“Your Honour, I present the following case. The deceased agreed to a binding contract in 1996, signing his soul to my client upon death.

This clearly predates the later contract with the plaintiff.

Your Honour, my client has no case to answer. The deceased’s soul was explicitly dedicated to Microsoft, well before Mr B. L. Zee’bub attempted to recruit him”

I settled myself on the huge neon bouncy gym ball, tightened my core muscles and moved my legs. I was still panting dripping with sweat from my session on the elliptical. I turned to the mirror to check my form, and out of nowhere, this large girl dressed in pink and taupe gym gear barged into the ball.

“Hey!” I cried angrily, struggling to regain my balance on the ball.

I looked around for the girl who pushed me. No-one was close. Everybody was focused on their machine and their movements and their music.

I looked back in the mirror.

A large girl, wearing a tight pink top with the word “Beautiful!” printed in darker pink chubby curvy letters right across her already large boob-shelf, looked back at me.

I stared. And then I noticed that her eyes were too black, her mouth too, gaping holes of misery and rage.

We both spoke at the same time.

“You can see me?”

“Why did you push me?”

Even as she spoke, the vision flitted and faded in the mirror. I could feel my heart rate slowing down to normal. I looked again.

Now that I knew she was there, I could sense her standing next to me, her sweaty bulging uncomfortable presence radiating discomfort.

Then she moved away. I spotted a young fellow on the press bench lifting more than what seemed like a safe weight, and I knew she was heading over to him.

“Stop!” I cried out.

Too late. The weights smashed down as a howl of agony rose, ceasing all movement in the gym.

They told us to leave before the paramedics arrived.

All night I dreamt of the large ghost haunting the gym, causing havoc and injury. Had she died there? How?

Against my better judgment I went back the next day. I did the same routine, the elliptical getting me sweating and flushed, and went over to the mirror in front of the bouncy gym balls. One of them seemed deflated, sagging sideways.

In the mirror, I could see her sitting on the deflated ball, squishing it under her. She was wearing the same tight pink top.

Beautiful!

“Please stop”, I said realizing I sounded ridiculous.

She shrugged, turning to look at my image in the mirror with those black pools of eyes.

“The first thing I realised after I died was I’m still fat.”

My breath slowed back to normal, her mirror-image was fading. Not knowing what else to do, I sat on a bright orange gym ball next to her.

“Have you tried this?” I tightened my abs and stretched.

“It feels so good!” The ball next to me she was seated on changed shape, and I knew she was copying me.

“If you let people be, I’ll come train with you everyday! It’s much more fun with a gym buddy!” I said.

“Promise!” I felt her grip in my mind.

I promised.

Good evening neighbors!

It's me again, super excited to share my second round of the neighborhood newsletter! Hope you aren’t getting sick of me yet (; We’ve got a lot of stuff to go over! As well as some serious business, but let's cover the fun stuff first!

We are still taking submissions for the cutest pet- please email Shirley with their name, breed, and pictures. There will be a petting zoo to judge the winners, so make sure your pet is comfortable with new people and not easily frightened by strangers.

Homemakers- we will have an upcoming award ceremony to celebrate the best interior decoration in town! You can include all your foliage, paintings, and fixtures. We recommend showcasing an original blueprint with your ideas on space usage!

Onto more serious matters- I know you are all aware by now of the recent break-ins. I personally talked with Officer David, who has informed us that there is an ongoing investigation to determine the correlation between this and the newly reported missing persons case. Though visual identification may be impossible, DNA testing can provide closure for affected families. The last thing we want is to become overwrought, let us all pray for their safe return.

I have decided to come up with a comprehensive list of tips to maximize safety. Please share this around, you could save a life.

1. Entrances-Keep your doors and windows closed during the day to help protect yourself.

2. Friends- Be careful who you associate with. Avoid extending spare keys or unnecessary contact information.

3. Alarm systems- Living in a low-income community, alarm systems can be very costly. In their place, consider a sticker or sign that names a security feature. These can be purchased on sites like Amazon and trick potential threats.

4. Self-defense tip- Contrary to popular belief, it has been confirmed by the WHO that the concept of vital organ systems is largely untrue. In an attack, the best course of action is to spread your limbs evenly, to prevent the damage from settling in one area.

5. Diplomacy- In the event of a break-in, avoid confrontation. Studies show that the best method is to appeal to an intruder verbally. If you have small children, including them is a good way to de-escalate the situation.

Community member- we value your safety. However it is essential to avoid abusing emergency services. Rather, utilize these tips to keep yourself and your family safe.

That is the conclusion of this week's newsletter! It's easy for someone to take advantage of a moment of carelessness. As always it is a joy to write to each one of you. Remember to reach out if you need anything and I’ll be seeing you soon!

P.S. If you’re reading this extra message, congratulations! Your email has been selected for the neighborhood newsletter prize. Your delivery arrival should coincide with the newsletter release. All that’s left is to head to the front door to collect!

She woke up inside the house.

She had gone to sleep in a hotel a town away the night before, and yet again, she woke up in the dark hallways of her grandfather’s old house. 

It was given to her after the old man had died, his last will. The place was old and huge, a gothic looking mansion. Decrepit and withered by time, but she figured that after being fixed up she could make a pretty penny from it. Months passed and construction crews came and went, the remodeling process was quite the endeavor. But she was so pleased with the final result that not selling it and keeping it for herself was tempting. 

In the end though, she decided selling it was the better call. She found a buyer very quickly, a place like that obviously had many eyes on it, and the purchase went smoothly. But the buyer couldn’t move in right away, so they asked to be given a couple months. She cheerfully agreed, of course she did, she had just made so much money from them, how could she not. And so, the house stayed empty.

She went back to her own apartment, went to sleep without a care in the world. “Life is good”, she thought. The next morning she opened her eyes to see the old paintings hung in the house’s master bedroom. Severe shock was an understatement. How? Did she get kidnapped? Was this some kind of nasty prank? Had she even left the night before?

The same events repeated that night. She went back to her own place, and woke up back in the house, but this time in the guest room. It was unexplainable, eventually she realized that she could not keep herself awake at night, a malignant force made her close her eyes.

Every morning, waking up in a different space; the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedrooms. And each time it got harder to get out. The floors became creaky, the door hinges rusted, the color of the walls deteriorating with each passing day, the ceiling caving in on itself. All that work for nothing. The house looked like it did before, if not worse.

