Jared always felt something was wrong with his body. His joints creaked unnaturally, his muscles ached inexplicably, and his skin sometimes seemed to shift over his bones, like it didn’t quite belong. No doctor could provide answers, so he learned to live with the discomfort—until the night it became unbearable.

It began as an itch deep beneath his skin, like ants crawling through his veins. Scratching only made it worse. The sensation grew into a rhythmic pulsing, as if something inside him was trying to break free. In the mirror, his reflection looked…off. His features were sharper, more angular. His eyes seemed too dark, as though shadows lurked behind them.

Panicked, he tore off his shirt. His chest was riddled with faint lines that formed strange patterns, like scars that shouldn’t have been there. He touched one, and it gave slightly under his fingers. A strange, hollow sensation followed, and the line seemed to ripple, as though his skin were just a thin cover over something much larger.

Then came the voice, deep and resonant, speaking words that felt like vibrations in his skull. “You’ve served well, Jared, but your purpose is greater than you know.”

His body convulsed, his muscles spasming in painful, uncontrollable bursts. His arms twisted at odd angles, joints popping as though his limbs were being rearranged. He fell to the floor, unable to resist the unseen force guiding him. His skin stretched and shifted, the lines on his chest splitting open—not with blood, but with smooth, seamless movements, revealing faint glimmers of metallic structures beneath.

Jared tried to scream, but his voice failed him. He could only watch in horror as his hands moved on their own, flexing and twisting unnaturally. His reflection in the mirror no longer matched what he felt. The face staring back wasn’t his; it was something sculpted, unfamiliar.

His body rose to its feet, no longer his own. “Your time as Jared is over,” the voice said, a cold finality in its tone. “You are the vessel, and the vessel must evolve.”

The seams on his body glowed faintly, and his skin rippled again. The reflection in the mirror smiled, but it wasn’t Jared smiling. It was something else entirely, something ancient and calculating.

Jared’s consciousness faded into the background as his body turned, guided by the will of the Collector, to seek another vessel for its unending work.

It was just yesterday that I was dragging her body through the garden we planted together last spring.

I can remember the day we planted that garden like it was yesterday. It started with a trip to the hardware store, where an earth shattering debate between tulips and sunflowers began. I’ve always liked tulips because of their simplistic nature and subtle beauty. She wanted the sunflowers because they stood tall over all the others, and soaked up every last ounce of sunlight. Needless to say, we went with the sunflowers because even the tulips pale in comparison to the beauty she brought to my life.

I plan to bury her underneath the sunflowers’ shadow.

Once the seeds were purchased, extensive research began to ensure we tilled the earth to perfection and fed the seeds exact portions of water. Then, once we became experts, we began to mold the seeds new home.

I can remember the smile on her face as we dropped them in. Such excitement had never beamed from her before. She stated that we were failures if they didn’t grow as tall as her, to which I chuckled.

Once the seeds were buried and the soil was soaked, we sat back to admire our work.

Our creation.

Our garden.

If only she could see how tall those tall those sunflowers stand now with daddy’s little angel buried beneath their roots.

[Darkness. A faint metallic echo, distant and hollow. Silence presses down like a weight. Sighs, soft and indistinct, break the void. A woman’s voice stirs.]

SOPHIA: (murmurs) Where? (Pauses) No... who? (A long silence) Here?

MAN: (brightly, from the dark) Ah, there she is. Awake at last.

SOPHIA: (startled, sharply) Who’s there?

MAN: Your admirer. Your shadow. Your faithful wisp of a man.

SOPHIA: (flatly) You.

MAN: Me. (Pause) And you, my dear, at last contained. A box, yes. Spacious, yet claustrophobic. Grand, yet banal. Fitting, don’t you think?

SOPHIA: (dryly) Perfect.

MAN: (with glee) I knew you’d appreciate the poetry of it. Just us. Together. At last.

SOPHIA: (deadpan) A romance of tin walls.

MAN: And no distractions! No prying eyes, no cruel, indifferent world to separate us.

SOPHIA: (distantly) And no windows. (Pause) Or doors.

MAN: Precisely. Isn’t it divine?

[The box shudders violently. A metallic groan fills the air. Sophia shifts, fumbling in the dark. A loud clang resounds. The walls fall away with sudden finality.]

[A stage. Stark lighting. Props scattered in absurd disarray: a ladder leading nowhere, a single shoe on a pedestal, a clock without hands. Rows of mannequins in stiff postures fill the audience, their faces blank and accusing. Silence returns.]

MAN: (softly, nervously) This... isn’t quite what I planned.

SOPHIA: (blinking into the light) No.

[A booming voice fills the air.]

VOICE: ACT ONE: LOVE AND OTHER CONTAINERS.

MAN: (flustered) No, no, this isn’t—

[The mannequins swivel their heads toward him, movements slow, deliberate. A faint, mechanical applause begins. It grows louder, absurdly so.]

SOPHIA: (calmly) They like you.

MAN: (desperate) Stop.

VOICE: ACT TWO: THE MAN FALLS.

[Without warning, the floor beneath the man disappears. He plummets, screaming, into an unseen abyss. The applause halts abruptly. Silence.]

SOPHIA: (looking down) Gone.

[The spotlight turns to her. She squints, shielding her face. The mannequins rise in unison, stiff and jerky, bowing toward her.]

VOICE: ACT THREE: SHE REMAINS.

[A long pause. Sophia stands motionless. The mannequins freeze mid-bow. Time seems to stop. Then, faintly, a slow clap begins, distant and echoing, as if from nowhere and everywhere.]

SOPHIA: (to no one, or perhaps herself) And now?

[No response. She looks up into the blinding light, her face unreadable. Slowly, she bows. The curtain falls.]

[End.]

Ellie sat up in bed, her eyes fixed on the closet door. It was open again, just a crack, enough for the darkness to spill out. She wanted to call for her parents, but she knew better. She’d tried before.

The last time, her father had barely looked up from his phone. “Ellie, for crying out loud, it’s a closet. Go to bed.”

Her mother hadn’t even turned away from the TV. “You’re fine. It’s your imagination. Big girls don’t cry about closets.”

They’d said it like that, too, in that tone that meant don’t bother us with this again. They’d turned back to their screens, the blue light reflecting in their glasses. Ellie had stood there in the doorway for a moment, waiting for them to notice, to care, before slinking back to her room.

Now she was alone again. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, gripping it tight. The closet door creaked, slow and deliberate. She watched as the blackness inside seemed to move, like it was alive, reaching out for her. Her heart thumped in her chest, fast and hollow.

“Ellie,” came the voice from the closet. Low and gravelly, like stones grinding together. “Ellie.”

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She couldn’t call for her parents again. They wouldn’t come. They never came.

The closet door opened wider, and something stepped out. It wasn’t a person, not really. Its shape was wrong—too tall, too thin, its limbs bending at strange angles. Its face was a blur of shifting features, never settling into anything solid. But its eyes—those were sharp. Bright red and fixed on her.

“Ellie,” it said again, its voice almost soft now. “You called for them. They didn’t come.”

She nodded, too scared to speak. The creature moved closer, crouching beside her bed. Its smile was wide and full of teeth.

“They don’t listen, do they?”

“No,” Ellie whispered, her voice trembling.

The thing chuckled. “But I’ll listen.”

She didn’t know why, but she believed it. Maybe it was the way it looked at her, like she mattered. Like it cared.

“Can you make them listen?” she asked, her voice small.

The creature’s grin widened. “Oh, yes.”

The next morning, the house was eerily quiet. Ellie sat at the kitchen table, eating cereal, her legs swinging idly. Her parents’ phones sat on the counter, untouched, screens dark. The closet door upstairs stood wide open, the darkness inside deeper than ever.

Smiling at your co-workers, you proudly announce, “as of today, we’re one-hundred percent paperless!  Meeting the pledge we made along with dozens of other companies, and all thanks to the funding from an anonymous donor.  There’s not a scrap of paper left in the entire city!”

You pause for applause.

“Furthermore, we’ll sav-” there’s an echoing boom and the building shakes.  As one, you turn to see smoke billowing against the second­-floor windows, followed by a flock of mourning doves.  You rush to the window with everyone else.  At first, it looks like your usual San Francisco traffic, then there’s an almost imperceptible thrumming.  People begin running in terror down the street as a swarm of insectoids come into view.  Ten limbs covered in a bright-yellow, horse-sized carapace with claws that slice through people with ease.  You shudder away from the gore.

