This was the first time I had gone to a fortune teller.

It was on an bad street in the city center, squeezed between a Chinese restaurant and a shady massage parlor.

A friend had told me about the place, saying she always went there in difficult times and that, so far, the cards had never been wrong.

Inside, there was only space for a small black booth, where a woman in her sixties sat on a tiny stool. She wore a shawl and a turban, and the air smelled of incense. On her table, a tarot deck and a crystal ball.

"Hello, Rachel," she greeted me. "I've been waiting for you."

I never told her my name when I called to book the appointment, and I had no idea how she knew it.

"Hi," I said timidly. "My friend Becca gave me your number. She says you can do wonders."

She didn’t reply, just gave me a knowing smile.

"So tell me," she began. "What is it that you need to know?"

I gulped, anxious about the questions I was about to ask.

"I want to know if my husband is cheating on me," I said.

She looked deep into my eyes.

"You already know that, don’t you?" she replied.

"Yes, I do," I dropped my eyes, embarrassed. "I just wanted to see if you would know it."

"Don’t irritate the spiritual world with obvious questions, my dear. Ask what you really want to know."

I thought for a few seconds and made my decision. "I want to know what will happen now between me and him."

She picked up the tarot deck and shuffled the cards quickly, setting the final pile beside her.

She drew the first card—The Moon. "It means deception, intuition, and confusion. The discovery of betrayal," she explained.

The second card—The Knight of Swords. "Impulsive actions, confrontation. You will have a clash with your husband over his infidelity."

The third card—Death. Her eyes widened. "This could mean radical transformation, literal death, or both."

I covered my mouth to hold back a laugh. The woman, uncomfortable, asked what was so funny.

"I thought this was supposed to show the future, not the past," I shared. "My husband and Becca are already dead."

The woman paled, shocked.

I doubt she imagined that her last session with Becca would lead to this. But it was after that reading—when the cards revealed the truth would come out—that she came to me in tears, begging for forgiveness.

That’s how I found out about them and why I snapped. Becca had been my best friend since high school.

"But I am ready to ask my final question, if that’s okay," I continued. "Will their bodies ever be found?"

“No sudden movements,” the kind lady warned. “She’s skittish.”

Jared and his partner Mia inched into the foster couple’s lounge. Behind the lady’s legs cowered a small, tan and white spaniel called Cinnamon.

“My favourite spice,” the lady’s husband smiled.

After an hour, Cinnamon tentatively approached Mia and nuzzled her hand. The fur on her paws, belly and jaw was tinged yellow.

“The rescue found her in a cage, filled with her own…urine,” the lady explained. Her happy facade cracked slightly.

Jared offered a hand, but Cinammon backed away.

He and the dog stared at one another.

“We’ll take her,” he nodded.

*

Jared worked for the local council as a handyman. Mia was a chef.

They’d driven hours to the foster home and back in one day, so it was dark when they pulled onto the drive.

Cinnamon was nervous.

After they let her out into the garden, she wouldn’t come in. Jared had to catch her by the collar - but she tore into the flesh on his hand viciously.

Lifting her up, Jared passed her to Tia, whose eyes were glassy with fear even in the dark. Cinnamon calmed immediately. Blood streamed from Jared's quivering hand.

Later, they sat together, watching Cinnamon doze on the couch.

She’d eaten. She seemed calmer.

Tears stung Jared’s eyes.

“You okay?” Mia asked. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not that,” Jared replied, staring at his bloodied, bandaged hand.

“It’s not that.”

*

Come Monday, Jared got his work done quickly. He had two abandoned houses to board up and a park fence to mend. Then he made some calls.

Two hours later he was at the house Cinnamon had come from. It was empty, as expected, and quite rural. He kicked the flimsy door in and went inside.

The smell hit him like a wall.

The carpets throughout were smeared with shit. There were cages everywhere. It was the same in the basement, but there was a grimy old bath tub in there too. 

Probably for drowning the unsold ones, Jared thought.

Against the back wall was a large cage, an inch deep in piss.

One corner was piled with…bones.

His heart pounded in his ears.

Outside, he sat in the van, ignoring his vibrating phone.

Then a car arrived.

A man got out shiftily. It was the puppy farmer.

He disappeared inside.

Jared banged on the door.

The owner appeared immediately, wielding a knife.

But Jared was prepared. He fired a taser into the man’s throat.

*

The man woke up in the basement.

His clothes were wet through.

The stench of dog piss made him wretch.

The guttural sound of heavy drilling reverberated through the house as a silhouette stretched down the basement’s steps.

It was Mia.

“Fuck me…” he scorned. “They’re just dogs!”

She sneered at the man.

“Someone will find me!” he shouted.

But Mia just laughed and slapped a dereliction notice on the cage.

DANGEROUS STRUCTURE, it read. ENTRY PROHIBITED - STAY WELL CLEAR.

Her stepfather had booked a lake house for the family for the entire month leading up to her birthday. But when she woke up, she couldn't find her parents anywhere. There was no note either. Being the brat that she was, she started groaning and cursing about how it's the worse day ever.

There was nothing in the fridge. Nothing in the kitchen cabinets too, nor on the kitchen counter. Liza headed over to the alcohol wall cabinet. There were a few bottles of whiskey in the open cabinet, and a few broken bottles on the floor. Her stepfather was a nice man, but boy, could he drink like a horse! But again, she couldn't care less. She picked up a bottle from the cabinet and made herself comfortable in front of the TV.

Afternoon turned to evening, but there was no sign of her parents. Liza was more pissed than worried. The weather outside had turned stormy too. Eventually, the bell rang. "Ugh, finally!" She opened the door to let her parents in, but instead, it was a man dressed in all black, covering himself with a hoodie, a scar running along one of his cheeks. "Madam, may I please come in? I have lost my way, and now I am all drenched." He didn't let Liza speak, he was already inside the house. "I will not bother you, but could you please help me with this address?" He seemed more interested in looking around the house than in the address in his diary. "Umm, okay, what's the address?", the moment the words left Liza's lips, there was a power cut.

After managing to light a candle, Liza was more annoyed than ever. "So, what is this address that you were talking about?" This man was 46 miles in the opposite direction, looked way too suspicious to be looking around for a luxury hotel like that. "The hotel you're looking for is about 50 miles from here." He didn't hear anything that Liza said, just kept looking around the house. "Madam, what's that unusual smell?" Lizzie had no idea what he was talking about.

"Madam, you're sweating. Are you alright?" He walked towards Liza, put his palm on her forehead. "It looks like you have a fever". At this point, Liza was disgusted and frustrated, this wasn't the birthday she wanted. Where the fuck were her parents, anyway? Before she could move away from the man, he had pinned her down on the floor, and soon stabbed her neck with an injection.

"Yes, Sir. This is Detective Roy. I have Liza Shaw under control, she has passed out from the sedative that I have injected. Yes, I found her missing parents too. Well, they are dead, almost skeletonized - I am assuming killing them was the first thing Liza did after escaping. This entire house reeks of their decayed bodies. I will meet you in the asylum in a couple of hours. We can then proceed with the case ."

I'm the very same fly that made you lose control of your car, causing it to crash into an oncoming truck.

I'm the same person you once trusted, only to betray you when it mattered most.

I'm the same brake that failed while you were driving.

I'm the same fire that engulfed the apartment where you and your family lived.

I'm the same puddle of water on the floor—the one you stepped on and slipped.

I'm the same driver who didn’t see you coming and ran you over.

I'm the same hurricane that left devastation in its wake.

I'm the same disease that you suffered from, the same one that took many of those you loved.

I'm the same monster you feared as a child, the one you thought lived under your bed.

I'm the same fear—the root of all fears.

I'm the same venom that courses through the fangs of deadly creatures.

I'm the same ghost that haunts your nightmares.

I'm the same water that swallowed you whole when you drowned.

I'm the same dog that darted across the road as you sped on your bike.