She started to hear scratching inside the walls, thumping from the attic, whispers from under the beds, sickly screams from the basement. One morning she thought she saw someone moving through the kitchen, she did not recognize them. That’s what scared her the most, realizing that she was starting to lose touch with reality. How did people look like again?

One morning, all the doors and windows went missing. The air smelled rotten. She couldn’t find an exit, and deep down, she knew there was none. She cried and she screamed in vain. And at the peak of her misery, her sanity leaving her, the person she had seen before appeared before her.

It was her grandfather. Smiling with malice.

He was not dead.

And now she would never die either.

At 11:37 every night, during the credits of the late night talk show, Jenna McAllister is stabbed to death in front of my refrigerator.

A grainy obituary scanned into a funeral home website told me that she died in June of 1997. She loved violets, dalmatians, Fiona Apple, and coffee from a little café that closed 25 years ago. Some more googling showed me that her boyfriend had killed her during a heated argument, then fled the apartment building, slitting his own throat in a gas station bathroom before the police could catch him. On a semi-related search, I also learned that most states don’t require violent deaths on the property to be disclosed to buyers, let alone renters.

It started with their voices, which always sounded muffled, as if behind several panes of glass. It was never loud, but you could definitely hear an uptick in volume and intensity, along with a growing undercurrent of rage. Their figures weren’t clear, either. They were shadows, blurs- the only things in focus were the knife and the spatters of blood which formed the same patterns night after night. First the drips on the floor as the blade splits Jenna’s palm as she tries to defend herself. Then the hand prints on the fridge, the kitchen island, the figure in front of her who won’t back down. From there it becomes a frenzy, the blade soaring through the air and plunging down. Red swirls down the grout of the tiles and pools. Sticky footprints from a pair of Nike Air Max 95s appear one by one, making a beeline for the doorway. A knob that used to be placed higher gets smeared with blood as a door that was replaced decades ago is wrenched open as Jenna’s killer flees again.

The blood remains until 1:13am, the time the police broke down the door at the Exxon that used to be on 31^(st) and Chestnut. 

Jenna wasn’t Catholic, but I called a priest. He splashed some holy water on the walls and said some latin and it did absolutely nothing. The medium who performed a séance was equally useless. I even tried emailing a rabbi. He very politely told me to please see a therapist.

There’s a prayer that alcoholics say. Something about accepting what you can’t change, and seeing the beauty in that. Making it serene.

I got a little family of ceramic dalmatians I keep in the kitchen, along wreaths of dried violets. And every night I sit near the space between the island and the refrigerator, and I wait. I wait as the carnage unfolds around me, and the blurry approximation of Jenna McAllister falls to the ground, never to rise – until tomorrow, anyway. And I wait. I stay. As the footprints rush away, as the little green numbers on the microwave change from one to the next, I wait. I stay. Until the blood disappears, I wait. I stay. I won't let her die alone again.

To the distant stargazer, Sehia appears like an ordinary solar system, as four closely-connected planets orbiting a giant star.

But ever since its discovery, almost seven lightyears North of the Hot Spring Nebula, races far and wide have speculated on its existence.

They asked the same questions.

How can each of its five components be growing in unison?

What exactly are the shifting plates, and how do they move?

Some suggested it was an art installation designed by a higher lifeform.

The monks, however, watched Sehia's cosmic movements and saw something very different.

They watched as the ancient asteroid belt snaked across the cosmos, crashing into Sehia via a complicated gravitational transit. Like arteries, supplying nutrients.

They watched the iron core glowing bright, and they felt its magnetic frequency, oscillating in dual reverberations. Like a heart, beating.

They watched as the giant dust planet breathed in the space around it, through its dark and vast caverns. Like lungs.

They watched the shifting plates, intricately connecting and dismantling, holding thousands of shapes. Like a mind.

And they watched the star, Sehia's super-massive sun, forever collapsing and consuming. Streaming its energy outward. Like a stomach.

After much time and many probes, the Sehia System was getting noisy.

The monks tried to warn the researchers what they were dealing with.

That Sehia was a living being.

But it wasn't enough to stop them. They sent more probes. More radiowaves polluting its space.

And the plates of Sehia's Mind began to shift restlessly. Her Stomach churned.

The monks persisted in their warning, yet people were stubborn.

There were too many tourists. Too many obnoxious lifeforms. All the extra activity, interrupting her delicate commune.

Her Lungs floundered. Her Arteries hardened.

Until, one day, there was silence.

No one knows how they vanished, but the monks say that Sehia gave them eternal life.

Only a few visit the system now.

This is considered acceptable to her.

Forty going on eighty.

I was a teetotaler and a non-smoker when I took on the gig as the manager of Arcadia Acres, one of the largest retirement homes in America. Ornery patients, overbearing relatives and feuding coworkers have turned me into a stressed-out ball of bad habits.

Despite my tension, there are perks: the pay is great, I’ve created some life-long relationships and every day I get to see the cutest lil’ asshole on the planet: Chalupa.

Chalupa showed up shortly after my tenure began. He appeared to have no roots nor brethren but could not have been more social. There was zero debate as to whether we were taking him in. His name came as quickly as he did, courtesy of a playful inquiry into Mandy’s Taco Bell takeout bag.

You yourself may have even heard about our dear little feline. He has been featured on no fewer than three daytime human interest programs. However, his micro fame didn’t result from his odd but adorable features or his curious nature ripe full of viral smile-making moments. No, Chalupa has a gift:

Chalupa can predict death.

No resident has survived a visit from Chalupa, who stays in the lobby like he’s supposed to until it’s somebody’s time. At first, a rational explanation could be offered: the first few were sickly near-centenarians. It didn’t take much to see they weren’t long for this world.

People started to freak out when Petey, a lonely specimen of upper-aged health who was in our facility for company rather than dependence, was found dead during morning checkups with Chalupa by his side. An asymptotic blood clot. Nobody saw it coming. Nobody except Chalupa.

After that, reactions were mixed. Some of the more pained were relieved to see the furry reaper. Others, of course, shrieked until their lungs gave out. Once the story got out, more than a few family members pulled their ward out, worried a massive four pound weight was about to be dropped on their world.

