

“Are you ready to play?” Mom held up some Monopoly money for us to use to pay for the games.

Not wanting to disappoint her, I took the fake money and decided to play along.

“What’s that game?” I asked, pointing to the one that was covered with a sheet.

“That’s a special game,” Mom replied.

“Can I play it?” I asked.

“You can,” she walked over to the table, “But it costs five dollars and requires you to wear one of these blindfolds.” She held up the strip of cloth.

“Okay,” I agreed, handing her the appropriate money.

While Janice busied herself with the ring toss game, Mom put the blindfold on me and escorted me under the sheet.

“Alright,” she said, “This game is very simple. All you have to do is pop a balloon with one of these darts.” When she said the word darts, she lifted my hand and placed three darts in my palm.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

She stood behind me and positioned my body.

“Throw them whenever you’re ready.”

I threw all 3 darts in rapid succession and was happy to hear two of them pop balloons.

“Great job!” Mom declared before removing my blindfold.

When I saw Dad, who was bound and gagged and covered in balloons, with a dart sticking out of his left eye, I almost puked.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Mom said, “This is just your father’s way of repaying us for spending all our fair money on beer.”

I sit at the kitchen table facing the unlocked front door.  I needed help, and I knew Patrick would come running as always.  Hopefully he’ll listen.  After throwing open the front door he freezes, “I’m sorry Pat. I won’t be able to hear you,” I say, pointing at the bleeding stumps where my ears used to be.

His mouth moves, and the words can’t reach me, but the glint of tears is enough.  My self-inflicted injuries should be the least of his concerns.

“Patrick. I’ve got to warn you,” He heads into my kitchen, and begins searching the cabinets, “Patrick!” I shout into the void, “do you hear it yet?  That inescapable rhythm?”

He returns with a scrap of paper and bandages, “Before you can help me, you need to make sure you won’t hear it eith-.”

He slams a scribbled note down in front of me, “Stay Still/Quiet” 

“Fine, ignore me, but let me at le-” he begins tapping his finger on the paper and I dutifully stop moving.  Of course he wouldn’t care about how I first heard it.  Where I found that insidious song.  As always, he is concerned with the present, washing off and bandaging the useless holes where my ears used to be, instead of thinking ahead, “You always know how to get on my nerves.”

I can’t see him, but I can feel him yank the bandages tight.

“I thought Erik was an improvement, but even he threw a fit when I tried to help him.”  There’s a pause behind me, “don’t Pat,” I turn and try to grab his jacket and miss. He dashes off to the bedroom.  

I don’t hear a scream or a shout.  But the floor rattles as heavy feet stomp behind me.  Pat, leans over me and snatches up the paper, he scribbles something on it, and slams it back down on the table, “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“He’d started to hear it too.  I only tried to help.” 

He taps on the paper.  A dull ringing fills the severed space where my ears used to be, “it’s already come for you Pat.”  His fingers pound a melody into the table.  I recognize the pattern.  It’s haunted every moment of the last couple weeks.  Earplugs didn’t help.  Neither did catchy tunes or blaring songs.  Even now, despite my mutilation, it’s wriggling between the folds of my brain once more.  A seductive cacophony perfectly in synch with Pat’s tapping.  

“But you’ve only begun to hear it.”  I get out of the chair and face Patrick.  It’s returned; a slinking shadow is whispering in his ears.  My fingers tighten around the knife in my pocket.  I’ll succeed this time; I’ve learned from my attempt on Erik.  I swoon forward and Patrick reaches out to catch me.  When his distraction is at its peak, I deftly bring my knife up.  Its slinking tongue is trying to slither inside his ear canal, but I know how to stop it.

“I’ll save you.”

As the ambulance siren blares, the battered cyclist howls in kind, writhing on the gurney in the back.

"Sir!" The paramedic leans in, clamping the flailing limbs with practiced force. "Sir, can you hear me? I need you to—"

"You hit me!" The cyclist shrieks. "You maniacs hit me!"