I'm the same gun that fired and took countless lives.

I'm the same tsunami that wiped out millions.

I'm the same volcano that has erased entire species time and again.

I'm the same force of gravity that pulls planets together, only to destroy them in the end.

I'm the same black hole that devours everything in its path.

I'm the same gamma-ray burst that can obliterate worlds in seconds.

Did I forget to tell you my name?

Huh. Silly me…

I'm Death.

After a visit with a friend I am traveling home on a bus that travels through states.  I like talking to people as it makes travel more interesting.   Looking up from my magazine I see a man get on the bus with a prisoner handcuffed to him.  Nice looking man, good build.  His prisoner was a 40 something black man. This man could be interesting to talk to.  He was either a plain clothed policeman or a detective who made the arrest. I moved to the seat in back of them. I said hello and he said hi.  Where are you headed, he asks?  Home, I say.  Where's home?  I told him the state I lived in, and city.  Oh he replies I know that area what street do you live on.   I replied with my street name. He seems friendly. Nice man, good looking and a good job I thought.  Hope he's interested to see me again. I tell him I am getting out in a few stops. He asks for my contact information.  I gladly gave it to him. I am getting ready to leave and tell him talk with you later. Maybe not too soon he replies. As you can see I have been arrested and he motions to the handcuffs.  They say I killed three women.  Well what can I say. But I have your contact information for everything I need.  I'll  be in touch.

Brant’s a decent kid. Young, eager, the kind who still irons his tie. He’s joined recently, which is why I assign him the smaller, easy cases—natural deaths and vehicle accidents mostly. Open-and-shut cases.

Today, he’s pacing my office, eyes wild, insisting seven natural deaths over six months are murders.

All connected, apparently.

I’ve dealt with rookies before. New detectives, overly ambitious, tend to chase ghosts. But this was rather serious.

Brant was accusing an old, well-known chemist, which could get me in trouble. I had to talk some sense into him.

“Seven victims. Respiratory failure. Stroke. Heart attack. Natural causes, Brant.”

He slapped a file on my desk. “They were all former students of Miller Wren, the chemistry professor and researcher. 6 years ago, these students brought Wren’s plagiarism scandal to the public light, leading to his resignation as a professor.”

“You’re telling me someone figured out how to kill people and make it look like a stroke? Or a heart attack? Come on, Brant. You’re reaching.”

“But sir—”

“You’ve got the motive, Brant. Give me the method.”

I lean back in my seat and sigh. This is where he will get stuc—

“Each victim received a luxury perfume bottle days before they died. Different brands, no fingerprints. But here’s the thing…”

He tapped a photo of a sleek glass bottle.

“…all of them were only three-quarters filled. Sealed airtight.”

I tap my foot impatiently.

“And?”

“Imagine this, sir,” Brant said, leaning in. “You’re gifted a perfume bottle. What’s the first thing you’d do?”

“Open the seal. Maybe smell it at the opening—”

Oh.

Brant nodded slowly.

“Exactly. That quarter-empty space isn’t air. It’s gas. Odorless. Undetectable. Designed to trigger delayed reactions—hours, days later. Mimic natural causes.”

I pause, processing his words.

“Forensics found nothing in the victims’ systems.”

He hesitated.

“We tested the bottles. Nothing came up. No toxins, no poisons. But that’s the point—it’s something new. Wren’s a chemist. He could’ve engineered it to break down post-mortem, leave no trace.”

“The natural deaths?”

“I believe the gas targets the nervous system. Triggers vasospasms, arrhythmias. By the time it kills, the evidence is gone.”

“Helluva story, Brant.”

“It’s not a story, sir!”

“Without evidence, that’s what it is.”

“The pattern’s there—!”

“Patterns aren’t proofs.” I stood, grabbed the water pitcher by the window. “You’re spiraling. Here. Calm down.”

He took the glass, gulped it dry.

“I’m not crazy, sir. Wren’s smart enough to pull this off!”

I nodded.

“Alright. Let’s say I believe you. What’s the next move? How do we prove it?”

Before he could answer, he froze. He clutched his chest, his face twisting in pain. His left arm went limp, and he collapsed.

“Brant!”

I knelt beside him, feigning panic. “Brant? Brant!”

Goddammit. I should’ve turned the cameras off. Now I have to act all panicked.

Something that is almost exactly water, but kills.

Definitely do not want to be on that man’s bad side.

Damn. Wren better pay me extra for this.

My name is Joshua Carter. I’m a 42-year-old detective, and for the past sixteen years, I thought I’d seen it all. But the Smith family case changed everything.

My wife says I’m not the same anymore. I barely sleep, haunted by nightmares. She convinced me to see Dr. Maggie Lane, a psychiatrist she met at a coffee shop.

Maggie’s house is massive, perched on a mountain overlooking the entire town. She greets me warmly, guiding me to her living room, where I sit with the town sprawled below. When she asks why I’m here, I dodge the question, blaming stress. But she doesn’t let it go.

“It’s the Smith family case, isn’t it?”

I hesitate. Then, I begin.

A month ago, a woman called 911. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered before the line went dead. We traced the call to the Smiths’ home—a well-loved family of four.

When we arrived, the house was eerily quiet. We broke in. Mr. and Mrs. Smith lay in pools of blood. Their son, Jake, sat motionless, gripping a bloody knife. Their daughter, Emily, was laughing. Maniacally.

We took them in, but Jake never spoke. Emily never stopped laughing. The case made no sense. If the children did it—why? If not, who else was there? And who was the woman who called 911?

Maggie interrupts. “You said four. But the Smiths were a family of five.”

A chill runs through me.

“Their eldest daughter left two years ago. No one knows what happened to her.”

The press ran wild with the case, but even the police were lost. Then, we found something—surveillance footage. Days before the murders, a hooded figure lurked outside the house, always watching. We searched further and discovered CDs—home videos of the family. But in some, there was someone else. A shadow in the background. Always wearing the same hoodie.

I shift in my seat—and freeze.

There, under Maggie’s adjacent sofa, is a crumpled hoodie.

My breath catches.

And then my eyes land on the package by the door.

The name on the label—Maggie Lane Smith.

My stomach twists.

I look at Maggie. She’s still, an eerie calm settling over her.

Then, she smiles.

“Joshua,” she says softly.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

When my wife cheated and left me, I was devastated. The court forced us to sell the house, so I had to find a new place to live quickly. Fortunately, I had enough to buy a small place nearby with three rooms and space for a garden (a habit I picked up to de-stress). All things considered, I was lucky.

Then came the first notice:

“No bushes are permitted within two feet of the road. Further violations will incur penalties.

-Rivercrest HOA”

I didn’t plant them - they were there when I moved in. Whatever - I moved them back a foot.

Then the next week:

“Local noise ordinance prohibits loud noises after 8pm. Further violations will incur penalties.

-Rivercrest HOA”

I wasn’t even home last night - I’d just gotten back from a four-day work trip. I wrote a response to that effect and left it at the HOA’s main office.

This went on and on - citations for decorations, trash can placement, etc. Then came the last straw:

“No private gardens are permitted without prior written permission. Please remove your garden within forty-eight hours or incur penalties.

-Rivercrest HOA”

Remove my garden? Hell no. I spoke to a few neighbors with gardens - none had ever been required to get permission.

Fed up, I took my notices and went to the main office.

“I’d like to speak to the HOA president, please.”

“He’s unavailable right now.”

“He can become available or speak to my lawyer.”

“Ok,” the assistant replied, “I’ll see if he’s free.”

She brought me into a room to wait. Hours later, the president walked in.

“YOU?” I asked, stunned.

Standing before me was my wife’s affair partner.

“Hello, John,” he replied smugly. “What seems to be the problem?”

“These bullshit notices are the problem. No one else seems to have received them. Is there a reason I’m being targeted?”

“What do you mean? These are all perfectly legitimate.”