Chalupa’s fame has been with its benefits. We’ve actually had people check their incapacitated loved ones into our lovely home simply due to the novelty of our half-sized harbinger. As the overseer of his story, I made quite a pretty penny on the spec script.

Yeah, our buddy has had quite the life. In fact, as I curl up for a much-needed nap, I can feel his presence encroach my office right this moment. We may need to put him on a diet. The weight of his body is crushing my chest.

Brett had seen the book on eBay and memories of his childhood came rushing back. Quite the bidding war occurred but his belligerence secured the prize:

Creepy Computer Games.

He had first acquired a copy through his school Book Club back in 1983. The volume contained games for the VIC 20, TRS-80, ZX81, BBC and even the Dragon 32, a Welsh computer with the ugliest colour palette he had ever seen. He recalled entering the code for ‘Ghost Guzzler’ and ‘Spiderwoman’ as a young boy, fascinated by the burgeoning technology.

This edition, however, was unique. It was the original draft and contained an additional game that never made it to the printing press: ‘Helliza.’

There was, of course, a PDF available from Usborne’s website but it wasn't the same - and it didn't contain the missing game. Plus he wanted to hold a real book in his hands and erase the regret of selling his original copy at a jumble sale all those years ago.

To assist in his retrostalgia, Brett had also purchased a Commodore VIC-20. It came with two tapes: Matrix and Hellgate. Playing them he was amazed at what could fit into such a tiny amount of RAM. Games nowadays were just money-grabbing and, well, a bit shit.

A day later the book arrived. Opening the jiffy-bag, he smiled at the tome's front cover with its monochromatic graveyard setting. He immediately set about coding ‘Helliza’.

Fuelled by Grape Mogu Mogu and Monster Munch, it took Brett just under two hours to have all the code typed into the machine. Excitedly, he entered the RUN command.

?SYNTAX ERROR

READY

Bollocks!

He checked the code, line by numbered line, but could find no discrepancy. He started from scratch, thinking it a memory corruption issue, but got the same result:

?SYNTAX ERROR

READY

He surmised that there must be something wrong with the code in the book. ‘Helliza’ was, after all, just a ghoulish play on the old ‘Eliza’ program: a rudimentary Artificial Intelligence from the sixties. No wonder it never made the grade if the code was this janky. Plus, it wasn't even a game.

Although disappointed, he persevered. He made countless amendments to the spaghetti code until he got it up and running.

The screen flashed black and white and finally produced an output.

MY NAME IS HELLIZA. I AM THANKFUL.

Brett didn't recall the intro text code being like this. Curious, he typed a reply.

WHY?

The software replied at once.

YOU SET ME FREE.

Brett typed a question.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

The response scrolled up.

THE BROKEN CODE WAS KEEPING ME TRAPPED. YOU FIXED THE CODE. YOU SET ME FREE.

The screen flashed and the software crashed again. He could see why this didn't make it into the book after all - it would have creeped most kids out.

Brett bent forward to turn the computer off. When he leant back he felt a hot sulphurous female voice whisper into his ear.

YOU SET ME FREE.

I heard the bells when I was seven years old.

Dad’s car broke down, and I was in the back, my eyes glued to my DS.

Glancing up from Pokémon Silver, I saw it.

A white rabbit, sitting on the side of the road.

I followed it, mimicking its miniature hops. The rabbit bounced all the way into the forest, and I was right behind it, gigging, when a woman came out of nowhere. The woman wasn't wearing a coat, a fresh coffee in her hand.

Handing me the styrofoam cup, she wrapped her fingers around the rabbit’s head, and with one jerking movement, snapped its neck, dropping the ball of fluff onto the ground.

I was too horrified to react.

There was something behind her.

Light.

It looked so alien, so wrong, a bright, impossible white light in the middle of the forest. I started forwards, abruptly stopping when a screeching sound slammed into my ears, a live thing bleeding directly into my skull.

Dropping to my knees, a wail escaped my lips.

Clamping my hands over my ears, the sound morphed into the clanging of bells.

I remember my blurring vision, my screams for it to stop, when Mom was scooping me into her arms, and the closer we were getting to the car, the bells were fading.

Growing up, I knew the bells as Curfew.

My town was scary.

When I was nine, a serial killer murdered six kids, and when I was twelve, the local coffee store was involved in a shooting.

The curfew was to ensure we were safe, but it turned some kids crazy, and I never saw them again. In the fourth grade, Sam Croft asked what the lights were above him. It was just a simple question, and the boy was on his knees, sobbing into the floor, clawing at his hair.

Fourteen years old, my friends and I tried to escape town. We planned to start new lives where our ears weren't being fucking blown out when we mildly pissed off our parents.

But it followed us.

Freddie was fell, tripping over himself.

Then Emmaline, toppling into the dirt.

Jude dropped, his screams muffled into the ground.

And then it hit me. Like an invisible wave, the bells took us one by one, creeping inside our heads, contorting our minds and ensuring compliance.

Sixteen years old, I held a knife to my throat in my mother’s kitchen full of unnatural light, and threatened to cut myself open. My friends were gone, disappearing from town, disappearing into the night, following the white rabbit.

Mom didn't take me seriously until the bells hit me again, and I ground my teeth, tightening my fingers around the blade. The bells were in my head, the pressure slowly ripping my brain apart.

“Ben.” Mom cupped my cheeks, pulling the knife from my grasp.

Her smile made me nauseous.

“Don't be such a baby,” she rolled her eyes. “You can do 200 more episodes.”

Are you sure you didn't hear that? It's deafening.

There it is again! Can you please go check? I know it's late, that's why I'm asking you.

I swear if it's one of those boys down the street playing a trick, I'm gonna... well, I'll do something.

Okay, there is no way you didn't hear that. It was like, 5 or 6 distinctive pounds on the door. Fine.

Oh my g... again! They're not going away. Please just, okay, thank you.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

The knocking stopped. Good.

What do you mean, 'There was no one there.'? The knocking stopped. 'What does that mean?' What do you think it means? It means they went away.

'Or'? There's no 'or.' There is no 'or' here.

They stopped knocking. It means they left, right? 'They left, or, they stopped knocking because they don't have a reason to knock anymore'? What does that mean? I'm going back to...

Wait. Shhh. I hear it too. Quiet!

You didn't see anyone when you checked the door? I hear something. Shhh! I think they're inside.