"Sir, you were attempting to cross 𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 lanes of traffic."

"I'll sue!" The cyclist spat. "I'll take you for all your worth!"

"Sir, I'm gonna need you to calm down. We need to know if you have insurance."

"Of course I don't have insurance!" He barked. "Why do you think I ride a bike?!"

"I see. " The paramedic nods to his partner, who opens the double doors. The ambulance banks a hard left, wheels lifting off the ground.

The cyclist grips the gurney rails for dear life. "What are you doooooiiiiing?!"

The rubber meets the road and the vehicle zips down the thoroughfare.

"If you can't pay," the paramedic calmly explains. "We'll have to ask you to leave."

"B-but you hit me!"

"If you can't pay..."

"I don't have any money!"

The paramedic prods the purple-black bloom of his bruised stomach. "How many kidneys do you have?"

"W-what?"

"It's simple question."

"I don't know!" The cyclist blurts out in confusion. "Two?!"

The paramedic dons gloves, masks up, and pulls a scalpel from his trauma bag. "We can work with that." He flicks the blade.

The cyclist's eyes widen in horror. "What are y—"

"Of course, I have to warn you: this may not cover the full bill." The paramedic leans in and pulls down the mask. "Damaged goods and all."

So, I decided to go to a WW1 Reinactment for the first time since I like history, a storm rolled around and they strangely didn’t cancel the event. So, I kept on playing along, but… I’m smelling something awful and everyone is now speaking fluent French instead of English… The trenches are cold and full of water and when people get hit… their not coming back up…

Dr. Smith tried to keep a smile on her face, her pen hovering above the notepad. "And you say these urges are what brought you here?"

Across the desk, Ethan shrugged, "I can't help it. They're like whispers in my head."

Smith’s pen resumed, but this time a little more nervously. She asked, "you've acted on these urges?"

Ethan's smile slowly returned with a chill. "Oh yes, many times."

The next thing Dr. Smith knew, a cold hand had clamped around her wrist. Ethan's eyes, once vacant, now gleamed with a predatory light. "The whispers are telling me you’re next.”

The pen fell to the floor as Smith attempted to scream. Ethan had wrapped his hand around her windpipe, silencing her.

"Hush, I’m hearing the whispers.”

Her lifeless body fell to the floor. Ethan straightened, his smile widening. The whispers had grown louder.

As I stand outside of the Overeaters Anonymous meeting, listening to my girlfriend share her “success story” on the other side of the door, I turn to the fat man standing next to me. He’s smoking a cigarette.

“I feel like puking my fucking guts out,” I say. “Losing 100 pounds makes her a better person? She’s certainly a hell of a lot less sexy than she used to be.”

The smoker looks like he wants me to disappear.

I continue. “I told her that when she was losing the weight. She said I wasn’t being supportive. Fuck being supportive – I’m a man, and men have needs.”

This gets him to acknowledge me. “Hey pal, if she wanted to do it, good for her, right?”

I snort at him and try to appear menacing. The white knight grumbles something about a new face like hers at their meetings being a good source of inspiration for everyone. He smokes a minute longer and then heads back inside.

As the meeting ends, I wait patiently. I watch through the door as countless obese woman walk up to her and undoubtedly praise her. What fools. Finally, the smoker approaches her. He looks concerned and gestures towards where I stand.

They walk together to the door and open it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks me.

“I wish that you’d told me you were coming here.”

“As I’ve said before, what I-“

“Shut up.”

“A charming attempt at winning me back.” She turns to the smoker. “Harold, wasn’t it? Walk me to my car?”

“Sure thing.” He looks at me in disgust, lap dog that he is.

“I can walk my own girlfriend to her car,” I say.

“For the last time. I’m not your girlfriend anymore. Now please step out of our way.”

I do, and I watch them walk into the parking lot. At her car, they stop. They talk for a moment, look back at me, and finally, both get into it.

—

I use my key to slip through her front door five minutes after they do. I can tell they’re already getting busy.