“We’ll see what a judge says.”

“Since the house’s terms of sale prohibit suing the HOA, I guess we’ll never know.”

He turned and walked out.

The next week, I invited him over to discuss the situation.

“What will it take to get this harassment to stop?”

“What harassment?” he asked. “Everything I’m doing is completely within the HOA bylaws. Though I suppose if Wendy got the money she deserved from the sale of the house…”

“She already got her half directly from the bank.”

“Her half…”

“That’s extortion.”

“I’m not telling you to do anything. Now, if that’s all, I have business to attend to.”

I stared at him - rude, smug, arrogant. He slept with my wife, broke up my marriage, and now threatened me? How dare he?!? For the first time since Wendy cheated, I lost it and blacked out.

Weeks later, I sat on my porch, admiring my garden. The roses and orchids looked particularly vibrant. I guess it’s true what they say - anything will bloom with care. And the right fertilizer.

It was all over the news. Unidentified aircraft in our skies, frequent shutdowns of our networks, cryptic threat-messages all over the internet, telling us about our wrongdoings as a country. We were told to ignore it. So as I was having dinner with my family and the power went out, I could do nothing but step outside to ask my neighbors what was going on.

Everyone in town had the same idea, so as we were asking around, it took a while to notice that the big city on the horizon, which we could see from our little town up in the mountains, was pitch dark. The confusion only grew larger as everyone was spouting theories to what was happening.

Then came the blinding flash of light over the city. Then silence. Then a deafening shockwave that shot through our streets. Then silence again.

We waited for the news stations to enlighten us, but the power never came back.

We waited for the authorities to come to our aid, but they never arrived.

"Fools.." I thought "Our government should have read the warnings.."

We installed safety measures. My neighbor Jim had his lever action rifle, you know, the one you associate with cowboys. I had the revolver I inherited from my grandpa. It was old and I had never bought any ammo for it since I wasn't planning on using it.

Luckily Jims rifle used the same caliber, so he could spare me some. I knew he had a big stash of ammunition, so didn't know what to think when he only gave me 6 rounds.

Then we waited for the enemy, but the enemy never came.

As the weeks went by, our supplies started running a little short. This only strengthened our community. We knew we could only survive helping each other out.

But then the supplies started running very low, and it was everyone for themselves again.

Then the supplies ran out, and it was everyone against everyone else.

My revolver, with which I intended to keep the neighborhood safe, now became a tool to keep my family safe from the neighborhood.

I was woken one night by distant sounds of gunfire in our neighboring town, down in the valley. But it was not your typical bolt action hunting rifle. It sounded like 20 hunting rifles firing at once. That or only one assault rifle.

Before we started fighting each other for food, we had invited them to join us in the mountains, it would be much safer than the valley. But they refused. Again I thought

"They should've read the warnings"

But the sounds came closer, they came up the mountain. I recognized a pattern.

Multiple gunshots - shouting - crying - a single gunshot - repeat

I only hoped our town would be remote enough to not be a viable target.

But when I heard the whispering outside my house in a language I didn't recognize, was when I realized.

"I should have read the warnings."

My Mom is trying to kill me.

It started small. A dizzy spell after dinner, nausea curling my stomach. But soon, a single bite could flood my mouth with bitterness.

It didn’t take me long to realise her food was the problem.

So I started being careful. Skipping creamy sauces and Mom’s famous buttery potatoes. Eating mostly fresh produce — more likely to be safe.

But it kept getting worse. And my Mom’s hate became obvious.

“Have some sauce sweetie!” She’d say, sickly sweet, slopping it on my plate. Her eyes too bright, she was waiting for something — waiting for her win.

I’m not stupid. I know she’s trying to make me sick.

I’d subtly try to pick at my food, swipe it into a tissue. Mom would always notice, watching like a hawk.

At first I thought it was all in my head, that I was too dramatic. But then I’d vomit, nausea swooping in. Lighting my stomach on fire, stretched and burning. Oh no, it isn’t my mind playing tricks.

Hands shaking as I cut my dinner, stomach churning — I knew evil was lurking. The more I ate, the worse everything got, my body rejecting her food. Why is Mom doing this? I’d cry into my hands. But I knew the truth — she’s always hated me.

I haven’t eaten for two days. It’s up to me to protect myself.

But she’s cooking meal after meal, trying to force it down my gob.

I sit with lasagna on my lap. I’m shaking so hard, I can’t grasp the fork. I don’t even want to eat it. I can’t bare to feel the burn in my chest, my stomach twisting into knots. Mom’s cooking is simply unsafe.

“I made cheesecake!” Mom’s back. “Your favourite!”

“I’m not eating it!” I scream, throat catching. “I know what you’re doing!”

“Please, baby! You need to eat, you’ll make yourself sick.” Voice thick — she’s convincing herself, not just me.

I watch Mom from my bed, tears forming. She’s going to kill me.

Dad touches her arm tentatively, “Honey, maybe we should just stop.”

Yes, listen to him. Leave me alone, I think.

Mom slaps Dad across the face. Tears sting his eyes.

Mom glares at him with pure loathing, but it’s me she hates.

“Don’t you dare say that again!” She spits, a ball of hot rage.

Dad’s properly crying now. Why can’t he do something more?

Mom leaves, only to come back an hour later. She holds a yoghurt bowl and berries.

“Eat it,” she orders. No negotiation.

“You can’t make me!” I sob, “I know what you’re doing!”

“I need you to eat it!” Mom screams in my face. She grabs my arm, nails digging into my flesh.

Heart racing, hands fluttering, I’m in hysterics now. Chest pounding, I can’t breathe, I’m gulping for air.

“I can’t!” I scream, back at her. “You’re trying to kill me!”

“Baby!” Mom gasps, “You’re going to kill yourself.”

She looks at Dad. He’s sobbing.

“How did we let this happen?” She whispers. “How did we let her anorexia win?”

Marie looked over her shoulder at Finn, the new arrival into the pod.

He was on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. He had burned through his allotted screen time earlier that day. Marie thought to get him to help out in the kitchen, but decided to leave him be.

She missed Jake, who had recently left the pod after marrying his long-term girlfriend. Such a nice, well-adjusted couple. She would visit them next week, affirming the continuity of their social bonds.

Finn- well, poor Finn. Apparently he had been living under the radar alone for weeks before the authorities got wind of him, and inserted him in her pod. From experience, she knew he would have a tough time adjusting to pod life. 

With the continued rise of the male loneliness epidemic, incel culture, and male violence, government finally stepped in and did something about. Men weren’t allowed to live alone anymore. Instead, they were slotted into “pods”, run by surplus lonely women, with strict limits on their screen time. Landlords weren’t allowed to lease to single men, and banks and clinics had to report them, a danger to public safety.

Jason clattered downstairs and plonked himself next to Finn. Marie hoped some brotherly time between the two was just what Finn needed.

Jason ruffled Finn’s hair. “How’s it going man?”

Marie sneaked another look while straining the pasta. Finn twitched away from Jason’s hands. “Leave me alone” he muttered.

Marie raised her voice. “No loneliness! Get to know your pod-mate Finn!”

Jason gave Finn a playful shove. “Yeah, get to know me, Finn!”

Carleton emerged from the bathroom, ready for his evening shift. He strode towards the couch and stuck his hand out. “Finn, yeah? I’m Carleton. Good to meet you mate.”

Marie sighed. If only they all behaved more like Carleton and Jake, and less like Jason. She gave the sauce a twirl. “Carleton- honey do you have time to eat before you leave?”

Carleton moved to the open kitchen. The pod-houses were all open-design, with doors only on bathrooms. “Nah Pod-ma, gotta run. The new foreman’s a bitch”

“Carleton!” She pretended to swat his broad behind with the saucy spatula, giggling. Carleton dropped a kiss on her graying head, and her heart fluttered.