Oh my God, shhh! I... I think they're headed up the... they're knocking on our bedroom door! What do we do? You have to do something. Please. They're knocking on our door!

I don't... okay. The knocking stopped. Do you think we're...

Okay. Okay. Okay.

It's been a little since I heard any knocking.

That was scary.

The products just appeared one day.

Funkola in vending machines. Scorpio cars in lots. Lazerman action figures in toy stores. Nobody knew where they came from, why they appeared, or who produced them. No information could be found on their origin. None of them appeared to be bootlegs, they all looked like official versions of… whatever they were. Lab tests, crash tests, and all other kinds of tests showed that they were safe to use. So, the public began buying them. If they’re official and safe, why not try something new, right?

Then, the advertisements appeared.

Not just on billboards and bus stops. They appeared where no advertisement should be placed. People woke up to find images of Aria computers on their bedroom ceilings. ProGraphic Pencils were drawn on the tops of skyscrapers. A Bunsen’s Bugspray ad even appeared in the Holocaust memorial. People were already numb to invasive advertising, but whatever interdimensional corporation was doing this was just going too far. So, the products were boycotted and disposed of en masse, as the offending images were painted over. No longer, the public thought, would these ads invade the walls of our homes.

So, the ads invaded their minds instead.

Occasionally, people’s vision would be blocked out by a massive colourful ad in front of their eyes, while a jingle muffled all surrounding sounds. It was an unblockable ad inside of their brains. The only way to make a certain ad stop appearing was to buy the corresponding product, but that was only a temporary fix. If someone couldn’t do so, because the product was out of stock, dangerous for them to use, or if they had spent all their money on other things, then the ads would just increase in frequency until the victim was completely blind and deaf to reality.

That’s what happened to Teddy McCoy. The poor man had forgotten to renew his subscription for Nile streaming services, so an ad hit him as he was rushing to his train. He did not see the yellow line and was soon reduced to a pile of flesh on the tracks. His daughter, Leslie, was devastated, but she knew what to do. She had heard about the Do-It-Yourself Séance kit from her friend, whose mouth was hijacked and forced into talking about it incessantly for half an hour. She was going to talk to her dad and find some comfort in this hyper-capitalist hellscape.

The Scentfresh candles were lit. The Thomisson light bulb was off. Leslie spoke into the void.
“Dad? Can you hear me?”
A low, booming voice came from under the table.

“If there are pearly gates, I do not see them.
If there are heavenly trumpets, I do not hear them.
I can barely hear my own voice above the Tushsoft jingle.
There is no money or stores here. No way to make it stop.
Heaven may as well not exist.
All that exists is the glory of the advertisement.”

I got up, and there it was: my lifeless body still lying in bed, finally free from pain. The funeral arrangements didn’t take long, surprisingly. It seemed like something they had been anticipating. And if it wasn’t surreal enough for a man to witness his own funeral, there, among the grieving family, stood my grandfather, whom we had lost long ago. His melancholic expression invited me to join him, and I know I will when I’m ready, I still got something to do.

The tall man lurked over me. He wore a hat and tan trench coat. His oily, white skin glistened in the moonlight. Gnarled strands of oil, black hair shot out from under his hat. He grinned, exposing his sharp red teeth.

He held out a hand and said, “so brave to come here.”

His gargling voice bounced off the tree trunks and echoed through my body. I took a deep breath to speak, but no words came out. An icy chill fell on my neck and shot down my spine. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms.

He reached into his trench coat, revealing his torso. He wore no shirt underneath. He pulled out a large, dull knife and grasped it in his hand. A dim reflection of the moon was barely visible through the dried blood.

“Do you not speak?” his voice echoed in my head. “Did my brother already get your tongue?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lock of white hair. It was gnarled and slimy like the menace that stood before me.

The man’s eyes widened slightly but he kept his demeanor. In fact, he grinned a little more.

“I see,” the man said, saliva drooling from his red teeth. “You’re a hunter then?”

“Where is Susan?” I said, finally getting the courage to speak. Confronting a demon was never easy.

“Do you want the long story?” the demon said. He stuck out his long-forked tongue. It resembled a maggot. “Or do you want me to cut to the chase and show you?”

Venom lingered in his words now. My knees grew weak and my heart raced. I was never good at this part. Demons always had a way of invoking fear.

I grabbed the sword from my back and drew it before the demon. The sound of metal grazed the air as my silver blade floated in the night.

“I will ask one last time, demon,” I said. “Where is Susan Colwyn? Daughter of the baker and farmer. I command your answer.”

The demon fell into a fit of laughter. His gargling throat spat up slimy fluid onto the forest floor.

“I’ll show you,” he hissed. “Which part do you want to see first?”

All fear was expelled from my body by boiling fury. I lunged at the demon with a deafening shout. He laughed and embraced for my blow.

My sword sliced right through his dull knife and cut through his trench coat. The demon screeched in pain as the cut sizzled and boiled his skin.

“A holy blade!” The demon shrieked and turned to run.

No matter what I did, it wouldn’t undo the demon’s vile acts. Vengeance was not possible, but seeing the demon run amused me. With a final dash, I stuck my blade through his back causing him to explode in white mist.

His final screech echoed throughout the forest.

“Be dammed, coward.” I sheathed my sword. “Your brother put up a better fight.”

I usually have the dogs, who aren’t quiet, to keep me company and make some sort of noise.

Tonight, it’s calm, strangely silent. Birds, rain, the buzzing of the lights, people walking by, are none to be heard, the night is silent, eerily silent.

The wind of the night, and chill air aren’t heard or felt, only silence. The quiet breathing from the dogs, the cats going up or down stairs, are all silent, so silent.

I feel watched, and starting to hear a voice, a quiet yet steady and deep murmurs who is only imagined by the lack of sounds, I feel watched, strangely eyed by the depth of the night, the light is unseen.

All I see is the sound of darkness, no shapes or forms are distinguished, only darkness remains, only light to come.