I walk quietly over behind the couch. They’re kissing, and he’s really into it. It’s embarrassing. This beautiful, fat motherfucker probably hasn’t been laid since high school.

My girl can smell me, and she looks up at me. Casanova is too engrossed to notice.

Her mouth moves to his neck, kissing it on the right side. He leans his head back, eyes closed in pleasure.

I bend over the couch, putting my mouth on the other side of his neck.

Our fangs sink into his throat in unison.

He lets out a surprised yelp that melts into a moan of ecstasy. At least they always go out feeling good.

As we feed, I savor the richly marbled taste of the man’s blood, thanking God for the rise of fast food in this nation. Chianti, Bordeaux – nothing can hold a candle to a good old American red.

Every night at 9 p.m., Liam's channel draws hundreds of viewers eager to see a new looped video, his custom AI model weaving breathtaking, nightmarish alien vistas.

When I visited him yesterday, his apartment was in a dismal state.

He was leaning into his monitor, staring. Half-empty soda cans complimenting the stench of weeks-old takeout around his desk. His tripod, once stationed proudly in the corner, was missing—likely sold. I mourned the days when his passion was filmmaking. He had no other interests now.

His monitor displayed one of his generations.

“Not streaming tonight?”

“Azok is generating,” His eyes fixed on the screen. “Look! Incredible. It lets me see.”

The name forced a stifled retch from me.

I avoided looking at the screen. The clips had a way of prying at something within me, like watching surreal horror movies far too young—confusing, disorienting, terrifying.

I looked. God help me, I looked.

The static, soundless scene displayed a cyclopean hellscape beneath a blackened sky that reflected like oil on water. In the distance, an angular figure caught my attention.

“Closer,” He zoomed in, I struggled to pace my breathing.

Feathery, mismatched limbs spasmed between lurching on two legs and crawling on four. It stopped at a mound, pink and luminescent, and plunged its...claws... into it, ripping out something writhing. Its tongue stripped layers off. My mind recoiled in self-preservation, refusing to process the size and shape of the dripping morsel.

“Jesus fuck, Liam, what are we looking at?!” I bolted for the door and slammed it behind me.

The next morning, his phone went unanswered.

9 p.m. heralded dead air.

Worried, I reluctantly returned. His door was ajar, the lights were fried. The monitor was a lone beacon in the pitch darkness, barely revealing his tripod knocked over in the center of the floor.

The tripod...

A soda-covered phone was plugged into the computer. On the screen, the file explorer displayed a single video file: alpha-centauri.mp4.

The source directory was the phone.

The mouse was also sticky with old soda as I clicked the file. He had just been here. The video began, silent.

Yesterday's hellscape again. This time, the horizon folded in kaleidoscopic waves. Liam stood center frame, gesturing wildly, tears streaming down his face as he pleaded.

The perspective then craned upward, its movement uncanny. No longer static as it had always been before, the realization struck me like a freight train. It can't be...

Liam's mouth formed a name I didn’t want to recognize, cosmic and ancient.

The camera closed in on him with familiar lurches that made me convulse violently. The perspective loomed—a colossal, angular shadow engulfing him as he shrank within the frame.

His face collapsed into something beyond fear, beyond regret. His lips parted and closed rapidly as he rambled about a bargain, and his rights...No.

Rites.

"It lets me see."

The video looped, light caught my hand on the mouse. It wasn't soda.

Behind me, something spoke.

“Mom, when can we visit Great-Grandfather?”

Mom looked surprised. Jennifer had never shown any interest in Great-Grandfather, slowly decaying in a senior’s home, before. “I’m not planning to visit- Why?”

“Can I just go myself? We’re learning about WW1 and Ms Johnson said to ask if our family were involved. Great-Grandfather was in the war, right?”

“Jennifer- you know he can’t talk much now, and even when he could, I don’t remember he enjoyed talking about it.”