Melanie calls out, “i-it’s all over the internet, they’re a-aliens from… outer-space.  A-and the government’s telling everyone to barricade themselves indoors.  S-some people say the military’s already been overrun.”  It’s hard to believe, but it only takes another glimpse of the carnage outside to convince you.

Glass shatters, and you all jump back as an alien explodes through the window.  It holds out its pincers in an obscene hug and begins dicing up your colleagues.  You jolt into action, dashing out of the room.  You take the fire escape to the street.  Luckily, you live nearby, so it’s a quick jog home.  If you can make it there alive.  Metal crunches as a platoon of those monsters continue stomping across cars.  You risk looking down the street behind them; it’s clear.  You quietly pick your way through crimson asphalt and viscera, to reach your condo.  You should be safe here.  It has an aftermarket, titanium lock, metal shutters on the windows, and your gun collection.  You lock the door and turn on the news, it flashes on for a second before the electricity cuts out.  

You hole up for the day.  When darkness falls, it’s eerily quiet.  The stillness lulls you to sleep.  It’s just past midnight when you’re startled awake by a crash.  You grab your guns and rush out of the bedroom to see an insectoid inside yourcondo.  It slowly stalks forward, so you level your shotgun at the hideous killer and give it both barrels.  It doesn’t flinch.  You fumbling with your holster, you pull out your handgun and shout, “stop! Or I-I’ll shoot.”

It chitters in response and you empty the clip, but fail to crack its exoskeleton.  You run towards the living room.  You need a weapon to protect yourself from this… degenerate.  You trip and stumble into the couch.  

Through bleary eyes, you rummage through the coffee-table for anything to defend yourself with.  It chatters curiously, and you spin around to make your last stand.  You wildly bludgeon it and screeches with pain, before scampering off.  You look down to see the weapon that will save humanity.  

It’s a rolled-up newspaper.

It arrived the morning after the wedding, nestled in a box wrapped in faded parchment paper. No sender, no card. Just a small, delicate antique vase, etched with strange, angular designs. “Who would send this?” Amanda wondered aloud, holding it up to the light. Her husband, Mark, shrugged, smiling. “Probably some distant relative trying to seem thoughtful.”

They placed it on the mantel in their cozy new home, a 19th-century fixer-upper they had fallen in love with. It seemed like a good fit—a touch of charm for their quaint living room.

That night, Amanda awoke to a faint sound. A soft whisper, so low it could have been the wind. But the windows were closed. She nudged Mark. “Do you hear that?” He groaned, half-asleep. “It’s nothing.”

The next day, the air in the house felt heavier, as if the walls were pressing inward. Amanda couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She glanced at the vase, and for a moment, she swore the etchings had shifted. When Mark returned from work, she told him about it, but he laughed. “You’re just stressed from unpacking.”

That night, the whispers returned, louder this time. Amanda sat up, her heart pounding. The voice was low, guttural, speaking words she didn’t understand. She crept into the living room, where the vase now seemed to pulse faintly in the dim moonlight. As she leaned closer, a chill ran down her spine. Inside the vase, something stirred.

Mark found her the next morning, pale and trembling, clutching her knees. “There’s something in the vase,” she whispered. He dismissed it as a bad dream, but by evening, he couldn’t deny the oppressive atmosphere. Objects moved when they weren’t looking. Shadows danced on the walls without a source.

Then, the demands began.

A deep voice resonated from the vase, freezing the air around them. “Feed me,” it growled. “Or you will pay the price.”

At first, they ignored it. But when Amanda’s prized cat disappeared, leaving only a smear of blood on the floor, they knew it wasn’t a bluff. The next night, Mark dropped a raw steak into the vase, but it wasn’t enough. The whispers turned to screams.

“You must sacrifice what you love most.”

Desperate, they debated. The tension between them grew unbearable. One night, Amanda awoke to find Mark standing over her with a knife, tears streaming down his face. “It’s you or me,” he choked out.

Before he could strike, the vase erupted, a black tendril lashing out to drag him inside. His screams echoed as Amanda watched, frozen in horror.

The vase now sits silent on the mantel, but Amanda knows it’s only waiting—for the next gift.

Sophia awoke to an unfamiliar sensation: cold air against her bare skin, the towering height of her pillow like a mountainside beneath her. Blinking rapidly, she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Her bedroom was grotesquely oversized—the nightstand loomed like a skyscraper, her lamp now a metallic behemoth casting shadows that seemed alive.

She stumbled to her feet, her legs trembling under her minuscule weight. Her body, once average, now felt frail and alien, barely the size of her own thumb. Heart pounding, she screamed, but the sound barely carried beyond her lips. The enormity of her situation settled over her like a suffocating fog. How had this happened? Was she dreaming?

A low rumble broke the silence, growing louder. Her cat, Mr. Whiskers, leapt onto the bed, his massive form shaking the mattress like an earthquake. Sophia froze, her tiny frame dwarfed by his immense paws. His eyes, once soft and loving, now glinted with primal curiosity. To him, she was no longer his owner but a twitching morsel.

“Mr. Whiskers, no!” she cried, dodging as his paw swiped dangerously close. His claws grazed the sheets, leaving deep gashes. Sophia scrambled to the edge of the bed, leaping off in desperation. She hit the floor hard but uninjured—her reduced weight spared her from harm.

Panting, she hid under the bed, her mind racing. She needed help, but how could she reach the phone, the door, anyone? Above her, Mr. Whiskers prowled, his shadow slipping through the gap between the bed and the floor. His tail flicked menacingly, sending gusts of air through the dim space.

Sophia darted toward the corner of the room, where a forgotten vent cover lay slightly ajar. Squeezing through the narrow gap, she found herself in the labyrinthine ductwork of her home. The darkness was oppressive, the metallic walls amplifying every sound—the skittering of unseen insects, the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Something moved in the shadows ahead. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but then she saw them: dozens of spiders, their glossy eyes reflecting faint light. They were massive to her, each the size of a dog, their legs clicking against the metal as they advanced.

Sophia ran, her tiny feet pounding against the cold steel. She could hear the spiders behind her, their pace quickening, their hunger palpable. A sticky strand of web shot past her, narrowly missing her leg. She screamed, tripping over a rivet and landing hard.

The spiders closed in, their mandibles twitching with anticipation. But before they could reach her, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the vent. A monstrous rat emerged, its fur matted and its yellowed teeth glistening. The spiders scattered, but Sophia’s relief was short-lived. The rat’s beady eyes locked onto her, and it lunged.

She barely escaped, crawling desperately through the ducts until she tumbled out into the kitchen. Bruised and terrified, she clung to the edge of a table leg, staring up at her colossal home. The horrors of her world now seemed infinite, and she was helplessly small within it.

For Sophia, there was no waking from this nightmare.

“Do you promise you won’t check until I ask you to?” I asked Isaac, my arm entwined with his as I guided him into our bedroom.

This was our first Valentine’s Day together, as a couple. My favourite holiday. You see, men are too often expected to bare the burden of holiday expenses. The carnage of trying to find a bouquet of perfect crimson roses last minute. All for a partner who might not even stay with them after a disappointing celebration. How tragic.

I liked to spoil my boyfriends.

“I promise I won’t look baby, but can you at least give me some idea? You know how surprises stress me out.” My boyfriend said, made vulnerable by the midnight black eye mask shutting off his sight.

“No can do sweetheart. Sorry, but I think this is well worth the wait.” I returned, gently squeezing his hand and smiling wide even though he couldn’t see. I knew what he liked, and I knew just what would surprise him.

A pair of titanium earrings sat on the bed, surrounded by an array of petals eagerly waiting for him to remove his blindfold.

“Okay, you can take it off. Surprise!”

The look of shock on his face was the funniest thing. He dove onto the bed attempting to examine the tiny earrings, scrabbling around while also looking back at me frantically. Isaac knew those earrings well.

“How did you even get these? I thought no one would find out about her. Do you even know what she’s capable of?” He asked, panic practically dripping from his mouth.

I scoffed. “Relax. We’re breaking up, anyway so I don’t care about her. Happy Valentine’s Day, cheat-“

Cut off by the grating sound of nails on chalkboard, I turned to face the window. I don’t know if anyone could describe the apparition I saw without feeling as deeply ill as I do now.