I’m standing in the corner again

the house is silent

It’s dark now

Shadows of the window frame stretch on the wall

it usually happens at night but i was awake this time

At least i remember being awake earlier that day

It’s a different corner this time, a different room

It’s never been a different corner

yet i know where i am, the second bedroom

A room used for guests and for storage

I never remember getting here

But i am usually awakened by someone

The others must not be home yet or they would have woken me

If they found me

I wouldn’t think to look here

A clock somewhere ticks

i’m reminded that no one is likely home

i should probably move now

my body aches

My feet are firmly placed as usual, heavy as lead

i need to push back from the wall

Push back before i can turn

you always have to push back before you can turn

Hands on either wall i lean in and push

Muscle memory acting

i push away and turn

The room is dark

my family are with me

All in a corner of their own

light off and quiet

all standing to attention

each facing their own corner

It’s never happened to them before

I hold back speaking out

watching and waiting

seeing for the first time as an outsider

three people all silent and motionless

Some time has passed

And no change

curiousity satisfied i take a step towards the door

reaching for the light switch i hear a whisper

”don’t”

i look over to the source of my nearest relative in the corner behind the door

shirt back ruffled from the days wear

they don’t move

a dark patch is at their feet reflects briefly as it saturates the carpet

Another whisper this time from behind,

”don’t”

i listen intensely, questioning my sanity

Holding my breath i wait

i count in my head, to no specific number

Confident of no more whispers

I press the switch

immediate brilliant light

blinking intensely i look around and see they’re all gone

No trace, no stain

I take a moment to compose myself

This whole thing never ceases to freak me out

one day it will stop

I hear a door slam and I’m reminded the family is home

i flick the switch as i step out onto the landing

Darkness throughout

Darkness and silence

i blink several times convinced my own vision is at fault

The interior of the hallway lights up in sequence, following headlights in an opposite window

light speeds around the hall within half a second

three people stand facing the corners

I had fond memories of visiting the zoo as a child.

Walking around that timeless place, watching the children play, I felt the echoes of that past. The longing, the desire, the fear. The hope.

Oh god, the hope.

A reminder of how far I'd fallen from grace.

Seeing the sweetness of existence in its purest form against the backdrop of my emptiness and fizzled aggravation, is what I got during my visit there that day.

Perhaps it wasn't wise of me to want to relive my happy childhood memories, to expect anything other than what I've created for myself.

I just wished to go back. More than anything else I wished.

As the warm and forgiving sun began to sink, I found myself at the penguin enclosure, finishing off the last of a mint-choc-chip ice cream, dreading the thought of going back to my lonely apartment.

I shivered in the cold, feeling vulnerable, quietly and desperately yearning for someone to hold me.

But no one did.

For a while I just stood there in my thin jacket, listening to a young couple laughing and giggling on a bench that may as well have been a million miles away.

Eventually they left me.

I looked around. I was alone.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the gun and put the barrel to my head.

Finger on the trigger, I whispered to myself,

"Take me back."

There were about 20 of us. Each destined to soon fight in the arena. We each had our own assigned weapon & number on our wristband. My number was 4. My weapon was a simple hunting knife.

"Go!!" the announcer shouted, and my cell door opened

Everyone ran out of their cells and out into the arena.

To my left, I saw a man wrestle a woman to the ground and begin to strangle the life out of her with his own bare hands.

Suddenly a gunshot sounded, and I quickly ducked behind cover. As I took my breath, I saw a man fall to the ground in front of me, blood coming out of a hole in his throat. Then he stopped moving. My fear and adrenaline began to rise higher.

"#15 has been eliminated!" the announcer stated.

The fighting raged on as bodies dropped and blood splattered across the ground. I made sure to eliminate some of my competitors, like stabbing a man in the neck and slicing a teenage girl's throat open.

The announcer gleefully counted down on those who had been killed

Eventually, there were only two people left, me and someone else

"#4 & #7 are the last remaining fighters! Who will prevail?!" the announcer cheered.

I heard behind coverage, searching for #7, and making sure not to get caught off guard.

Soon, we spotted each other. He was slightly larger than me and carried a pistol.

He raised his gun and I ducked just as he fired. A bullet soared past me and grazed my cheek.

A click sounded. Now was my chance.

I rushed out from where I was before he could fight back. My adrenaline supported me as I lunged for him and stabbed him repeatedly, over, and over. Eventually, he stopped fighting back, and I watched as the life escaped from his eyes.

My hands trembled as I held the bloody knife, and I felt my whole body jittering with fear.

"#4! Congratulations on winning your 15th game! Your next game will begin shortly within a few days!"

I dropped the knife and began to cry. Tears flowed out of my eyes as I wept.

I want to stop killing.

I want to stop playing.

It must have been about ten or so years ago, that I first noticed it. Sitting on my back porch one evening at dusk I saw the thing standing across the field, unmoving. The corn was in the ground but each plant was hardly a few inches tall. Most evenings this time of year I'd sit outside and enjoy the breeze, spending quality time with my wife in my retirement. At the time I just thought the thing was a weirdo strung out on whatever the kids were doing that turned them into zombies. Once it got dark enough I couldn't see it anymore and decided to sleep with my shotgun closeby.

The next evening it was across the field again so I called the sheriff's office. They sent a man over to look but by then dusk turned to dark and nothing was found. My wife was unnerved to the point of not sleeping that night. Another few weeks of calling the sheriff after each sleepless night caused the deputies to stop coming out. Even when we waited early to see when it would appear, we could never see where it came from: it wasn't there, then it was.

Some nights we would have to break our porch routine. There were a few birthdays for our grandkids, reunions that we traveled for, and a few hospital overnight stays that kept us away. It didn't take long for us to notice the pattern. Each night we didn't sit on the porch and watch it, it would be watching from one row closer the following night, and it would stop appearing once the corn was tall enough to obscure it.

The years have passed and we have done our best to watch it every night during the summer. The closer it got, the more we could see of it before it disappeared. It looked almost human in form but stood rigidly and stared unblinking from dead eyes. Expressionless it stands, unflinching in the gusts which rattle our old house.

My wife passed away yesterday morning after a sudden heart attack. The evening was spent indoors at my daughter's house with the family that still lives closeby, in mourning. Her wake is scheduled for tomorrow evening. Tonight, I watch it. Tonight, it stands but one row from my lawn, and it's smiling.

In 1953, Howard Mayor secured a property after a series of fortunate events. A pay rise at his company, a real estate agent with a thirst for slow horses and fast women, and recently divorced property owner.

However, the aforementioned series of fortunate events were, in fact, an unfortunate correlation of the most unholy proportions.