“I’ll leave your portion in the fridge- you can heat it up when you get home. Or just take it tomorrow.” She smiled up at him. Pod-mammas weren’t supposed to have favourites, but, well, they all did.

“Keep an eye on those two, yeah?” Carleton pulled on his boots and left.

Marie looked back at the couch. Jason had leaned over Finn, who was making agitated weird noises, his arms and legs flailing around.

She sighed again. A bit of horseplay was good for the young fellow- socializing and human touch. She glanced at the time.  She’d give them two minutes, then break it up and serve the pasta.

Finn yelped.

It started with the lamp. Something was different about the lamp. Something was wrong.

You know what comes next, I'm sure. The lamp is the flaw that breaks the illusion, the thread that undoes the weave. The crack that breaks me free. And it turns out I've lived the last decade in my own unconscious head.

Except I don't remember any accident. And I haven't exactly been living my dream life. And I'll admit it wasn't the lamp, it was the alarm clock next to it. I just said that to get us on the same page. So I wouldn't have to explain what was wrong. Because I can't explain what was wrong with that clock. It just was.

Seeing as how I couldn't remember when this whole affair might've started, I did what any sensible person would do. I took the baseball bat from beside the front door and smashed the damned thing to pieces. Problem solved.

If only it were that easy. The next day, it was the lamp. Something inexplicably wrong. Threatening to send me back to a world I no longer know, to a time forgotten. No. I'd rather live my fantasy than watch it crumble around me. I smashed the lamp and returned my bat to the door.

Of course, if that was the end, you'd not be hearing about it. The next day was the nightstand beneath the lamp and clock. I took that out back and spent hours obliterating it. Reduced it to dust, along with whatever might've been inside.

Next was the TV on the opposite wall. I'm not ashamed to say I punched that one hard, in panic and what might've been dispair, before it went out back, too. Smashed to bloody bits. I never bothered to bandage my hand up. It was unharmed when I woke up the next morning.

A wardrobe came next. Then a coat rack at the end of the hall. Then the bathroom door. All destroyed with the wild swinging of my bat.

Eventually, though, my luck ran out. You might guess what came next. Unfortunately for me, I can't destroy this bat. It's metal, and heavy. So I'm writing this instead. Maybe I'll get lucky, and I'm just insane, and someone will get to read this. Maybe the world I know will keep existing.

Cause it isn't a great world, but it is mine. And I'm terrified that it will all die if I leave. So, if you're reading this, just know. I tried to save you. I really did.

When I was a child, my parents used to tell me about this creature in the night that would kidnap children if they left the house in the dark. They told me he‘s freakishly tall and you can only see him whenever there is at least a bit of light around, otherwise he blends into the night, and once he approaches you, it’s over. I obviously believed my parents. And even though I know their intentions were good and they just wanted to keep me safe, this whole story led to me growing afraid of the dark.

I live in a part of the world where the winters are exceptionally dark, which makes living with my fear very difficult. My therapist suggested exposure therapy. She told me I should try to go outside when it’s dark to teach my brain that there is actually nothing to be scared of. First she told me to just stand outside my front door for a few minutes, and as I grew more and more comfortable I should try to walk around in the dark.

Today is the day where I‘m taking a short walk to the supermarket at night. As I walk down the street in the faint glow of the street lights, I hear leaves rustling to my side, but I know better than to jump. Luckily it stopped snowing already, so all that’s left of the winter is the cold. Unbearably cold.

As I approach the glowing lights from the supermarket windows I get a feeling of relief. But something felt off. It felt like something was behind me. I turned around and saw a tall, dark figure standing on the other side of the street and looking at me. I watched the figure leave the glow of the street lights and practically disappear when he crossed the road.

I turned back around and grabbed the front door handle of the supermarket and entered quickly. “This is nothing”, I told myself as I tried to slow my heartbeat, “it’s just a regular person going go the supermarket, just like me.” With shaky hands I grabbed a bottle of water. Since the walk there was supposed to be a practice I didn’t actually need anything.

I looked back towards the front door and I still saw the abnormally tall figure. As he ducked through the door I realized he had no facial features. He was just a void. An entity. My panic grew bigger and I started to scream. Other costumers looked at me in confusion as I screamed my heart out and dropped the water bottle. He was approaching me, not them. I don’t think they can see him. He was there for me.

Every morning, I wake up, brush my teeth, and give my dog his breakfast.

This ritual sets rhythm to my days, whether the long dark of winter or unnerving early sunrise of summer, we have the same routine. Rise, rinse, eat, then run.

Every day we play catch in the park. Seeing my dog sprinting full out in our games of catch, his muscles stretching and pulling across the mud and grass, through bushes and over fallen logs, is the highlight of my days and fills my dreams with sensual sight pleasure.

Sometimes, he might get distracted from his quarry by a squirrel, and while he is very fast, he’s never caught a squirrel yet, and the squirrels, chittering bushy rodents, mock him from the tops of trees. I bring my gun along for cases like that, for things that run up trees in the mad dash to escape him. It’s not his fault he doesn’t have the hands to climb, and I hate to see him disappointed.

Like many dog owners will say, my dog is an angel, he saved my life, without him I would be lost. Unlike many dogs, in his case this is not a metaphor. He first revealed his secret nature as an angel of God sent to guide me on my quest when my husband left us. My husband didn’t understand, the blood bond we shared. Now that it's just us here in this isolated cabin along the Appalachian trail, we can spend all the day wandering the woods, tracking down hikers who venture too deep into the forest, playing catch. My dog is, after all, very fast. 

The pub on Grayson Street had no name, just a weathered wooden sign with a faded image of a sack doll stitched in black thread. It didn’t need a name. Those who came here already knew its purpose.

The barkeep, a gaunt man with yellowed eyes, took no pleasure in what happened downstairs, but the money was good, and grief was a powerful currency. Beneath the floorboards, in a damp, candlelit basement, sat an old sack doll—human-sized, stitched together from burlap and dark thread, its empty, stitched smile stretching across its faceless head.

The process was simple. Bring the remains—hair, teeth, blood, anything with the dead’s genetic imprint—and the doll would absorb it. In minutes, it would warp, groan, and stretch until it became them. You got five minutes. No more.

Jack arrived just past midnight, his face hidden beneath a low-brimmed hat. The barkeeper recognized his type, someone drowning in loss, desperate for one last word.

Jack handed over a small bundle wrapped in cloth. "My wife," he muttered.

The barkeep weighed it in his palm, feeling brittle strands of hair and something heavier, like bone fragments. He didn’t ask questions.

They descended into the basement, the damp air thick with mildew and something else, something rotten, lingering in the corners. Jack knelt before the sack doll and unwrapped his offering, pressing it into the rough fabric.

The transformation began.

The burlap body shuddered. A wet, sickening sound filled the space as the doll convulsed, bulging and twisting like something trapped inside, desperate to claw its way out. Stitches strained, splitting open as flesh knitted itself over the frame. Color spread, pale and cold.

And then, she was there.

Clara.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and uncertain. She sat up, fingers trembling as they ran over her arms, her face. Recognition dawned, her lips parting, until her gaze settled on Jack.

A scream tore from her throat.

She scrambled back, her nails clawing at the wooden floor as if trying to escape. Her face twisted with horror, and for the first time, the barkeep felt something shift in the room.

Jack just smiled.

"Missed that sound," he murmured.

Clara’s breath came in ragged sobs, her body shuddering as she stared at him, wide-eyed. "No… no, you—"

The timer rang.

In an instant, she was gone. The sack doll slumped forward, burlap and thread once more, its face blank.

The barkeep took a step back. His mouth was dry. "Jesus, what the hell..."

Jack rose, slipping a crumpled stack of bills onto the table. "She never got the chance to scream the first time," he said, adjusting his coat. "I figured she deserved it."

The barkeep hesitated, his gut twisting, but money was money. He took it without another word.

Jack turned, stepping toward the stairs. He paused at the doorway, casting one last glance at the lifeless sack doll.