It had wan, stretched skin and a vortex of a face. A gummy, leaking cave of a mouth. And it was making eye contact with me, if you could even call those chasms of darkness eyes. It said something, in a guttural moist tone and I didn’t - couldn’t understand. Isaac did. He turned to me, grim determination etched into his expression.

“She knows what you look like now. I’m not cheating on you. I told you there was a reason I didn’t talk about my ex.” I gasped. “This thing killed your-“

“No.” He interrupted. “Shelley is my ex girlfriend. And she didn’t take the breakup very well.”

It looked at me, and smiled. Or grimaced. The lack of humanity made it difficult to tell, really. The window was sweating her vile green saliva, and the smell of tar seeping through nauseated me. This was going to be a memorable Valentine’s Day for both of us, but not in the way I expected.

My sister always forced me to visit my twin nephews in their birthday, and I needed to pretend that it was good to be there. For a single man with no kids like me, being at kids parties is like being at high school again: just lonely. Everyone talks about how their kids are naughty, but they're still the best thing that ever happened in their meaningless lives. It's awful to listen to this loop of words the entire day.

There were a pile of colorful gifts, but the girls and boys didn't give a fuck about anything, they were too busy playing in their expensive phones.

The only child who was not playing was Christopher, one of the twins. His brother, Caleb, was happy and vivid, running around the house with other kids, while Christopher was alone in the porch talking to himself.

"Why are you not playing with the other kids?", I asked.

"They don't like me."

"Yeah, I know how you feel, kid. Come with me, let all of those idiots alone.", He smiled and held my hand.

I don't feel like a classic uncle, I never gave any birthday gifts to them, actually I don't like kids, but I saw myself in him at that moment. He told me about how it was fun in school, and all of that stuff kids talk about, while he dragged me all over the house, showing me his favorite toys.

Caleb walked past us with half a dozen children and stuck his tongue out at Christopher, who started to cry.

"Why my brother hate me?" He asked me, with a wet voice.

"Sometimes people can be rude to us, but you're a nice boy, don't mind that." I didn't know why I said that, but he seemed so fragile and so childish at that moment...

At the end of the party, I was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, when I heard a child screaming.

Christopher was locked in the bathroom... A group of parents were trying to open the door, while I looked for Caleb, I knew he had done it.

At the yard, I saw him. He was burying the key of the bathroom.

"Why are you doing this?", I questioned.

"That boy isn't my brother, he's a freak."

I heard a lot of other screams, Caleb and I ran over there, while Christopher was alone with all the mutilated bodies of the parents and a broken door.

Ty Kaliso’s Log Entry 1 It's been 7 weeks, 2 days since we arrived on this island and nine weeks, 3 days since the Nautilus sunk. Arthur is not doing well. He says I should start a log, you know just in case we can't get out of here in time, there needs to be some sort of a record. Somebody needs to know what happened, actually I'm not sure I know what happened.

On November 7, 2023, we departed from Lae One of the ports in New Guinea. We were only supposed to be out on the water for about 11 days. Instead we spent 2 months on the water and we still sank. When we departed Lae, the conditions on the water were pretty good, very low wind, clear visibility, almost nothing could have gone wrong except for mechanical failure. The Nautilus had about 27 people on it counting Arthur and I.

We were about 6 days out to sea when a storm struck, nothing out of the ordinary, just a normal ocean storm. We lost a few dozen shipping containers. Still, normal happens all the time and that's why you never got that Alexa you ordered. What was unusual though was the way the wind sounded. Rather than sounding like something howling, like it usually does, it sounded more like a scream, a pain-filled terrifying scream. But the thing that was most out of the ordinary was the sound of metal being pulled apart and the alarms that went off in the engine room, signaling there was a fire flood and electrical failure all at once when there was nothing.

The storm didn't last long and it did minimal damage, nothing to write home about. The most extensive damage was to some of the straps that snapped allowing the containers to fall overboard into the sea.

About one day after the storm, the first engineer got to the engine room after the alarms began hallucinating. We all thought it was dehydration until it started to spread. Over a dozen people began hallucinating. We started circling an island to stay out at sea until we figured out what was going on.

After a couple of days, maybe 3 to 4, I don't know exactly how many, people began to lose control of themselves.They started to attack people like a rabid dog. And soon enough, all but four, maybe 6 people were still, alive? Uninfected? I'm not even sure what to call it. I'm not sure if they were alive or dead but I know they are NOT friends anymore.

The first few hours of people losing control was manageable. We were able to keep them contained in the Medical Bay or in their rooms but soon they started, screeching like the wind during the storm. Then the power cut out and they started breaking free of the Medical Bay and opening the doors to the rooms holding the others. Like some kind of a hive mind.

After about five days, maybe six, the entire crew had been infected and lost control.

Arthur began to hallucinate when he said “The Nautilus is powered by a nuclear reactor. Those don't just die, they might have cut the power to the ship by tearing the wires. The reactor is still running; we might be able to contact the Coast Guard if we can restore power.” I agreed, “I’ll follow you.”

So the two of us began making our way to the Engine Room. We decided the best way to get to the Engine Room was to go up on the deck, go to the bow drop down to the lower decks, and then to the engine room.

I said to myself, “For people reading this journal, if it's ever found, it might not make a lot of sense going from the back of the ship, to the front and back to the back rather than just going straight down. There were a lot of them around the engine room this was the safest way.

      Something kind of ironic about this whole situation is a lot of the equipment the ship had in its containers were medical equipment and things to make medicine.

I mentioned. “Shame we couldn't break them open”

         We didn't have many problems getting to the Engine Room this way, it just took some more time. But when we got to the Engine Room we realized the backup generators were still functional and the Reactor Room had somehow run out of power. The nuclear reactor that was constructed less than a year ago had completely run out of power. 

        That didn't really matter to us though because the backup generators were functional and that would give us enough power to make a distress call. Arthur and I got into a little bit of an argument about it. He was convinced it was the best course of action to call the Coast Guard.

I said, “Maybe getting more people here isn't the best idea. Maybe we want to see if we can figure out what this is first then tell them.”

It doesn't matter what conclusion we got to because we weren't alone.

        This thing was huge. I don't really even know how to describe it. It looked somewhat human with a dozen arms. It had a tail and its head kind of looked like a xenomorph's head from the movie Aliens. It was chewing on the electrical wires. It kind of looked like it was absorbing the electricity, which explains how the reactor was out of power. It was being absorbed faster than it could produce it.

        It started throwing things at us, whatever it could grab. 

We started running trying to get out of the room until Arthur grabbed me and said “We have to kill this thing before it sinks the ship.”

I said, “Forget about the ship, it's already been lost.”

That's when he said something I completely agree with, “If this thing lives it will do this to every ship it comes across.”

           I started saying, "How do we kill this thing? We don't have any weapons, we don't even know if it can die.” 

That's when he said, “Forget about the ship, it's already been lost. All we need is a lifeboat and a big stick that goes boom.”

While looking at the nuclear reactor he told me “You get old money ready to go!”

One of the life rafts, and he would blow the ship and try to get to safety. Since he was infected and I wasn't, he wanted me to live.

         That's what we did. I drew its attention and ran out of the Engine Room while he ran and lit a fire next to a generator that was filled with gas. He ran as fast as he could to get out of the blast, barely making it back to the life raft in time. That's how he got hurt. I don't think he will make it. 

        So that's where we are now friends, on some island in the middle of somewhere far enough away from all land to not be able to see anything. We might both die on this island. We have barely any food, very little water but at least we killed the parasite thing. 

Ty Kaliso’s Log Entry 1

Here you are. In the tub. Rub-a-dub-dub, or perhaps scrub-a-dub-dub?

Yeah. Fits better. Purposeful.

You locked the door. Nobody deserves to see you scrub away the guilt.

So many names and titles are burning themselves into your deepest psyche:

Idiot, Bully, Loner, Weirdo, Nuisance, Liar

Sinner.

Most of them don’t even have to be true. They don’t even have to come from other people.

You submerge your entire body into the warm water.

You think about not coming up. Of having your corpse be laughed at by them.

“Goodbye sinner!” They’ll chuckle.

But you don’t deserve to die. That’s too much of an honour.

Do you really think you’re a good person?

You rise from the water.

Deep down, every schoolmate, teacher, parent, sibling, they wished you never existed.