“Please mom, it’s for our history grade! And he’ll be pleased to have a visitor!”

Mom reluctantly agreed. Her Grandfather, as far as she remembered, had been a surly old man, not the kind to welcome a bright-eyed child eager to talk about the war. She had childhood memories of him, jerking, trying to grasp her hand. Once he asked her to put her hand on his chest. She had been frightened, and ran away.

However, Jennifer, the sort of student who had to get good grades, was persistent about visiting, and eventually Mom agreed to take her.

The smell of cleaning and old bodies in the home together with the background hum of machines and TV was overpowering. Jennifer found his room with bright determination, knocked loudly on the open door and entered. “Hello Great-Grandfather!” she called out.

Great-Grandfather was sitting on his wheelchair in the half-dark room, his head tilted, drool running. He didn’t answer. Jennifer walked up to him, leaving Mom at the doorway.

“Hello, I’m Jennifer, your daughter Valerie’s granddaughter. I’ve come to talk to you about the Great War. And thank you for your service!”

Great-Grandfather turned towards her. His droopy mouth twitched. Jennifer felt he was smiling at her.

“Jennifer?” he mumbled. “I remember you. A baby. Come, I have so many things to tell you about the war- moving pictures in your head!”

Jennifer pulled out her notebook and pencil, and walked closer. “That’s so kind of you Great-Grandfather! May I take notes?”

“Yes child. But how I tell you, it will be like you were there, in the trenches. You won’t need your notebook. Come here.”

Jennifer was thrilled- they had watched video footage of the trenches, and now she could tell class she had talked to someone who had actually been in them. She went so close to him she could smell his piss. “Tell me please.”

He reached out, gripped her hand and placed it on his chest. Jennifer stayed still.

BOOM! An explosion shook her, she was thrown to the ground- mud and grit flew up in her face. She could hear men shrieking - rat-tat-tat - she was outdoors. Things were falling, flying around her. She knew where she was.

Back in the nursing home room, Jennifer's soul-less corpse collapsed at the feet of Great-Grandfather’s wheelchair.

Great-Grandfather smiled, at peace for the first time in almost a century, as his memories faded and Jennifer soul replaced his in the trenches. He reached out and pulled up his blinds. Sunlight streamed in.

I can recall the first time it happened, when I was twelve. A man named Arn Henshaw wandered into the Cunningham family's home as if it were his own. Naturally, this alarmed the Cunninghams, who contacted the authorities. Henshaw insisted the house was his, a claim that baffled anyone familiar with Hawthorne. The Cunninghams had lived there for years.

Henshaw told the police he was hiking a trail in Grayson Grove, one he and his late wife often strolled. There, he encountered something he'd never seen before: a stone wall adorned with colorful, flapping wings. At first, he thought they were butterflies, but upon closer inspection, he realized the wings were attached to the wall itself.

Everyone, including my parents, thought he was having a mental episode. After a stint in Taft County Mental Health Hospital, Mr. Henshaw returned to Hawthorne. Despite his unusual introduction to the town, he claimed it felt like home. He eventually settled into a job as a mechanic and married a woman named Trudy.

"I owned a shop a lot like this," he told me, recalling the events that led him to Hawthorne. "That's why this place feels so much like home."

"Did you know someone had your same name in Bedford?" I asked, referring to a county about fifty miles away from Hawthorne. I had discovered this while doing research.

"You don't say. What's that Arn Henshaw up to?"

"He died when he was a teenager."

"Poor fella."

"Did you ever talk to Maddy Green when she came to town?" I asked, curiously. Maddy Green stumbled onto the town square about five years ago, screaming about a stone wall and wings, and she was trying to find it again.

"I never got the chance."

The rest of the story was filled in by dinner tables across Hawthorne, mine included when my partner heard that Maddy Green claimed, like Henshaw, to have wandered the trails of Grayson Grove and come across a wall he had described. 

The authorities said the woman was distraught from losing her husband while he was deployed overseas. Unlike Henshaw, Maddy Green didn't take to Hawthorne, and a month after her arrival, she committed suicide. 