"I'm sure I'll be back."

Maria gazed across the orange-hued room as the clock ticked over another second. 5:47:53, 47+53 is 100, 100 divides by 5, and she felt the hint of a smile tug at her lips as the clock ticked once again. The evening sun's glare obscured her view, but the numbers were pleasant regardless. Temporarily balanced, she declared silently, then startled as a slam rocked the table.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?” John screamed, and she straightened, lowering her eyes. She racked her brain, struggling to remember which sin she had allegedly committed this time. Was he yelling about how she never cleaned his house again? Or was it that she’d dared to ask what he’d done today? Had he found a new flaw to berate her for? He took a deep breath, and she quickly interjected.

“Of course I am, honey. I’m sorry. And I know you’re right. I will do better for you,” she cooed, her voice a well-rehearsed blend of hollow and honey. Too saccharine and she was laughing at him, too empty and she was insincere. She took care to blink slowly, to slow her breathing. If she spoke too fast, she was argumentative, condescending. It wasn’t really what she said, she’d learned, just how she said it.

“You stupid whore; you’ve always been useless; I wish we had never met; you’ve been insufferable from the beginning,” looped in her mind, joining the background noise of his voice as he began to critique how useless her apology was. She knew, rationally, that he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean it. Come morning, he will have forgotten, and will greet her with bleary eyes and the sweetest “good morning, baby” she’s ever heard. She allowed herself to briefly fall into the warmth of that knowledge, letting its comfort swaddle her the way his arms used to.

The sun’s final light dimmed, and with it, his voice softened; Maria took a bit more solace in knowing that their feud would soon come to an end. He had never been a night owl, and where in their youth she had joked that he was dreadfully boring for never staying up late with her, it was now possibly the only sliver of his personality she adored. The room fell silent, and she took that as her cue.

“Come on now, baby. Let’s get to bed,” she murmured softly, sliding his cane into his hand as she glanced at the clock. 7:02:39. Twenty hours of peace. She frowned briefly at the asymmetry before helping him to bed, tucking him in with a soft kiss. She slipped out the door, and found herself facing a woman in the hall.

“Maria! It’s truly so kind of you to still visit him,” the woman exclaimed, the implications thinly veiled behind her exhausted smile.

“Of course, Dr. Thompson. Til death do we part, right?” she smiled, before setting off down the fluorescent-lined hall.

At least now he’s only like this at sundown.

I found a genie lamp a few weeks ago, sounds fake, I know. It was in some dusty old antique shop down the road, the owner of the shop gave it to me for only 5 dollars and said it was just some dumb prop that was taking up space in his shop. Little did I know my greed would be my downfall upon the wishes I requested.

Wish 1: I did the classic wish of eternal youth and my age reverted back to 25. I spent days in agony as my cells reversed their age and my body went through changes. My skin was tightening, my complexion was becoming clearer, better memory, a more active immune system, years of stress being scraped away, etc. If that wasn't the worst part, I noticed my friends getting older. It was almost like the wish was stealing years of life from my family, friends, and everyone I knew to add to my own.

Wish 2: I wished for 1 Billion dollars in cash directly in my bank account. This one turned out horrible. From various sources like drug trades, illegal gambling, and robberies, I gained 1 Billion dollars, but I was soon to be a wanted criminal. All of these sources of illegal money laundering would be traced back into my name despite me not committing the acts that got me the money.

Wish 3: This was the worst of all. I asked for a wife who is crazy loyal to me and would never leave me. It was nice at first, she was the perfect wife. Cooking, cleaning, etc. But just talking to female co-workers got her riled up, even female family members got her jealous to toxic levels. I've seen people in my life who are female vanish with their bodies showing up on the news beyond recognition.

I'm not a wanted fugitive, younger than I've ever been, and have a crazy wife tracking me down to lock me up in a room, chain me to a wall, and keep me all to herself as if I'm some human pet.

You sit on your couch, the only light coming from the dim glow of the TV. The apartment is quiet—too quiet. You tell yourself it’s just another night alone, just like all the others.

But then, you hear it.

A soft shuffle. A whisper of movement.

You freeze, straining to listen. Maybe it was the neighbors. Maybe it was just the building settling.

But then it happens again. Closer this time.

Your breath catches in your throat as you slowly turn your head. The hallway leading to your bedroom is dark, but something feels… off. The air is heavy, charged with something you can’t explain.

And then you see it.

A shadow. A shape. Just barely visible at the end of the hallway.

Someone is standing there.

You stare, your mind scrambling for an explanation. Did you forget to lock the door? Did someone break in?

You reach for your phone, your fingers trembling. But when you glance back up—

The shadow is gone.

Your heart hammers in your chest. You should leave. You should run. But something in you refuses to move. Instead, you force yourself to stand, your body rigid with fear.

Slowly, cautiously, you step toward the hallway. You flip on the light.

Nothing.

Your bedroom door is open, just as you left it. The apartment is silent.

Maybe you imagined it. Maybe it was just a trick of the light.

You shake your head, exhaling sharply. You’re tired. That’s all. You just need sleep.

You turn back toward the living room—

And that’s when you see it.

A reflection in the TV screen.

A figure. Standing right behind you.

The breath leaves your lungs. You spin around—

And the lights go out.

The weather forecast for Monday called for extreme snow.

This terrified Adam.

--

Adam knew that weather forcing people to stay inside was linked to high rates of spousal abuse. It gave victims no escape from abusive partners that would otherwise be away.

Adam’s wife, Kaitlyn, was an abusive partner.

--

He had never told anyone of Kaitlyn’s abuse. There was a simple reason why.

Men can’t be abused by women.

Intellectually, he knew this wasn’t the case, but “intellectually” doesn’t often matter in the real world.

He had time after time imagined telling his father, and time after time imagined a look of disgust on his father’s face.

“What kind of man lets himself get abused by a woman?”

And so Adam kept the abuse to himself, and lived on miserably with Kaitlyn for the sake of their child.

--

The snow came as predicted.

--

When Adam awoke on Monday morning, he was unnerved to find Kaitlyn already in the kitchen.

He meekly showed his face, afraid of what she might say when she saw him. Instead though, she said nothing, simply walking up and putting a kiss on the side of his mouth.

This was unlike her. It was tender, even. Maybe she was happy she got off work?

Still, Adam was on edge as he sat down to breakfast.

After he finished his first plate, Kaitlyn picked it up, and walked over to the eggs on the stove.

She was…going to get him seconds, unprompted? Like she was a normal, loving wife? He had often fantasized that one day he would wake up, and she would have magically transformed into such a thing, but he couldn’t buy that that had actually happened.

He knew Kaitlyn too well. It had to be an act, and an act that would crack soon (like the eggs that she had cooked weirdly well for a change).

Suddenly, the baby began to cry in its high chair.

Kaitlyn put down Adam’s plate, and walked over.

As he watched his wife, he laughed mirthlessly. “I knew it,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’m not up for ten minutes before you put that kid before me.”

“No, no, Adam, I’ll get your eggs, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t chok-“

But he cut her off with a look. It seemed the manipulation and emotional abuse from Kaitlyn would be coming just as strongly as he had feared.

“Oh yeah sure,” he said sarcastically. “That’s what it was – it wasn’t that you wanted to make me look like a fucking idiot while I sat here waiting for you, it’s that you were worried about the baby choking on mushed peas.”

Kaitlyn began to scramble back to the stove, accidentally jamming her toe loudly into a table leg on the way. She cried out softly in pain - another obvious manipulation attempt.

“I hate that you make me do this,” Adam said, getting to his feet.

Fresh out of college, I landed a job at a small crime-focused newspaper. My first assignment was to find a gripping news story.

When I was about to start working on it at 8 PM, my laptop's word processor malfunctioned. The situation forced me to download an open-source alternative. The first one I found on the search engine.

 In a rush, I didn’t read through the installation details. I clicked “Next” until it was installed.