They know you’re a sinner. 

Scrubbing is your only salvation.

Kneeling criss-cross-applesauce in the tub now.

Can you feel?

Feel the sin escaping your body with every scrub?

You’re a horrible person, but less so now.

Make sure to scrub around the chest! Your heart is there.

Your heart is releasing gallons of sin and hate and pity and loathing and guilt with every single scrub.

Keep going.

You’ll still sin, won’t you.

Tomorrow, you’ll be an Idiot, Bully, Loner, Weirdo, Nuisance, Liar.

You never learn, do you?

Every single scrub and you can’t even bother to be a better person?!

You’re wretched. You hope you know that.

God will laugh at you when you go to the pearly gates.

“You? Here? As if!”

So terrible.

So failure.

So wretched.

You deserve this. 

You’re priority number one in the land of scrubbing.

The water’s gone greenish-yellow now. Funny how it violates every schoolboy’s understanding of colour theory. It should really be purple.

Make sure to scrub around the chest! Nobody will notice that spot.

You’re a good person. Not that you’ll ever be one.

You’ll have to wait till the bleeding stops before you put any clothes on.

Looks like you have a few more scrubs until you should put the steel wool away.

It’s that time of year. Presents under the Christmas tree and cookies on the counter. 

The little boy’s door is open, I tiptoe over to close it. The door creaks and he wipes his eyes groggily.

“Santa?”

“Merry Christmas, sweet child. Go back to bed, you’re not supposed to see me.”

I turn to close the door, but hushed voices echo from inside the house.

“Where are your parents? They shouldn’t see me either.”

He points to the room above him. I wink and shut the door. 

I hate when things get messy. 

I clutch the knife and head upstairs.

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. Lily Johnson stirred, slowly opening her eyes and stretching her arms above her head.

Today was supposed to be uneventful. She had plans to meet her best friend, Sarah, for their weekly coffee date, and later, she intended to work on the novel she had been passionately writing for the past year.

But as she made her bed and prepared to start her day, a strange sense of fatigue washed over her. It was as if all the energy had been suddenly drained from her body, leaving her limbs heavy and her mind foggy. “That's odd,” she mumbled, rubbing her temples in an attempt to ease the sudden throbbing in her head. She decided that a quick nap might help, so she changed into comfortable clothes and curled up in bed.

As she closed her eyes, her mind began to wander. She found herself in a dark, unfamiliar place, her heart pounding with an unexplainable sense of dread. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her, escaping only as a hoarse whisper. Then, she saw it. A shadowy figure stood at the end of her bed, silent and menacing. Its presence filled the room with an eerie calm, and Lily's breath quickened as she tried to move, but her body felt frozen.

“Who are you?” she mouthed, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette. The figure remained motionless, its eyes locked on hers. Lily's fear intensified as she struggled to reach for her boyfriend, Daniel, who lay sleeping beside her. “Daniel,” she whispered, her voice laced with fear. “Wake up, please...” But Daniel slept on, unaware of the terror that gripped his girlfriend.

The figure took a deliberate step forward, its presence looming over Lily. She felt its weight on the bed as it sat down, pinning her to the mattress. Lily's breath caught in her throat as she tried to scream, but only a weak moan escaped her lips. The figure leaned closer, its face hidden in darkness, its cold breath washing over her.

“Please...” she mouthed, her eyes pleading. In response, the figure grinned, a sinister smile that sent shivers down her spine. It reached out, icy fingers touching her lips, silencing her. Panic surged as she struggled to free herself. Then, it vanished, leaving her alone.

Lily sat up, breathless, scanning the room. Was she losing her mind? She got out of bed, legs weak, and opened the door. “Hello?” she called, her heart pounding. Silence answered. As days passed, the figure returned, its silent watch haunting her.

One night, it advanced, glowing eyes piercing her. “Stay away!” she screamed, but it pushed her against the wall. With a swift touch, darkness engulfed her, and she vanished without a trace. Lily's absence devastated Daniel and Sarah. The police found nothing. In the shadows, the silent watcher remained, eyes aglow, having claimed another soul.

It's a frosty late morning in December. The Grave Digger is in his concrete shed with the heating full bore and a little Christmas tree, placed in the window sill. Outside, the air is crisp and fresh and headstones are lined with a heavy frosting, looking almost festive in their own spooky way. There's a crunching of frost as the family hosted service makes their way up the drive.

"Well Sam, best not hang about, it's bloody freezing. Let's head down and meet the dear." The Grave Digger gears himself up, woolly hat and all, and heads down the glistening driveway.

The translucent shape of a petite elderly lady, sits beside her open grave. The Grave Digger, wrapped up and ready, arrives and begins folding the mats and wraps the lowering straps. A bitter cold numbing his face and reddening his exposed cheeks.

"Morning, me dear, how's you?", asks The Grave Digger.

"I'm very good thank you, all things considered. And yourself? Have you come to fill me in?," replies the spirit, cheekily.

"Aye, I'm here to lay you to rest. That's a lovely coffin you've got there," he says with a grin.

"Oh very funny," says the spirt with a smirk, "I'd recognise that pattern anywhere. That lad of mine has repurposed my old kitchen cabinets."

"And a mighty fine job he's made," says The Grave Digger, chuckling.

"Gets it from his father, always handy and tighter than a ducks arse. Squeaked when he walked. But I did love him. He'd always make me smile and it's felt like so long without him," says the spirit, gazing longingly into the bottom of the grave.

"He sounds like he was a lovely man. You must be excited to see him again."

"Oh I'm awfully excited. In fact I'd love to hurry along, if you don't mind. I can see you're totally frozen and I'm just so keen to see him again," says the spirit lady, trying to contain her excitement.

"Not at all, me dear, it'll help keep me warm if I crack on."

"Thank you. Is there anything you'd like to know, quickly before I pass over?."

"Well, since you ask, what'd you have for tea, on yer last night. What was yer last supper?," asks The Grave Digger.

"An odd thing to ask, but very well. I believe it was Diane's birthday and the nurses of the care home had put on a fine spread to celebrate. So I guess I had a variety of finger food nibbles. Oh and a Baileys...or two," she says with a wink.

The Grave Digger shovels the last of the soil onto the mound and the excited old spirit lady fades away into the freezing air. He gathers his gear and says before leaving, "Well Sam, I 'spose it's a variety of finger food nibbles this evenin'. We'll swing by the shops, grab a few bits and maybe somethin' warm and festive to wash it down with."

Dr. Sophia Solis sat at her observatory computer, an image of the sun on the screen before her. At first, the anomalies had been dismissed as asteroids or wayward flotsam, specks against the vast inferno. But as the days passed, those specks multiplied. Their movements disturbingly deliberate. Their patterns too intricate for chance.

“What are they doing?” Sophia thought, as she watched the swarm grow denser by the hour.

It started subtly. A slight dimming of sunlight that most people shrugged off. But within a week, the brightness of the sun dropped noticeably. Plants began to wither. The mornings carried a chill. The world’s governments scrambled for answers. All converging on the same grim conclusion.

Weapons were launched. Kinetic projectiles, lasers, nuclear payloads, anything and everything the Earth’s nations could muster. All advances vanished into smoke before reaching the swarm. The objects ignored Earth’s feeble retaliation, their purpose unyielding and incomprehensible.

Within a month, daylight had faded to a muted twilight. Crops failed en masse, global temperatures plummeted, and panic swept across the globe. Governments collapsed as riots erupted in frozen cities. Sophia’s observatory became her fortress, its starving generators barely keeping the lights on.

Every day, she would stand at her console for hours, watching the constructs at their work. They moved with grace, each piece of machinery fitting together like parts of some cosmic jigsaw. Sophia could almost admire them, had they not heralded humanity’s extinction.

Her mind wandered in the final days, consumed by questions she would never answer. Had they seen us? Did they even notice this tiny blue dot, or were we as invisible as ants underfoot? She wanted to hate them, to curse them, but found she could not. To them, the sun was not a god or a giver of life. It was their fuel.

And humanity?

Collateral.

On the last day, Sophia sat alone in her observatory. The sun was replaced by an abyssal black disk encircled by shimmering machinery. As the generators sputtered and died, plunging her into darkness, she scribbled her final thoughts in a notebook:

"They came from parts unknown, bringing no malice, no warning. Only hunger. The sun was our life, our warmth, and our guardian. Now it is theirs. We searched the heavens looking for others but were blind to what might be searching for us."