The note she left simply said, "I did not find him here."

"Why do you think the wall appeared to you two?" I asked bluntly.

Henshaw stood silently for a moment, before he said, "I don't think there ever was a wall, but I can tell you that in my mind back then I felt like it chose me."

That's why I wandered the trails of Grayson Grove for hours. My heart had ached for months, my dinner table silent. All I had was just the slimmest of chances, but when I finally saw colors in the distance, I rushed over. The deep gray wall, surrounded by hundreds if not thousands of colorful wings all taking turns flapping, and when I saw a small path leading to another trail, I took it.

Soulmates: a very real tangled red thread binding two hearts. Two brains. Two souls. Whether they liked it or not.

Unfortunately, I was bound to a fucking psychopath– reckless teenage “detective” Nicholas Sparks, who didn’t understand the concept of a soulmate.

Soulmate: bound through emotion and thought.

So, despite me sitting in class anxiously tapping my pen on the edge of my desk, my ‘life partner’ was halfway across town, tracking down a missing middle schooler. Nicholas didn't understand that I could sense his gritted teeth as he struggled to pick a lock with a toothpick, his toothpaste breath, cherry flavoured lips, courtesy of him making out with fellow Scooby gang member, Fallon, five minutes earlier. This guy was a mess, and unfortunately, he was my mess.

”Can you be careful?!” I mentally hissed.

He rolled his eyes, not the biggest fan of our binding, either.

“At least I'm not a cowaaaaard.” He mentally sang back.

I sensed the warm glow of his flashlight, his voice a murmur.

”JJ, can you help me find the kid?”

I held my breath as he strode forward, his fingers wrapped around something warm– JJ’s wrist? When he let out a strangled laugh, it was contagious, and somehow, I felt my own lips curving into a smile. “There she is!” I dropped my pen when he darted forwards.

“Call Sheriff Adams!”

Relaxing, I slumped into my chair.

Before.

Pain.

It started dull, before exploding down his–my– spine, ripping the breath from his lungs. His scream was agonizing, barely hitting the sound barrier, but through my mouth, it tore me from my seat, something warm and metallic shooting up my throat. Blood.

I spat it out, but I was already losing him– his thoughts, entangled and muffled and fading, "Fuck. I didn't…what happened? JJ, what the fuck?”

”Did I tell my Mom I…”

“I… loved her?”

“Did I…”

Despite his voice fading in and out like ocean waves, I could still feel him.

Falling.

Plunging into darkness, blood clinging to him, seeping from every orifice.

I found Nick gutted in a warehouse, laying on his back, his eyes still open. Dead. But he didn't feel dead to me.

His presence was suffocating, drowning me, screaming at me to run, at me to talk to his mom, tell her he loved her– tell Fallon…

I was barely aware of myself on my knees, a screech clawing through my teeth.

He was so loud. Afraid.

Crying.

Grabbing the knife that pierced his stomach, I plunged it into his heart, unravelling the tangled, blackening thread binding us, and severed it, finally cutting us apart. But he was still there.

Screaming.

Even buried, Nicolas won't leave me alone.

He's a dead weight attached to me, a body I can't cut away, dragging me down. And as I stand on the edge of my apartment building, fifteen years later, his pained cry in my head, I know exactly how to get rid of my soulmate.

“Jump,” he whispers.

I do.

It was the hottest summer anyone could remember.

My wife and I had spent months nurturing our backyard garden, the last thriving patch of green in our drought-stricken neighborhood. Every morning, we carefully measured our precious water rations, sharing them between our vegetables and the few flowers we couldn't bear to let die. While other yards turned to dust, ours remained a small oasis.

But that morning, something felt wrong. As we returned from the weekly water distribution center, I noticed our garden gate was slightly ajar. We never left it open – not with water thieves becoming more common every day.