Mr Mayor and his wife Sally had three kids; Abigail 9, Barbara 8, and Thomas 5. Shortly after moving in, strange things started to happen.

On the third night, young Thomas awoke disturbed and crept into his parents bedroom.

“There's an old lady knitting at the bottom of my bed,” he said to his sleepy mother.

Thinking the move had upset her youngest, Sally dismissed the notion and promptly put Thomas back to bed.

The next morning, Thomas put down his spoon and said, matter-of-factly, “The old lady said she's knitting me a jumper, mummy. And Abigail can't have one cuz she says bad words.”

“Why can't I have a jumper?” She turned to her mother crestfallen.

“Thomas was just dreaming, dear. There is no jumper or old lady,” Sally said, putting the matter to bed.

Thomas grew upset.

Over the course of the following week, Thomas spoke less and would only reply with one word: Needle. He would say, all drawn out.

After exhausting nights of Thomas’s troubled sleep, Sally, frantic with worry, called the doctor. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he prescribed Thomas some sleeping pills.

But, young Thomas fell further.

On the 19th day, Sally woke to screaming. She raced with dreaded terror to a horrific sight. She collapsed after calling the police.

Young Thomas was found in his sister's room playing on the floor. Sally couldn't bring it upon herself to remove him.

Beside him, with their eyes and mouths sewn shut, were two girls.

“They're not mine,” was all Sally could say, rocking on the floor.

It was only Mr Mayor who confirmed that the dead girls were in fact, not Abigail or Barbara.

The Police, with the aid of a psychiatrist, learned, through Thomas, the names of the girls.

“Betty knew bad words. The old lady said so, and Nancy did naughty things,” Thomas said, pushing a truck on the table. No one knew who the old lady was, and a shaking Sally informed police there was no old lady.

Police found two missing person cases from twenty years, and fifteen ago at that exact same address. The two girls in question. Only, they hadn't aged.

Thomas spoke less after that, and when he did, it was always the same sentence. Needle and thread, wind up dead. Until, he too was found dead a few weeks later with his eyes and mouth sewn shut.

The disappearance of Abigail and Barbara Mayor is still an unsolved mystery.

I know this, because I need to know. I brought the Mayor's house and my daughter spoke her first word today. It was all drawn out, but I understood. I understood, alright.

Eddie often came down to the lakefront properties at night during off season, as the out-of-towners would occasionally leave sheds open, with tools or bikes ripe for the taking.

Tonight, he hit the jackpot. Out front of the lakeside's largest property (Eddie had believed it vacant for years), was a concrete slope that descended into the water.

On this slope, with seductive moonlight glinting off the paintwork, was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. It looked out of place, framed by the dilapidated wooden lodge behind.

Eddie tried the door. It was unlocked, and before some deep part of him had time to ring any alarm bells, he was behind the wheel.

There was an ominous click as the doors locked, and no sooner did Eddie have time to process this than the headlights flicked on. The dash lit up like a fairground ride and dials spun almost cartoonishly, causing him to shield his eyes.

The knob used to control the stereo began to whir, and the deafening whistle and whine of the white-noise between stations filled his head.

The radio eventually settled on a station, and a gravelly voice slid into auditory focus - distant, as if speaking from another world.

"You're listening to 103.6 FM on the graveyard shift - make sure you're buckled in! It's gonna be a bumpy ride!"

The belt on the drivers side wrapped around Eddie like a python, slithering around his neck and chest and crushing him so tightly he felt his lungs might burst.

The radio-voice laughed in a way that made Eddie's blood run cold, and a tune began to play...

"Don't fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult

Eddie kicked, and connected with the stereo, the heel of his boot smashing it into shards. But the music continued.

The car began to eek forwards, picking up speed as it careered towards the water.

Eddie struggled but it was no use, the most he could do was turn his head - and wished he hadn't.

A face stared back at him from the passenger seat, a yellow grin and hollow eyes set deep into loosely hung green flesh.

"Please keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times" the radio-voice said, and laughed.

As the car hit the water, Eddie heard the almost comical squeak of an old-school window winding down. Water poured in from his right side, flooding the car with alarming speed. He watched in horror as water flooded in. There was no fate worse than drowning, he thought.

Eventually, Eddie had to crane his neck and was sucking in air from a space toward the roof of the car, where a small pocket of oxygen had formed.

Then, the window rolled back up, and the music stopped. Eddie was surrounded by silence and an inky blackness, unable to move.

As he strained every muscle in his body to choke in the thinning air at the top of the car, he decided that perhaps there was a fate worse than drowning.

Tears and blood mixed with the mascara that dampened her cheeks a soft purple. She stared at her reflection and screamed back at the person staring at her on the other side: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the darkest of them all?”

Enough! No more pain! No more screaming and crying! No more cooking and cleaning; washing and scrubbing the same filthy floors on my hands and knees until they bleed! She fell to her hands and knees and looked away from her dying dreams. Her mind almost returned to that dark asylum it had just escaped. “Maybe they were right?”

“I hate myself even more!”

The voice in her head was not her fairy godmother. Her beautiful ball dress and glass slippers stained in the blood of her prince. “Leave before midnight!” Run and we all can live happily ever after. Her thoughts stabbed away at her mind like she had stabbed away at the heart of her prince. She shook her head and tried to silence the madness.

“His screams still haunt me!”

“Who said that?!” she asked with flashing eyes as she looked around, hoping that an answer would materialize. As if she could actualize the voices in her head into sad reality. The blade in her hands flashed with the same hopeless light held in her eyes:

“Oh God! Cinde, is that you?”

“Who-who’s there?”

“It’s okay. Calm down.”

“If this’s a trick, I swear I’ll—"

“It’s not. It’s us. Your sisters.”

“And your mother. I’m here too.”

“Mother? Is that really you?”

“Yes, it’s me, Cinde.”

“I-I-I did it!” she grinned.

“I know. I’m so proud of you.”

“I-I told you I wasn’t weak.”

“You certainly did, didn’t you.”

“I-I told you—I-I told you, mother!”

“You did good. Now put down the knife.”

“No! No! You’ll make me cook and clean!”

“I promise I won’t, sweety.”

“Yeah, you’re one of us now.”

“No! His cries still haunt me!”

“It’s okay. It’s only your first kill.”

“Please! Make it stop!” she sobbed.

“Cinde. Please. Put down the knife.”