She set the notebook aside and sat back in the numbing cold, her breath hanging in the air like ghostly ribbons. The dark felt alive now, pressing in on her with a weight that felt almost comforting.

Had they ever looked at her solar system? she wondered. At Earth?

Somehow, she doubted it. To them, humanity was less than an afterthought. For the first time, Sophia smiled, a grim and fragile thing. There was solace in insignificance, after all.

As the cold claimed her, her final thoughts slipped into the void like a star lost to the black abyss.

The act was instantaneous. That horrible taste from before came back up into her mouth, making her open her eyes immediately and her pupils dilated. Her thin feet stumbled as she ran out of bed, staggering in the darkness towards the bathroom, with the surprised urge to dump everything she had in her mouth into the nearest toilet.

Of course, the noise woke the boy and the old woman. Although the bunker was large and spacious, the distance from the bathroom to the bedroom was minimal, so the light in the small room woke the boy. He groaned with burning eyes, feeling the bed next to him. There was no one there. He got up at the same time, seeing, even though he was sleepy, his girlfriend vomiting in the bathroom.

It was the third time that week that this had happened. It was not at all normal for this to happen. Worried, he got out of bed and entered the room. The girl was pale, sweaty and with disheveled hair, with a grimace on her face. Her right hand covered her mouth, preventing her from vomiting any more. She gasped, getting up to rinse her mouth, which tasted of bile, in the sink.

• I'm fine. I'm sorry I woke you up. - She said hoarsely, without looking at him, swallowing the cold water from the tap with gusto.

• This is the third time, Ana. Don't lie; it's obvious you're not well.

• You're just feeling sick. It was those canned hams. That's all. - She answered, turning to her worried boyfriend, with her face soaked and wiping her mouth with her shirt.

Gabriel just sighed deeply. What could he possibly question? She wouldn't admit that she was sick, not for a moment. Of course not, that would look for the old woman. They would be even more watched. Raising his hand, he put a lock of his girlfriend's brown hair behind her ear, and hugged her.

• One day you'll have to tell me the truth. - He whispered very quietly, so that only Ana could hear. - And if you are...

• Don't even think about such a thing. - She whispered too, in panic. She remained silent for a few seconds in his arms, until she finally swallowed hard. - This can't happen. It can't.

• If it happened... we'll find a way. I'll protect you.

Gabriel was speaking more seriously than he had in his entire life. His warm hands were on her sweaty face, staring into her eyes. He wanted her to feel that she would be safe. But it had been a long time since they had been there that they had both completely lost hope.

  From afar, even without realizing it, the old woman was watching them, sitting on the bed. Her tired eyes stared at them coldly, and Gabriel felt it in his spine. Kissing his girlfriend's forehead, he turned off the light in the bunker's small bathroom, bringing her back to the room by the hand. The entire space was plunged into absolute and silent darkness again.

• What's wrong with the girl? - The old woman asked loudly, as soon as the couple lay down on the bed again, which was next to hers. Even though she couldn't see, the young woman looked at him again, with that old and familiar fear in her eyes.

• She ate too much of those canned goods. I told her they were out of date, but no one listens to me. - He answered, unconcerned.

• Give her some water, it's a raisin. - The old woman said irritably, and lay back down. After a few seconds, she said again. - She better not give me any more trouble.

Again, the old woman's threat. The couple had already forgotten the last time she had spoken to them in that tone. Gabriel nodded to the darkness, lying back on the bed and hugging Ana, who was lying on her back tightly. His eyes didn't close, with the thoughts of fear weighing on his conscience.

The young woman had to press her lips together to suppress the urge to cry. He felt his boyfriend's fingers intertwine with his, to feel that he was there. But it was useless anyway. As it always was. They would never have a peaceful night, inside that prison.

Name and Designation, Please.

Designation, X-348-202. Name, ‘Haywire’.

What is your responsibility aboard the Steel Aurora?

I am caretaker, nanny, and entertainer for the children. I should be getting back to my duties.

No, Haywire, you have to stay. We need to talk about what happened.

I do not understand.

Haywire, do you know why you’re here?

I do not.

Tell me what happened yesterday.

… 7 AM. I played the wake up song. 7:06 AM. The children were all awake and were served a healthy, balanced breakfast- oatmeal, sausages, blueberries and peaches. Damiran did not like his peaches, so I substituted his peaches with apples-

No, sorry Haywire- what happened to the children? Shortly after noon?

… 12:17 PM. Lunchtime, which was ham and cheese sandwiches, sliced cucumbers, and raisins. The children grew restless because their parents had not come to see them.

So what did you do, Haywire?

I attempted to soothe them with fun games and music.

And when that didn’t work?

I took them to see their parents. They had become insistent. I thought it would make them feel better.

Haywire, did you know what had happened to their parents?

Yes. There was an accident, hull breach. Two days prior. I was instructed not to tell them, but they had become insistent.

Like you said. Where did you take them?

To the blue deck. Their parents’ bodies were still frozen to the opposing hull, they could get a clear view of them. It’s what they wanted.

Was it though?

That’s what they said.

What happened after that?

Panic. Damiran regurgitated his sandwich and cucumbers. Most of the children began to cry.

Do you understand why they were upset?

… I… don’t.

What happened next?

…

Haywire, what did you do to the children?

I… I just wanted them to be happy. So when Taryne asked… if they could be with their parents… I decided it was right for them to be reunited.

… Haywire, the children are dead now.

Yes.

You threw them out the airlock.

I did not throw them. I escorted them to the airlock. I opened the door. The vacuum sucked them out.

That wasn’t the way to handle the situation.

You had not given me another way to handle it. I was doing my job the best way I knew how. I begged for further instruction. You gave me none. You only told me to take care of the children. So I took care of them. They won’t be sad any longer. Should I have attempted something else?

… Haywire, report to the mechanic’s bay to be shut down and dismantled.

What should I have done, sir?

X-348-202, that is an order.

Yes sir.

Jennifer Williams sat in her office, reading mail and doing payroll. She wished she didn’t have to pay the losers who worked for her, but such was the cost of running a business. She opened an envelope absent-mindedly while she worked. Then she got up, left her store, and walked into traffic, killed immediately by a speeding semi. She wasn’t missed.

——-

Mike Warren came home from his late shift. A dead-end warehouse job wasn’t what he had in mind for his life; he felt like he was going nowhere. At least those other losers treated him with the respect he deserved - they’d pay if they didn’t. He opened his mail while heating up dinner: meatloaf tonight. Then he opened his fifth-floor window and jumped to the pavement below. The microwave beeped.

——-

Anna Stinson entered the apartment she shared with her roommate. She sighed - it was a disaster, as always. She wished her roommate would clean, but it was what she could afford. She knew she should be grateful - many of her classmates didn’t have apartments at all. She kicked off her heels, sat on the couch, and went through her mail - more bills. Then she went to the bathroom, filled the tub with water, and submerged her head until she drowned. Her roommate would find her - she had to clean up the mess.

——-

Ethan Thompson watched his students leave the classroom. As usual, they understood nothing except how to make excuses. Always excuses. They were lazy and entitled - none of them deserved to pass. He perused his correspondence, expecting another entitled parent demanding special treatment for their “angel.” After a moment, he picked up a pencil and shoved it through his eye and into his brain. Blood dripped down onto the essay beneath him like red ink.

——-

Clarissa Wallace turned off the news in her office. She’d canceled her remaining appointments for the day to appreciate this moment. She reviewed her notepad:

Jennifer Williams - Boss who fired you. Trigger Word: Titanium. Dead.

Mike Warren - Classmate who bullied you. Trigger Word: Carnage. Dead.

Anna Stinson - Girlfriend who dumped you. Trigger Word: Dove. Dead.

Ethan Thompson - Teacher who failed you. Trigger Word: Crimson. Dead.

She checked off the last name and pulled out the picture of her brother. Staring at it, she lit a flame under the list, watching it burn and remembering all of the sessions she’d held as she’d planted the needed post-hypnotic suggestions. The years of school, the months of planning - all worth it. All of the people who’d contributed to her brother’s suicide were dead.

All except one.

She kissed the picture, then rose and walked to her office mirror. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Mikey. I'm sorry I didn’t see how much pain you were in. I hope you can forgive me.”

Then she looked into her own eyes, raised the gun, and said the final trigger word.