I told my wife to wait by the car, just in case. She clutched our last water jug to her chest and nodded silently. I made my way down the garden path, past the withered remains of our neighbor's yards. Each footstep crunched on dead grass, echoing in the scorched air.

Our garden was in chaos. Someone had trampled through the carefully tended rows. Tomato plants lay crushed, their precious fruit scattered and split. The rain barrel was overturned, its contents soaked into the thirsty earth. Who would do this? Was it simple vandalism, or had someone been desperate enough to destroy what they couldn't steal?

Then I heard it – a soft slurping sound coming from behind the garden shed. The intruder was still here. I picked up a fallen trowel, its handle smooth from months of use. Whatever I was about to face, I needed answers. Our garden wasn't just plants – it was our future, our hope, our survival.

I crept around the shed's corner, each step deliberate and silent. The slurping grew louder. I could see a shadow moving in the space between the shed and the fence. With one deep breath, I stepped forward, ready to confront whoever had violated our sanctuary.

I froze. There, crouched among our prized cucumber vines, was a deer – the first I'd seen since the drought began. It looked up at me with dark, liquid eyes, water dripping from its muzzle. It had somehow found the underground spring we'd been carefully hiding, the real source of our garden's survival.

I called my wife over softly.

"Is that really a deer?" she whispered.

"Yes," I answered, gripping the trowel tighter. "And it's the last one we'll ever see."

The deer kept drinking, unaware that in this new world, even mercy had become a luxury we couldn't afford. Its meat would feed us for weeks, and its absence would keep our secret safe. In the end, survival wasn't about what we could save, but what we were willing to sacrifice.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is how cramped and tight it is.

He can’t remember why he's here, lying in this box, his hands lying tightly at his sides, arms unable to bend.

He blinks into the dark. How did he even get here?

Perhaps—no this had to be it.

Playing hide and seek with mommy and daddy like usual, hiding into that big wooden box in the attic.

He hid himself in so well they couldn’t find him. He must've had a little nap waiting for them.

Any second now, he thinks, they’ll come find him.

A few minutes pass.

It’s a little harder to breathe than before, and it feels like the air is running out. He stretches his legs, but they barely budge, pinned in by the box’s walls.

Was it always this cramped?

Wait—had the box always been this soft inside?

A thickness gathered in his chest and throat.

Alright, he thinks, maybe it’s time to leave his hiding spot.

He pressed his hands to the top of the box, pushing as hard as he could.

It didn’t move.

He tried again, pressing, straining, but there was barely any room to lift his hands.

A strange feeling sinks in, but he won’t let it scare him.

He’ll wait a few more minutes; Mommy or Daddy will come. They’ll laugh and help him out.

Then, the box shifts.

He called out, “Mommy? Daddy?”

But his voice barely rose above a whisper.

I’d never wanted a physical body before, not until now. Usually, nothing gets to me—but the way he cried out? That almost broke me.

Outside the box, he heard it—soft, muffled sounds. Sniffles. Sobs. Quiet, broken cries. Other voices mutter things he can’t quite catch.

He wants to yell, but it’s like his voice is caught in his chest, the air too thin and his body too tired.

The box moves again, being lowered this time until it’s perfectly still. There’s no more sound, no more movement.

His vision dimmed, and the air around him was thinning.

A memory flickered, vague.

He was in Mommy’s arms, his face tucked against her chest. Her voice cracked as she held him, rocking him, “Stay with me, baby, stay with me.”

Daddy’s voice beside her, “It’s going to be alright! We’re on our way to the hospital!”

I wanted to take him away then, to save him from all of this. But I don’t choose the timing—that’s already decided. I cannot go against destiny.

The memory fades away as a new sound reaches him—soft, rhythmic thuds above, like rain falling gently overhead.

But this isn’t rain.

It’s heavier. Grainy.

The ceiling of the box starts to press down, just a little.

It was earth.

The last of the air in the coffin runs out.

I took the boy’s soul as gently as I could, cradling him in silence.

It’s always the children who break my heart.