It was when I opened it was about to type down the news story I found that the app was called "God’s Finger."

I tried to retrieve my recorder and camera from my bag, where I kept the data and photos for the assignment when I realized someone had slit the bottom on the train, stealing my research. They were all gone.

When in frustration, I have the habit to type nonsensical stories. Just to release the stressed out of my head. Then I went to bed.

The next morning, I found my laptop still open, displaying a fictional story I had written about a catastrophic train collision, complete with victims’ names, witness statements, and even a political conspiracy.

When I turned on the TV, I saw the news reported a train accident. It told  exactly the same details I had written.

Every single one.

As the more details emerged, the more they aligned with what I had written.

Was it a coincidence? Or was it the word processing app that brought the nonsensical story I wrote to life?

Testing my theory, I used "God’s Finger" to type another story about an alien spaceship crashing into a major military base.

To my horror, exactly the next day, the news reported exactly that.

Every night since then, I crafted more twisted news—mass murders, disasters, and chaos—reaping fame, fortune, and promotions. Whatever I wrote became reality.

But then, a realization struck: my stories always involved tragedy.

What if I wrote something good? 

So I typed about a booming economy and global peace. A week passed—nothing happened. But when, once again, I wrote about an airplane crash near my apartment, two planes collided within hours.

The app, somehow, only manifested terrible things.

Terrified, I decided to uninstall it.

When I clicked "Uninstall," a pop-up appeared:

"Are you sure you want to uninstall the app?

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

God's Finger is an open-source word office application created by Satan. Its primary purpose is to aids humans who require its services. Some humans enjoy playing God by determining the fate of others. They may kill another person for trivial and whimsical reasons.

This app is free for humans to install and use. However, there is a cost associated with uninstallation.

Fear not, we do not take money from you. We are interested in your life. Every uninstallation will cost you your entire life.

If you understand, please proceed with caution.

(Uninstall) (Cancel)”

The high-pitched screech signified the beginning of the end—an intensifying whistle, like the beckon of Charon, ushering us unto the false fields of Elysium to be harvested like sacred wheat. But just as quickly as the vile siren began, it was drowned out by a great cacophony that puckered and shattered the land, making crimson tides of us men who did not cower from its hateful touch. I stared at my fellow man, his eyes reading as though they were the gates of Hell—"Abandon all hope, ye who enter."

I clutched my rifle and dived into the recesses of my mind, seeking any escape from this dreadful reality. I prayed that I would wake up from a dream just too real. I prayed for the earth to open and swallow us all. I prayed that the Messiah might cure us of the madness. Yet all my supplications seemed only to set me deeper into the grip of terror as the madness continued.

I was dragged from the mire of dreadful thoughts when Jacob, a farmhand from a town three hours away from mine by horseback, grabbed me and yelled, “FOR LIBERTY!”

He clawed his way up and out of our refuge to face the unknowable, and this act lit a spark of determination in me as I saw his unfaltering climb to the top. All around me, other men seemed to share in my awe and aspiration as they grabbed their weapons and clawed at the dirt, seeking purchase in the surrounding mud on their ascension to face their destiny. I could quell it no longer—my blood boiled, fueled by the bravery of my fellow man, their eyes now echoing the words of Jacob.

I climbed like a rabid dog, blinded and numbed to fear, moving with my fellow men—nay, my brothers—as if we were one. As we neared the crest, the cacophony grew louder, our blood grew hotter, the cries grew fiercer until we spilled out of the hole like fire ants from a flood hill, running and scrambling through the false fields of Elysium.

In my hand, the rifle felt cold—its false security discarded, or perhaps it had remained in the hole where true safety was. I felt like I was sinking, not because of the mud that had now mixed with the blood and gore of countless men, but because all the strength I had mustered left me as I saw what was, just moments ago, unknowable. It flew upon us like a fury from the heavens, sending us on the road to perdition, slamming into earth and man alike with no distinction, leaving only the puckered earth and a crimson tide.

I fell to my knees as if to mimic my spirit, and right before me lay the spark that set us off—Jacob, reduced to the bulb of his head, harvested and now a part of the crimson tide.

The clock oozes crimson digits—3:33 AM—as my body turns traitor. Flesh becomes mortar, bones the bars of a cage, imprisoning the squirming thing that was once a soul. The air curdles with the reek of scorched lilacs, funeral-thick.

It arrives on spider-leg whispers.

The ceiling splits like a wound, peeling back to a sky swollen with dead stars. Shadows knot and twist, coalescing into a silhouette that hollows my chest: a child, limbs bent like grief-made origami. Her hair drifts, a halo of smoke. Her eyes—hers—are pits reflecting that night: her small hand slipping from mine, the screech of tires, the crumpled pink coat.

You didn’t scream, she rasps, her voice a serrated hymn. It hums in my teeth, my ribs. You let go.

Guilt gnaws, a maggot in my marrow. The room swells with echoes—sirens, a mother’s wail clawing at the moon. She climbs onto the bed, her touch frost blooming into cracks across my skin. Fingers press my throat, not to choke, but to etch the memory deeper: my cowardice, thick as tar, rooting me to the curb as she stepped into the street.

“Forgive me,” I mouth, voiceless.

Her laugh is shattered crystal. You wear me now. She dissolves into smoke, tendrils slithering into my nostrils, my pores. Ash and gasoline coat my tongue. She festers beneath my ribs, a second heart.

The walls shudder, alive. Shadows birth taloned hands, pressing until my lungs shriek. They chant Mara, Mara in my stolen voice. Her face surges from the dark, inches from mine—lips rot-peeled, eyes voids.

You let go, she croons. Now we cling.

My mind fractures. I’m there again—frozen, useless—as headlights paint her death in stark relief. She parts her jaws: a vortex of static and shattered glass. The room folds into her gullet, swallowing hope whole.

Dawn finds my corpse eyes burst, face a mask of silent howls. The coroner mutters cardiac arrest, but the shadows smirk. They watched me thrash, drowning in the ghost of a girl I condemned.

And tonight, when others lie awake, they’ll hear her too—giggles like splintering ice—as she whispers: Some debts stain forever.

~ 9:16pm, August 6th, 1921 ~

"John, why did you leave?"

Lightening flashed in the sky over the mountain range, where the clouds were revealed lurid, and massive.

"You know why, Margret."

"No, John. I do not know why. I never know with you."

He sighed. "I'm not having this conversation a third time."

Shelly was laying on the nettle-bed to the left chewing a bone still half fleshed. Her snout was dipped pinkish red.

"Oh John, you do frustrate me sometimes."

He stared down at her, blinkless from his good eye. He had nothing to say.

The first curtain of rain swept misty through the pine. Floodlight from the shed down the trail barely reached them.

"Family sticks together, John. You know this. Mama taught us this. What got into you, John? We were having such a good time."

He stared ahead, still unresponsive, a strange look in his eye.

The rain was light and thick at the same time. Margret didn't seem to notice.

She threw Shelly another piece and sighed in resignation. "Why would you leave your loving sister all alone, John? What did she ever do to you?"

His blink was tired. "You know exactly what you did, Margret. What you were doing. You remember the game perfectly fine. Stop lying to yourself."

"I never lie, John. And I'd certainly never lie in front of my darling brother. Least of all, to myself. I'm quite hurt that you'd think so, John."

Wind had started gusting the rain, now heavier, in angled pulses from two directions. The trees swayed chaotic overhead.

Shelly had moved to the next piece, grunting as she tore away the skin, too rapt to care about the cold wet on her coat.

"Just, leave me be, Margret. Please, leave me be."

She laughed. "But John, how can I do that when I'm not finished? You know Papa always taught us to finish what we begin. He was a wise wise man, our Papa was. Wasn't he, John."

She heaved once more. Now through the bone of the right arm, she dropped the bloody saw. Lightening lit up the forest and her hands glistened horridly black-red. Slowly she stood, and leveled herself with John's remaining eye, with a smile.