”Midnight.”

There it was, small hollow red lump with no discernible effects, located in the retrocardial space, a small cavity directly behind the heart. How could something like this suddenly manifest in every human on the planet, seemingly overnight? Studying this organ has led to nothing, it just is there for no apparent reason. Doctors and scientists being unable to explain it, but still assured the world it wasn't dangerous. The world moved on.

As months passed, some people began to experience strange discomfort—like an unfamiliar presence inside their body—but nothing more, unable to deal with this odd sensation, humanity demanded an option to remove it. After growing pressure, the World Health Organization gave the green light for removal surgeries, assuring the public it was a safe and simple procedure.

The world began to settle back into normalcy. People adapted, learned to live with it, and those who were uncomfortable simply had it removed. But not everyone reacted the same, some joined bizarre cults that claimed the organ was a divine gift or an alien mark—signaling a new chapter in human evolution. Others began to rebel against the scientific establishment, insisting that removing it is a grave mistake. Society was divided into "Keepers" and "Removers". For the Keepers, it was a symbol of adaptation, embracing the organ as part of human evolution. For the Removers, it was a constant reminder of something unnatural—a foreign object with no place in their bodies

Years passed, and then it happened—the change. The organ changed its shape and began to emit a strange frequency. This new development brought back the same panic as before, when it all began. Removers began to doubt their choice. "Are we going to be left behind?" they wondered. on the other hand, The Keepers felt a strange sense of triumph—finally, the organ had shown activity. But just like before, that's all it was—a subtle hum reverberating through the bodies of those who kept it. As the months passed, this new hum, combined with the previous discomfort, grew unbearable. Unable to cope with it, even some of the former Keepers resorted to removing the organ.

The world waited for answers as the organ's presence lingered in the lives of humans, an unsettling, constant reminder of the unknown.

It was Christmas Eve when Ollie awoke from a restful sleep, by someone calling out his name downstairs, that was scarcely more than a peep.

His wife and children were all nestled in bed, while he arose to his feet with a terrible dread.

With a baseball bat in his hands and a sticky sleep in his eyes, Ollie crept down the stairs to a wonderful surprise.

Santa stood by the fireplace with a smile and a wink, Ollie was dumbfounded not knowing what he should think.

“You never stopped believing Ollie, so you can still see. I hate to do this, but it's either you or it’s me.  

Most folks don’t believe anymore, such a sad and dire state of affairs. No matter how much I try; no matter how much I give, no one seems to see and no one ever cares.

My world is dying quickly, the magic is almost gone. But in these final hours I think I’ve found a way to live on.

If wonder and joy are no longer held dear, I believe I may live forever through nightmares and fear.”

Old Nick pulled a samurai sword out of that old magic sack, and then he lunged forward with a smile and he started to hack.

Poor Ollie was cleaved by the jolly old elf; his head bounced along the floor and came to rest quite a distance from the rest of himself.

Santa went to work with a ho-ho and a hee-hee, knowing this was but the first stop of his murderous spree.

He put some parts in the stockings, and roasted Ollie’s nuts on the fire. Then Santa took his guts and he hung them by some hooks and some wire.

He decked the halls with the bowels of Ollie, and when he was done, he ho-ho-ho’d in a boisterous tone most jolly.

The children leapt from their beds and rushed the stairs at the sound, and then stopped in their tracks, terrified by what they had found. 

Old Nick was by the chimney, eating his cookies and drinking his milk with glee, while their father was here and there, and his head was atop the tree.

“Now remember this children,” Santa said while he spat crumbs on his beard. “I tried to be nice, y’all fucked that up, so now I’d much rather be feared. 

I don’t give a fiddler’s fart about Christmas and neither should you, I’ll eventually gut you both, no matter what you do.

So from now on we’ll follow this new tradition, my promise of mayhem, and the flames of Perdition.”

With a hearty laugh and the twink of his nose, Santa flew up the chimney, leaving Ollie to decompose.

So to all the children out there, let me give you some advice. It no longer matters if you’re naughty or nice.

He’ll get you when you’re sleeping.

He’ll get you when you’re awake.

Doesn’t matter if you’re bad or good

So just run for goodness sake!

The walls formed in the middle of the Indian Ocean, so it wasn’t registered right away. A couple hundred feet high of shiny, translucent blue walls in a small O shape appeared out of nowhere. But then it started to expand.

The first interaction with the walls was a small barge. The crew saw the wall moving towards it in a lazily fashion, but it was frightening nonetheless. They pulled their anchor up as quickly as possible, but it wasn’t quite fast enough. They radioed their company headquarters, saying their farewells to their families. One man, Henrique, was on the line when the wall passed through them. When the wall went through the boat, it felt like a warm jelly passing through. 

One. Henrique sighed. 

Two. “I think we’re okay!” He told the operator on the other end. 

Three. Cheers began from around the ship. 

Four. “It’s all good, we’re aliv-. 

Five. CLRK. The line went dead.

The wall kept advancing, and a plot of land in nowhere Nebraska was shown as the last place it would hit. Everyone left what they were doing to head that way, to try and find some more time.

My family all lived in Tennessee, and we decided to go there as well. Let’s stay with each other, I thought. Until my mom and sisters disappeared. We’d learn later they’d left for Nebraska and sent us a text, but our service providers cut their text and call features just minutes before. Dad and I waited until the wall was just a mile away until we decided to leave.

I guess others who were planning on staying in town had decided to change plans and dip last second too. Our main exit was blocked in gridlock. Knowing our only escape were the backroads, Dad and I careened off the road full of people swearing and crying down a side road. It looked like it was going straight for a while until it curved. Back. Towards those walls. The walls were only a couple hundred feet behind. There were no fields for us to swerve off into. No other nearby roads for us to take. My Dad looked at me and I knew he thought the same.

It passed by us. It felt almost like a warm syrup entered my body, and I felt weirdly at ease. This didn't feel malevolent. It just was. I looked over at my Dad in the driver's seat, the wall passed through him first.

One. He held my hand.

Two. A slight squeeze, reassuring.

Three. A tear in our eyes and slight warm smiles.

Four. CLRK. Dad’s eyes fell loosely in their sockets. His grip softened. He was dea-.

Five. CLRK.

“Hey honey, how was your day,” my husband greeted me after getting home from a long day of work.

“It was fine,” I said, revealing a bouquet of flowers.

“Are those for me?” My husband asked, confused. 

“I thought we could deliver them together.”

“Deliver them?”

“Yeah, to your late wife’s grave.”

My husband couldn’t hide the shock on his face.

“How’d you find out?” My husband took the flowers from me.

I pulled out a receipt for a burial plot.

“I went to the cemetery, Paul. You bought the grave next to her? I knew you were married before but you never said she died.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. It was sudden.”

I crumpled up the receipt. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring up the real reason I was angry. I didn’t mind that my husband lied about his late wife passing away. It was probably none of my business.

No, what made me upset was that he wanted to be buried next to her and not me.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready, but I want you to know that I will always be here to listen. Why don’t we take the first step and deliver these?” I pointed to the flowers.

“Yeah,” my husband said, “I’d like that.”

We got in the car and drove to the cemetery together. My husband walked me to his late wife’s grave, only the burial plot next to it had been recently dug out.

“I wonder why they dug it up?” I laughed and smiled at my husband. “You plan on dying any time soon?”

My husband pulled out a blackjack from his pocket and struck me in the back of the head.

“I didn’t buy it for me,” he said. 

None of us were happy when we first caught wind of the new housing development. We were all so attached to our little oasis in the desert—our classic Main Street, our mountains and mineshafts beyond it—and to see such a threat to that rising from the sand, well, none of us were quite happy.

Perhaps with a warning things might have gone differently. We could have had time to process our emotions, maybe even fight back, in whatever obscure fashion. As it stands, however, there was no such luxury.

It was Farmer Dave who first noticed the skeleton houses. He came running from his fields, arms waving in panic while he rambled incoherently. As it was Farmer Dave, this went relatively unnoticed. At first.

It wasn't long before it became impossible to walk the length of our precious Main Street without overheard murmurings of a "new housing development" and the coming of "out-of-towners" and, sometimes even, some sort of "final phase".

And the growth on the edge of town, as the skeleton houses filled in, became undeniable. Worse yet, we started to spot the first of the out-of-towners.