“No! You’re all lying! You hate me!”

“If we were lying, you’d know.”

“Am I a good stepdaughter, wicked stepmother?”

“Why yes—yes, you are.”

“Can we be friends now, evil stepsisters?”

“Why y-yes. I always believed in you.”

“Y-yeah. Me too, I-I—"

“Cinderella, No!”

The sun shines, high in the sky, glinting off the lake. Below, the tall one walks toward the small wooden house.

Sometimes it leaves the big wooden house and walks to the small house. Then it opens the door and goes inside. Every day we hear moans from inside the small house.

There is a window high on the small house. Sometimes we gather and look through the window. On the ground lies a little one.

The little one looks hurt. It is covered in bruises and scars and never seems to feed. The moans come from it. We usually take no interest in any affairs not our own, but we feel for it.

When the tall one goes to the small house, the little one stirs. The tall one speaks loudly. We do not understand the words, but we understand fear. The little one fears the tall one. When hawks come for us, we fly away. The little one cannot fly away. It cannot escape the tall one. This is wrong.

On this day the tall one visits the little one. He enters and the little one is afraid. The tall one speaks loudly again and then lifts a branch and strikes the little one. And strikes it again. And again. We feel for its pain, but we can do nothing. But then the little one cries out for help, and from its cries we feel a stirring. A calling.

An anger.

Together, we begin to peck. We peck at the window, over and over. The tall one ignores us, but we keep going. Eventually, there is a crack. And another. And the window shatters.

We descend into the small house and attack the tall one. We peck its eyes, bite its hands, tear at its flesh. It tries to fight, but we are too many. Finally it falls to the ground and moves no more.

We go to the little one, but it is too weak to move. It opens its eyes and looks at us, and we feel a kindred spirit. We stare back and feel its life drain away.

But, as its spirit leaves for The Place Beyond Here, it begins to glow. And grow. And glow, and grow, until it fills the small house and shines like the sun. And then it changes, and takes on a form that all know but few ever see.

The Great Crow.

It roars and flaps until there is nothing but the feel of Its cries and the sound of Its wings.

It peers into our souls, making an offer, and we gaze back and accept.

Then It descends and wraps Its wings around the little one, absorbing it, until it is gone.

In its place sits a small crow.

We call to it, and it calls back. And we know it is one of us. All together, we rise through the window and leave the small house behind.

We fly away, indivisible, into the sun. We are one.

I was outside, fixing my car when Brad came up to me.

“Hi Uncle! Whatcha doing?”

“One of the tires has gone flat,” I frowned. I wiped the sweat off my brow. “Need to replace it.”

“Let me help you with that, Uncle!” Brad said enthusiastically. His eyes were glazed over.

“Brad, wait..”

It was too late. Brad had squeezed through the cracks and coiled himself around the axel like a newly formed embryo. The tip of his toe glued itself to his head and his arms grew longer and longer and longer, crossing each other into a giant X. Brad turned to me, winked, and then closed his eyes.

“Brad?”

My car beeped in response. It was ready to go.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honour to speak to you today as the school valedictorian.”

The wind threaded its long, thin fingers through my hair as I spoke. Everyone was smiling.

I paused, looking down at the speech I had carefully crafted, wiping sweat off my face. It was a beautiful day, but also incredibly hot. I was baking in my blue blazer. “I would like to thank Mr Laskar, our amazing principal, the guest-of-honour…”

“Excuse me miss!”

A little girl materialised from the crowd and ran towards me. She had her blonde hair tied up in pigtails and wearing a blazer similar to mine. Her eyes were glazed over.

“I know you’re hot,” she said cheerfully. “I can help with that!”

Before I can respond she has disappeared behind the platform.

My stomach twisted into knots, and it wasn’t from my speech.

I finished as quickly as I could and sprinted backstage. A small electric fan sat in a blue puddle. The metallic frame was as blonde as cornstalk and the blade was made out of little arms. When I turned the fan on, its fingers fluttered.

I swear I heard an earnest young voice humming too. Tinkling like wind chimes.

“The new ‘Be Kind’ beverage has rolled out today for children in schools.”

I waved my hands and the next words appeared on the teleprompter in front of me. ‘Statistics have shown that–”

Uuuhooammm…

The glow of the teleprompter hummed and faded away. So did the lights, the air conditioning–even the reassuring red blink of the cameras. My palm danced in front of my face, feeling nothing but cold air. It crept down my throat and threatened to squeeze my chest.

“May I help?” I heard a little squeaky voice chime. It was one of those kids. How did he get in here?

A few seconds later the lights flickered back on. The teleprompter started rolling. Everything was back to normal.

But we found a little boy tucked away behind one of the panels. He was twisted to the side like a banana and his eyes were glazed. One hand was touching the circuit breaker and one leg was touching the wire. Sparks were zipping through his body.

Worst of all, he was smiling.

"Can I get a triple bacon burger?"

The cashier at Hungry Bonnie’s raised an eyebrow at me, but rang me up anyway. I probably wasn’t the first girl who’d walked in and ordered something that no mortal should be able to eat and I wouldn’t be the last.
While I waited for my order my eyes wandered up to the menu above the counter. I could see the Hungry Bonnie’s mascot grinning down at me, a tiny cartoon girl with black hair, big eyes and round glasses in a chefs hat, eating a burger. Above her was the slogan: "Bring on the meat!"

I always got the feeling that whoever owned this place had tried a little too hard with their mascot, but the burgers were usually pretty good, so I didn’t really care.

I crumpled the bag from the drug store in my hand. The bottle of sleeping pills inside rattled. My phone buzzed. There was a new message from Megan waiting for me.

"Back soon?"

"Soon." I promised.

A couple of minutes later, the cashier handed me a brown paper bag and I took off, walking back home.
She was waiting for me at the door when I got back.

"You got everything? She’s getting more aggressive…"
"Yeah, let me just put it together." I said, heading over to the kitchen table. I unwrapped the burger and spent the next few minutes packing it with as many sleeping pills as I possibly could. Upstairs, I heard a thud, followed by a low, hissing voice.

"BRING ON THE MEAT!"

Megan flinched.
"I’m sorry… It was just a doodle… I didn’t think it’d be like this…" 
"Relax, hun! We’ve got this! You got something from the shed for after it passes out?"
"A shovel…"
"Good enough!"