The iron poker that pierced the right socket held John's weight against the trunk remarkably well. She was a strong woman, Margret was. The spike penetrated the wood inches deep, and her aim had been perfect. But she knew that Papa would be most proud of how she'd removed the torso, with the spinal column still attached to the head.

"Please, Margret. You've done more than enough."

She pretended not to hear, even though nothing was said.

And she picked up the old axe that she'd earlier fetched, and raised it high.

"You really should have stayed, John."

Thunder boomed a quake over the light in the dark.

And she swung.

My name is Vassilios, but my human co-workers know me as Christian. They think I live off caffeine and late nights. The truth is, I drink something much richer.

I don’t eat, of course, but I keep a lunch in the office fridge. It’s a simple trick—an untouched Tupperware container of soup, something old and forgotten. It reassures them, makes me seem normal.

But he arrived last Monday. The new hire. Evan. A man obsessed with rules, routine, and ownership. He labelled everything.

"DO NOT TOUCH – EVAN’S CHILI."

That little note taunted me all week. Not because I wanted his food—I couldn’t stomach it if I tried. But because it meant he was watching. He’d count servings, monitor leftovers, track every move in the breakroom. People like him were dangerous to me.

By Wednesday, the others were already tired of him. He corrected people in meetings, pushed for unnecessary procedural changes, and left passive-aggressive Slack messages. He was one of those guys, the kind who makes everyone miserable under the guise of efficiency.

By Friday, I had enough.

After work, I invited him for a beer. The others cheered when I did it—Evan needed to loosen up, and I had a reputation for bringing people out of their shell. I even meant it, in a way. Despite everything, I still liked my human coworkers—friends, even. And if I could soften Evan’s edges, maybe he’d stop making their lives miserable.

So I took him to my usual spot. A quiet bar, tucked away downtown.

Inside, the air smelled of cloves and burnt orange. The walls were a deep burgundy, the lighting low, the patrons well-dressed. Evan hesitated at the entrance.

"This place is kinda upscale for just a beer, isn’t it?"

I smiled. "First round’s on me."

The bartender nodded at me knowingly and poured two drinks—mine a deep red, thick as wine. Evan took a sip of his beer, relaxing for the first time all week.

That’s when they arrived.

Three of them, old friends—pale, sharp-eyed, hungry. One of them, Marco, slapped me on the back.

"Didn’t expect to see you here, man. Thought you were staying clean?"

Evan looked between us, confused. "Clean?"

I exhaled. It had been a long week. A long few months, really. I had been good, careful, controlled. But Evan was a problem—one I could remove, one I could make into something useful.

I draped an arm over his shoulder. "You know, Evan, you were right about the fridge. People do take what isn’t theirs."

His beer froze halfway to his lips. "What?"

I leaned in, just close enough that he could see my teeth when I smiled. "But some of us prefer something fresher."

Marco chuckled.

The bar doors locked behind us.

Evan never made it to work on Monday. His chili sat untouched in the fridge. Nobody complained.

at midnight on 0/0, my mother took my brother from his bed.

When he was younger, he was so small she could carry him.

As he grew, he would struggle. But eventually, he would be sitting in bed waiting; waiting to be taken. Always a look of resigned trepidation in the dim tungsten of his bedside light.

I would wake as the winter sun crept through the curtains to see my brother back in his bed. I never heard him come in.

He would be pale and quiet the following day. Other than that, it was as though the events of the previous evening had never happened.

This happened for as long as I can recall. It was our normal.

Normal is only what you know.

I didn’t know where he went, and I learned not to ask pretty much as soon as I learned to speak.

I learned not to ask why I didn’t get to go, too.

We lived on an isolated patch of land, our closest neighbor separated by a thick line of forest. 20 miles from the nearest gas station. 50 from the nearest school.

Because of this, we only attended school once a week, with home assignments and online learning the other four days.

It wasn’t until I was eleven, and my brother was a day off thirteen, that I resolved to find out where he went every New Year’s Day.

This year, I was too preoccupied with my plans to enjoy the Solstice feast. My parents too preoccupied to notice as we celebrated the coming of the 13th Year PM.

That night, I silently slipped out of bed and through the window of our bedroom. I followed just far enough behind my mother and brother so as not to be seen, as they walked silently into the forest.

I followed for at least a mile, thinking I’d be caught, when they stopped suddenly at a small, windowless hut nestled in a hidden clearing.

They went in for what felt like hours which passed with only the sounds of the woods. I was scared. I didn’t dare go any closer, but I knew getting lost in the forest was a death sentence. I froze.

Just as the sun began to rise, my mother emerged from the hut.

My brother didn’t.

By this time I was so cold and scared, I didn’t dare enter the hut. I watched from behind a tree as my mother went back towards our land. I followed, trying not to let my shivering give me away.

I crawled back through the window and into my bed as quietly as I could.

I was just drifting into an exhausted sleep when my mother came to wake us as she usually did.

“Happy New Year my cherubs, and Happy Birthday to my precious Jack!” She chimed sunnily, opening the curtains.

Light poured in as my brother sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Bear.”

I was nicknamed “Bear” because of my pajamas I was wearing upon arrival.

I wore them under my uniform to stay warm, but it didn't stop the name calling.

Alex, the closest person I had to a friend, pressed his face against the bars of my cage. “I swiped them from the head nurse,” he muttered, sliding a small baggie of pills through the bars.

“Take two, and lie on your back.”

He groaned, thick brown hair falling in his eyes. “You need to make a scene, dude.”

That's what I did. After lights out, I popped two pills. I thought they wouldn’t work at first, but when I tried to get up, my body wouldn’t… move.

When I started choking up pink froth, willing myself to scream, to cry for help, guards were already grabbing me, hauling me out of my cell. “Jesus fuck, Bear! What have you done to yourself?!”

Sniper, one of the guards I was friendly with, pinned my arms down. I could just make out Alex watching, his eyes wide.

Alyssa winked at me, her smile hopeful.

Roman was already backing into his cell.

I hoped my distraction was good enough.

My body was convulsing by the time I was slammed onto a metal gurney, my jerking wrists tied down.

Masked faces floated around me, their voices frantic. Something plastic was plunged down my throat, a needle slicing into my arm. The passage of time was… weird. I was pretty sure I’d passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was staring wide-eyed at clinical white ceiling tiles.

I was no longer strapped down. I sat up, blinking rapidly.

The small white room was familiar. I recognized the plastic chair I was forced onto for weekly therapy sessions.

I was in the nurse’s office.

Excitement wriggled its way up my throat.

I’d made it.

Swinging my legs, I slipped off the bed, my gaze glued to the alarm.

If I pulled it, the emergency protocol would be triggered, and every cell would open.

Starting toward it, I stopped. I was standing in something.

Blood.

It was wet and red, stretching across the floor.

I found the source—a bed just like mine. There was a body still strapped to it, and I knew her. Evangeline.

I knew her thick blonde curls, now matted and dyed red, scarlet strands glued to her face. Her head looked… wrong. The girl’s eyes were wide, her skull sawn open, pinkish brain matter glistening under the clinical white light.

When the girl blinked, I stumbled back, a cry ripping from my throat.

Evangeline surprised me with a giggle.

“So beautiful,” she whispered, slowly raising her blood stained hands. “She’s so… beautiful. Oh, my goodness! Look at her hands! So smooth! So moisturized!”

“Indeed, Mrs. Playwright.”

The gruff voice startled me.

Sniper grabbed my face, cradling my cheeks, his breath heavy against my skin.

“Green eyes, Bear,” he chuckled, stroking my cheek. “I do love me some greeeeeeen eyes.”

"Isn't this the prettiest rose ever? I plucked it out just for you!", my eyes twinkling with happiness. The six-year old me was very satisfied that she had got something beautiful for her mother, whom she adored so much.