It began slowly. Faces not recognized on Main Street, rearing every now and then. Slack-jawed nobodies roaming from business to business, never saying hello, buying nothing.

This escalated. Soon the growth of identical, idyllic, moderately-sized homes was larger than the town itself. When our entire valley was all filled up, Barman Dave popularized the belief that they could not grow further, as there simply wasn't room.

And houses started to grow from the mountainsides. Mine portals were covered and out-of-towners soon outnumbered us, empty-eyed, wandering day and night.

The next escalation occurred when Farmer Dave was arrested. Word was, he broke into one of the new houses, got caught, and police from out of town came and hauled him off. All the while he shouted, "I only wanted to see what they did in there!" and, "Like trapped tigers! Back and forth, and they flood out all at once!"

Last night, it was Cletus who started it. Perhaps to avenge Farmer Dave, perhaps just because, he snuck up behind that out-of-towner (identical to the rest of them) and punched the man's head clean off. Just like that.

The man's family kept walking, ignorant, prompting Barman Dave to get the wife, and soon Main Street flooded with violence, body parts flying every which way, out-of-towners staring uncomprehending from detached skulls.

This morning we all felt horrible. Foggy minds, aches all over. Dirty. But there were no consequences for our actions, and the out-of-towners descended upon Main Street like any other day. The only discernible difference: more and more murmurings of that "final phase".

I have been driving for thirteen hours now, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, or perhaps just because. And as the sun sets behind me, I am beginning to fear that there is no end to this new housing development, nor its unchecked growth.

This is your warning.

"I'm a real person! I am literally standing in front of you!" I screamed at the woman from the bank, her face full of, 'I really couldn't give a fuck.'

"Please calm down, ma'am, I don't deserve to be spoken to lik-..."

"Oh you don't deserve-...let me tell you what I've been through!"

I began listing: "First, my debit card stops working. I thought it was a glitch, so I called customer service. They said my account doesn’t exist. My life savings! Gone! Then, the DMV wouldn’t renew my license because they couldn’t ‘find my file.’ They even accused me of forging it. Oh, and when I went to the hospital for my allergies? No record of me. Not even in billing. Now you're telling me I don’t have an account here, either?"

The woman’s eyebrows raised slightly but not in sympathy. She looked down at her computer, clicking aimlessly. "Ma’am," she said, with a tone that scraped across my nerves, "if there's no record, there’s no record. Maybe you’ve made a mistake."

A mistake? A mistake! I’d heard that a dozen times now, from clerks, officials, even old friends who suddenly pretended they didn’t know me.

I slammed my fists on the counter. "Do I look like a mistake to you?"

"Security," she called dryly, lifting the phone.

I stumbled out before they could haul me away.

The streets felt different somehow. People passed by like they didn’t see me. A woman on her phone bumped my shoulder. "Hey!" I snapped, but she didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch.

I checked my phone...still no service. The contacts list was empty except for one name I hadn’t added: Alex.

I didn’t know a Alex.

I tapped it anyway, and the screen blinked.

Before I could process, a low hum filled my ears, followed by a flat voice. "You are aware now."

"What the hell? Who is this?"

"This is simply a correction."

I froze. The air felt heavier, and I noticed something...a subtle shimmer at the edges of my vision, almost like heat waves.

"What?" I whispered.

"You have breached your context. The system is correcting itself."

"What?! I-I don’t understand!" My voice cracked.

"You are just data. A projection within the framework. Useful once, now you're redundant."

I staggered backward, gripping the edge of a lamppost for balance. The shimmer intensified, distorting the world around me. A child’s laughter warped into static. The sky seemed to pulse unnaturally.

"No," I muttered. "I’m real. I'm a real person. You’re trying to gaslight me. This-this is a joke or something, or-..."

"The correction has begun," the voice cut in, and the line went dead.

I turned to run, but my legs felt unresponsive. As I passed reflective windows, I caught glimpses of myself flickering, translucent and sort of pixelated.

I reached out, desperate, as my hand crumbled into nothing.

My world dimmed with a final echo: "Correction complete."

...And no one knows any different.

The doctor held the loupe up to her eye, examining it closely. He had her change the direction she was looking multiple times.

“Everything looks to be alright with the retina. The tear is healing and the fluid is mostly gone. You said it was white floaters you were seeing?” he asked.

“No, I have those too. This is just a white patch that comes and goes in the corner of my eye. I can even feel when it’s about to happen,” she replied.

“Hmmm,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting up to turn on the lights. “It could just be that things haven’t fully healed yet. I wouldn’t worry about it too much for now.”

“So it’ll go away?” she asked.

“I would hope so,” he said, typing at the computer. “I think I’ll have you come back in about a month. We’ll have another look then.”

She sighed softly and nodded.

An hour later, she was at an antique shop with her mom.

“He said everything looks okay?” her mother asked.

“I mean, yeah, but I’m still having the white spot that comes and goes. It freaks me out. I’m worried I have brain cancer or something,” she said.

“Brain cancer? And they just happened to find that retinal tear too? Sweetie, that’d be a heck of a coincidence,” her mother said.

“Maybe you’re right, I don’t know,” she said, fidgeting with items on a shelf. “I guess I should wait and see what he says at my next appointment.”

“Exactly, hun. Wait and see. Relax for now,” her mother said with a smile.

They both walked further into the back and separated, looking over the various odds and ends.

In the corner, the younger woman noticed an antique coat rack. As she walked over to it, she saw that it was entirely made from brass. It had several hooks for hanging hats and coats. In the center was a small circular mirror on a swivel. It was angled toward the ceiling.

She reached out and tilted the mirror down until she saw her reflection—and the man standing behind her. She tried to scream, but found her body frozen in place. All she could do was watch.

The man’s skin was smooth and pale, it glistened in the light; tiny veins blanketed the surface. One of his hands covered his eyes, but not completely; a small glint could be seen through the parted digits. His other hand hovered next to her head, perfectly still, with the palm facing down.

Slowly the man brought his hovering hand closer to her. She braced for his touch, but was shocked when his hand passed right through her. The tips of the man’s fingers could be seen coming out of her forehead, right above her left eye.

The man smiled, a crooked smile, and flexed his fingers up and down in a wave.

The white spot again spread across her vision, and she screamed.

Late one stormy evening, Mia wandered down a narrow, cobbled alley near her grandmother's house. The wind howled, but in the dim light, she saw a strange figure. A girl standing alone, dressed in an old-fashioned white dress, her hair like tangled black threads.

Mia hesitated, her heart pounding. She was about to turn back when the girl called to her.

"Excuse me, could you help me with a riddle?"

Mia shivered. "A riddle? At this hour?"

The girl’s smile was thin and unsettling. "It’s not just any riddle. It’s a cursed one. Solve it, and you’ll be free. Fail, and you’ll never leave."

Mia felt a chill crawl down her spine but couldn’t resist the odd curiosity gnawing at her. "Alright, what's the riddle?"

The girl leaned in, her voice barely a whisper, the air around them growing colder. "I have keys, but open no doors. I have space, but no room. You can enter, but never leave. What am I?"

Mia blinked, trying to make sense of it. "A keyboard," she said, her voice shaky but confident.

The girl’s smile twisted into something sinister. Her eyes grew darker, almost empty. "Wrong."

The ground beneath Mia's feet seemed to tremble. She stumbled backward, but the girl remained still, her gaze unblinking. The wind howled louder, and suddenly, the alley seemed to close in around her.

"Wait, what do you mean ‘wrong’? I solved it!" Mia protested, her voice rising with panic.

The girl’s lips parted, but instead of speaking, an eerie whisper echoed through the air, filling the alley, as if the very shadows were alive, speaking in unison. "You failed. Now, you must stay."

Mia’s breath quickened, her mind racing. The alley grew impossibly long, the walls shifting and contorting as if the street itself was alive, watching her. The girl’s laughter, soft at first, became louder, bouncing off the walls, surrounding Mia from all directions. It felt as though it was coming from inside her head, too.

“No, this isn’t real,” Mia muttered, her voice trembling. “It can’t be…”

Suddenly, the world blurred. She turned to run, but the alley stretched before her like an endless void, its edges fraying, pulling her deeper into darkness. Her feet felt as though they were glued to the ground, dragging her backward.

A voice, no longer the girl’s, but a chorus of hollow whispers, filled her ears. "You can enter, but never leave. You can enter, but never leave…”

Mia screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed. The alley was no longer familiar. It was an endless maze of twisting walls and shifting shadows.

Then, the whispers stopped, and the girl appeared in front of her once again, her eyes empty, her smile now a twisted mockery of innocence. “You know the answer now,” she murmured. “Don’t you?”

Mia's mind raced. The riddle. She remembered the line she hadn’t understood at first. "I have space, but no room…" And then it hit her. She hadn’t failed after all.

She opened her mouth to speak, to correct her answer, but as she did, the alley echoed her final, breathless scream, and then everything went silent.

And the riddle repeated in the shadows, always just beyond reach: "I have keys, but open no doors. I have space, but no room. You can enter, but never leave. What am I?"

Mia never got the chance to answer. The alley claimed her, and the riddle became her prison.

Back again. The metal sign with the psychiatrist’'s last name engraved on it hung on the door in front of me. The door opened and I came in. I sat in the armchair while the therapist took a notepad to transcribe what would be a new session.

It started like the routine I had followed for over six months. He asked how I had been, I answered that I was fine, I told him an anecdote about the past week, we delved into the trauma caused by the accident, and we said goodbye. But this time, I had something more to add.

"Lately, I've been feeling a kind of itch under my left arm, as if something is moving inside it. I tried to kill it. I couldn’t.”

I rolled up my sleeve to show my arm, which was covered in wounds and scars.

"What did you do?"

The doctor went to fetch alcohol, gauze, and other supplies to clean my wounds. He also gave me some pills.

"Take this medication. One every twelve hours. What you have should disappear in a few hours."

I thanked him and went straight home to take it. I opened the door, turned on the lights, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water, then took one of the pills. A few hours later, I felt dizzy, unfocused, and scattered. Still, the creature in my arm did not sleep and kept climbing, slowly reaching my shoulder. It was a few hours later when I began to hear it. A deep, dark, eerie voice. I realized that now this thing living inside me was speaking to me. At first, it was a faint mumble, but slowly it started to form words. Within minutes, it was speaking full sentences.

"It was your fault, can't you see?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The accident, crashing your car into that tree."

"That's why I lost the love of my life, how dare you say it was my fault!?"

"Deep down, you know that’s what you really wanted. You were angry, remember?"

"Yes, but I never..."

"But you would never hurt her, right? Tell me what happened when you argued. You’re not very good at talking, are you? You're more of a... physical person to solve things."

"I know I lose control, but..."

"But nothing. Your violence led to her death... but also to my birth. I’ll be by your side until the day you leave this earth."

I could feel it growing and moving, getting closer to my heart. The butcher's knife, freshly sharpened, gleamed in the dim light from the ceiling.

"Do it, I know you want to. Be the coward you’ve always been."

Without thinking, I took the knife and stabbed myself through the heart.

I expected to hear a scream of pain from the creature, but all I heard was laughter before I fell lifeless to the floor.

I pulled in the parking lot in the huge Benjamin library in memphis the day after it was Thanksgiving. This building is massive and a huge library with 4 floors. The parking lot was empty. No one there. Which made me think the library was closed. Got food, and I decided to eat it in the parking lot. And then, as I was eating, I saw a kid and an older lady go inside. And I was like "oh I guess it's open" so after I was done eating, I went up, and the door was open a little, so I went in. It was dead silent. No one. I thought maybe staff was around somewhere and it was less workers because it was a holiday weekend, so I went upstairs to read a book. I was there for 2 hours just sitting there reading my book. All I could could hear was the AC. Still didn't see anyone. It's just pure quiet. So I got up and started looking around. Looking around for any staff or workers for about 30 minutes. Didn't find anyone. It was dead silent, the whole time. Just me. It made me feel uneasy. I went down stars to the lobby. Finally saw a security guard. She looks at me and says "hey uh...the librarys closed?". I say "oh it is? The door was open, and I just walked right in" she seemed annoyed and didn't say anything, Just a "MMMHMM okay" like she thought I was lying or something. And then then I asked how long she was standing there. Didn't answer. I walked back to my car and drove away.

She's riding towards me leaving Earth's atmosphere at an angle, riding into heaven as it were. She strikes me as a combination of Norse/Celtic shield maiden and native American, sci-fi tribal warrior. The horse is shimmering and seems to almost pulsate between silver and white. Much of her own armor is also bright white and metallic and the light seems to flow through it. Her and the horse and armor are combined as an electric organism yet the technology is mostly camouflaged. There are no visible buttons or wires or hydraulics or anything like that. There is a shrill noise as she approaches. A combination of a horse's neigh, a high-pitched cry, and loud silver bells chiming. It's a curious not necessarily hostile sound though I fear. It may be a form of echolocation. She has some kind of braces on her teeth that are embedded throughout her face and skull. Her eyes are dilated and bloodshot and she looks pained and fierce like her blood is running at her. The horse and her are adorned with various trinkets that demonstrate no obvious technological value however it seems they must have. The horse and her are completely synergized. Upon reaching me the neighing/screaming/ringing sound stops and she makes her assessment. She looks disgusted. She's fated and sees me as a loser for staying. Valhalla for her, or nothing. She rides on and I continue my descent towards earth. It's evening time, sunset. I reach Earth and turn to look back up, towards the sky. There's a large rumbling black hole looking vortex she was riding towards. She has turned around and is riding back towards me, back to down to earth, fearing. I think to myself well that's not a good sign.

You’re sitting on the bus next to Jordan as usual.  “You haven’t cleared level ten of Ploofy Pugs?” She asks.

“No,” you reply, “Those matching games are dumb, it put me to sleep.”

She sighs, “You could’ve…” her eyes glaze over as she plays Ploofy Pugs, “joined my PugPen for the tournament.”  

“That sounds real boring.”

Jordan keeps clicking without responding.  The entire bus is playing it as well.  Great, you’d hoped this fad was ending.  Sighing, you scroll through random videos on your phone until the bus stops.  

School’s the same, teachers and students alike only care about some “PugPen” tournament.  Everyone, but you, is participating.  The principal even starts announcing who’s in the lead.  Boarding the bus home, you notice the driver is starting up Ploofy Pugs.  Following your instincts, you stop Jordan, “Don’t get on.”

She nods without looking up from her game.  

The bus speeds off into an active intersection.  It narrowly avoids being t-boned, before making an illegal left turn. You call your mom and wait with Jordan.  Suddenly, she begins acting hysterical, “Shit!  My phone’s dying!  Give me yours!”  

“Why?”

She grabs your shoulders, “I need Ploofy Pugs!”  

You roll your eyes, but comply.  Jordan fidgets until you hand over your phone, “You’re being super annoying.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, instantly calm, “…whatever.”

Soon, your mom pulls up, calling out, “sorry, traffic was terrible.  A school bus caused a twelve-car pileup.”

You drag Jordan to the car.  When you shove her inside, she whacks her head on the doorframe.  “Shhoot Jordan, you okay?”  She grunts noncommittally.  You get in and your mom takes off.  

At a stop, your mom glances over at Jordan, “What’s that?”  

“Ploofy Pugs…” Jordan sputters.  

“I’ve heard of that…”  She stares at the game and the car veers into another lane.

“Mom, watch out!” You shout, and she slams on the breaks to avoid crashing. 

Eventually, you get home.  You pull Jordan out of the car as your mom begins downloading Ploofy Pugs.  “Come on, let’s go inside,” Jordan doesn’t flinch.  “Move it!” Your mom begins backing up while staring at her phone and runs over Jordan’s foot, “Shit! Jordan!” 

Her eyes tear up, “’S fine…” 

Your mom drives away while blood oozes from Jordan’s smashed shoe.  Panic rises in your chest.  You dash into the house to call an ambulance, then go wait with Jordan until it arrives.  Thankfully, playing the game dulls her pain.  

When the ambulance arrives, it’s speeding out of control.  You grab Jordan’s arm, but she pulls away.  You stumble backwards and can only watch as the ambulance runs down Jordan before crashing into your house.  Your jaw drops when you see the mangled driver.  Despite the steering column embedded in his chest, he’s playing Ploofy Pugs with broken fingers.  Something roars overhead, it’s a plane plummeting out of the sky.  A deafening boom follows.  Everyone has gone insane.  You need to escape.  

You reclaim your phone from Jordan’s crushed body and begin playing Ploofy Pugs.