My father wasn't in the picture, and well, my mother never wanted to be in the picture, but she had no choice. But she was, and always has been my best friend. Even if the only things she keeps telling me is how I ruined her life, how I should die, how she'd be better off without me.

A tight slap adorned my fluffy cheeks. "I grew that rose with such care. But you buffoon, you had to ruin everything!" She stormed off the rose lying crumpled where Mommy had previously been standing.

Growing up, I tried everything I could to make her happy, to make her like me. I don't know why she despised me so much. But I really wanted her to love me.

"Mommy, mommy, look, I got this brooch for you. It will look stunning on your green dress! All your friends are going to love it!", my 14-year-old self stood with her palm out, waiting for Mommy to take the brooch. "So that's why my money has been missing! You wretched girl, for how long have you been stealing my money?" "But Mommy, I got the money when I babysat the neighbour's kids." "You think I'm a fool? You think I won't find out if you steal my money?" She took the brooch and hurled it at the wall, shattering it in the process. She then dragged me by my hair and threw me down the basement stairs, and I spent the rest of the night there.

You might think that I might have turned into a bitter human. But no. I have always loved my mother, and all I have ever wanted was her happiness. It's always been a bummer that nothing that I do makes her happy. But I finally cracked the code!

It's my 21st birthday today, I had been waiting for my mother to come back home. I had a gift for her. I was sure that this time she would most certainly love it! She finally came back home drunk.

"Mommy, mommy, I have a gift for you!" I took out the knife, with a red bow neatly tied on it. "What is it? What do I do with a knife? Don't annoy me and let me slee..."

The first stab was a bit rough. But the follow-ups were smooth like butter. As the knife kept going in and out of Mommy's stomach, the house was filled with wet squelches and gargled noises that she made, before eventually slumping down on the floor.

Mommy must be happy now! All she had ever told me was how she'd be better off without me, so finally, I gave her freedom from me. Could there have been a better gift than this?

"Order... order... please maintain silence," the judge commanded as he sentenced my friend Robert to life imprisonment for the murder of his neighbor, Jacob.

Tears streamed down Robert's face as he desperately pleaded, "No, sir, I didn't do it... please... you know I'm innocent. Why are you doing this to me?"

The judge looked at him sternly and retorted, "What?"

"I swear, it's not me..." Robert's voice quivered.

With a dismissive tone, the judge responded, "Yes, we know it's you. Shut up, you criminal. It's astonishing how easily individuals like you deny their guilt. You're an idiot."

"Carla, make sure this fool is hanged until he's completely dead. And I expect the same from the one who carries out the execution," the judge ordered Carla, his frustration palpable.

"Sir, the hanging mechanism is jammed. The lever isn't functioning," Carla informed him.

"No worries. Just hang him by the fan. We have one in the adjacent room. He's getting hanged one way or another," the judge declared nonchalantly.

Applauds Applauds

The crowd applauded the judge's stern determination. "Thank you, my people. I stand for the truth. It's my duty to serve justice until my last breath, and I'll always uphold that responsibility," the judge asserted, his words eliciting admiration.

Interrupting, I pleaded, "Sir, please allow me to accompany Robert to his final moments. Please..."

The judge hesitated, then agreed, "Alright. Carla, take this person with you. He deserves the chance to say his final goodbye to his dear friend and witness the consequences of criminal actions. Maybe it'll deter him from ever committing a crime."

"Understood, sir," Carla acknowledged.

Tears poured from Robert's eyes, his cries reverberating in the room...

Abruptly, he yelled, "You imbecile, asshole..." his voice choked with emotions.

The hangman led Robert towards the adjacent room, where an ordinary setup awaited them: a fan and two chairs placed near the door.

With professional precision, the hangman secured the rope to the fan and positioned Robert on the chair. Just as the hangman was about to remove the chair, Robert's tearful voice pierced the air, "You moron, I should've never befriended you. My mother warned me against it, but I dismissed her concerns. She told me about your multiple personality disorder, but I brushed it aside. Idiot, you're the hangman, the judge, Carla – all rolled into one. You even killed Jacob."

The hangman proceeded to take away the chair, and Robert's life was extinguished moments later...

Little did I know, he had lost his grip on sanity. He couldn't see me, the hangman, the judge, or Carla. In the mirror placed beneath the ventilation, my reflection was the sole presence; the others had already left.

Smitha was a new mom. Her husband, Kumar, had moved them into an eerie old apartment in Bandra City. Kumar didn’t care much about the place—it fit his budget and was close to his office. But for Smitha, something about it felt unsettling. Still, she chose to stay positive, even as her postpartum struggles took a toll on her.

There were days when she cried for no reason, feeling lost and exhausted. One evening, she became so distracted that she burned the food. Suddenly, the sound of her baby crying jolted her. Panicked, she rushed to check on him—only to find him sound asleep.

Too drained to dwell on it, she brushed off the incident and continued with her chores. But that night, she heard the crying again. This time, her son was sleeping right next to her. She tried waking her husband, but he was in a deep sleep.

Skeptical and scared, she decided to check. As she stepped into the hall, the sound gradually faded. Sleepiness weighed on her, and she convinced herself it must be a neighbor’s child.

The next morning, she asked the neighbors about the crying. They exchanged glances before one of them replied, "No one here has a baby."

Later that day, her neighbor Preeti offered her some biryani. Smitha devoured it—it was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. The meat was incredibly soft and succulent. She thanked Preeti, savoring the taste.

As night fell, the wailing returned. This time, she followed the sound. It led her down a dimly lit passage. What she saw made her blood run cold.

Her neighbors were gathered in a circle, performing a ritual. They drank blood from a bowl as their wrinkled faces twisted and transformed into youthful ones. Then, she saw them slicing meat—the same kind she had eaten earlier.

Horrified, she ran back home to warn Kumar, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the door creaked open.

Kumar stood there, wiping something red from his lips. His eyes met hers. "You're awake?" he asked casually.

Heart pounding, Smitha quickly pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, she found an envelope slipped under the door. With trembling hands, she opened it.

"Run. Take your baby and leave. You are not safe. Do not trust your husband. Do not trust anyone. What you ate yesterday… was the remains of a baby."

Her stomach twisted in horror. As she turned around, her body froze.

Kumar stood behind her, an eerie grin on his face. In his hand, an axe gleamed under the dim light.

Thump.

The door slammed shut.

I was outside late at night having a smoke on the deck. There were no stars in the sky, but the street lamps were aglow, filling the black night with a comfortable warmth. There was a train going through the coulee past the greenbelt behind the house, chugging along rhythmically. It was a beautiful winter night and I was free from work, well-fed, and relaxing before bed. Not a care in the world as I sat on the deck, puffing away and taking it all in.

Except...

Something was out of place. A streetlamp. I could see it through the trees, but that was what was out of place about it. As I pictured the road, the location didn't make sense. It was coming from an uninhabited green belt, no road going into it. The height of it was also weird. It was the same height as the other two lamps I could see, but way further away. Another thing that made me aware of it was that I couldn't see a pole for the light. Granted, I didn't have the best view, but it looked like the light was floating in the air, peeking out from behind the trees like it was hiding. I moved around on the deck to get a clearer view of it.

As it came into view, I still couldn't see a pole, but it didn't matter.

Gazing into the Light made everything else fade away. The area around the Light morphed and vanished into black emptiness, and it spread further into the corners of my vision. I wanted to look away, but it was like I was hypnotized, a deer in the headlights, and complete tunnel vision around the light overcame me. Even the sound of the train began to change, from a smooth chug-chug-chug, to a frantic panting, almost like a dog. It got deeper and deeper, and the Light got brighter and brighter, until it was impossible to ignore anymore-

There were no train tracks going through the coulee behind my house. There never was a train.

Shocked and alerted out my trance, I quickly moved out of the gaze of the light, hiding it back amongst the trees, when suddenly

It lunged.