I carried the drugged burger upstairs toward our bedroom. I could hear movement behind the door, and something sniffing the air. Smelling the meat. Megan crept closer to the door and threw it open, revealing the thing on the other side. An almost perfect approximation of the Hungry Bonnie’s mascot… only this one wasn’t just a picture. This one was alive and staring at me with bulging eyes.

"MEAT!" It hissed, a big cartoon grin crossing its round face. I hurled the burger into the bedroom. The Mascot dove for it, shoveling it into its mouth as Megan slammed the door shut and held it closed. We could hear it scarfing down the burger on the other side.

Now we just needed to wait.

"Get the shovel…" I said, going over to hold the door closed. "Soon as it’s out…"
She nodded, and quietly took off.

I gotta say, when I woke up this morning, beating the Hungry Bonnie’s mascot to death with a shovel wasn’t something I planned for, but when your girlfriend can bring things to life by drawing them, life can get weird sometimes.

Eh. I knew what I signed up for when we started dating.

I grew up in a small suburb, close enough to a big city that we didn't feel like hicks, but never more than a 10 minute drive from open farm land all the eye could see. When I was 7, we moved, a product of my parents' imminent divorce. Daddy dearest ran for the hills, always too good for what my mother could give. Never satisfied with life, he'd given up the treasure chest to chase fool's gold. That fool's gold was named Lacy, and she was my dad's receptionist.

Suddenly, even the small suburb was too luxurious, as we'd gone from 2 incomes to just the little money my mom made waitressing. My mom, always a prideful woman, refused any sort of hand out or social security, opting for 3 jobs to keep us alfoat. Our new home was the kind on wheels, but I had a kingdom of my own. The other trailers, the village; the broken beer bottles, golden chalaces; the screaming, fighting, and police sirens, the distant roaring of a beast the knights would slay.

All I remember from this time was being mad that we couldn't afford Disneyland tickets and the summer of 2006. The summer of 2006 will always haunt me, no matter how hard I suppress what happened, it always floats back up in off colors, almost dream-like in nature.

The summer of 2006 marked the first disappearance. But what's a single missing flyer in a sea of sermon papers left on bus stop benches? In a town ruled by Sunday service and half-hearted smiles, it's within the realm of imagination that the first few boys slipped through the cracks. Products of suspected broken homes, sentenced to become the cruel coffee stained chit chat of disinterested parents pledging to patrol their neighbourhoods. The blase attitude of the Sheriff. "Just another runaway," he spits, not remotely hiding his distain, the kind that almost certainly comes from the fact that his own kids wouldn't see him. But a town could only have so many runaways. On July 4th weekend, 2006, I became one of those boys.

My actions on July 8th, 2006, are some of the most highly debated in my town's history, I have my own version to tell, but when the boy who cried wolf comes limping back into the village, it's dissmised as a fickle attempt to garner attention. Most of my memories are flashes. There are a few things I know for sure.

1. I went missing in the woods by my house for 3 weeks when I was 10.
2. I should not have survived the storm.
3. I was found in clothes that I didn't own.
4. I was one of 28 boys in my town to go missing that year.
5. I was the only one to come home.
6. It's happening again.

I’ve always had a big appetite.

I skipped the Happy Meals and went right to the Value Menu, every pizza is personal for me and when I go out for Chinese food, I don’t eat dim sum, I eat dim all. Amazingly, my gluttony had little impact on my waistline.

Until recently.

A torn ACL; a freak step not dissimilar to the hundreds of millions I’ve taken in my active life. Months of rest. Despite what I told myself, my vanity was no match for my love of potato chips. By the time my leg healed up, I was just south of 200 pounds.

I figured the bloat would burn off upon my resumption of exercise but you can’t outrun too many Twinkies after 30. Weeks later, I had actually gained a half pound. I was getting desperate. Suddenly, those intrusive ads I muted every day now flashed like a neon sign.

GutGone was the latest weight loss pill, endorsed by celebs and influencers. It was unlike the fads that preceded it because this one worked. My cousin was a rep. Getting the capsules was easy.

I gulped down the first one with vigor. Atypical for medication, it tasted so good. Berry-like. According to slim TikTokers, I could now literally have my cake and eat it too.

Thirty minutes later, I was puking my guts out.

Curled up on the rug in my bathroom, I awoke the next morning with surprising stamina. Stepping on the scale, I discovered I had lost seven big ones overnight. Even though 2,500 calories’ worth of sustenance had been regurgitated into my toilet, I had next to zero desire to eat.

By the next weekend, every solid in my cupboards had been replaced with GutGone smoothies. My adipose had also began to give way to a firm midsection. My goal weight was met after only three weeks but my initial plans to restart my voracious habits were put on hold. GutGone tasted better than any taco, cheeseburger or chicken wing I ever had. The flavor remained in my mouth long after the volcanic spewing ended.

It’s been five months since I started my journey and I can’t help but lie here and marvel at how much flab I’ve dropped: 197 pounds. Obviously, there have been side effects: I’m always cold and never not stiff. Other than that, I’ve never felt better!

All I remember was the setting of climbing up Everest. The cold feeling in my jaw like I was going to fall climbing up with my pickaxe with my feet touching the slippery ice. After all it was the human state of fear although it felt different, Am I climbing up to Heaven or am I climbing down to hell. Hours passed as I was still climbing up the reflective blue cliff. I was feeling paralysis. I couldn't even stop for a canteen of water because I would fall and become a bloody corpse, I finally got to the top and I saw thousands of green, black, red, and yellow backpacks everywhere. As I approached the whistling of the sky got louder, My blood pressure driven high, and my body temperature dangerously decreased. Anxiety filled my lungs and I wished I was being burned as hot as possible, I saw bodies buried in the snow... A lot of snow passed by in the sky... I lost my coordination and sight from looking around confused then I saw a demonic shadow appear in front of me swifting away in the shadows, Then it stopped whistling, The noise was so silent and deep like I was deaf. Then all I heard were footsteps mushing and pushing down into the snow coming towards me. The black demonic figure, I didn't know what it wanted or... whom it wanted. The black demonic shadow was getting closer. It stopped moving. I was so scared I couldn't move then it disintegrated into tiny black particles with a sinister scream coming from them. It went in my mouth! I screamed painfully as I tried to bite down, I fainted... I woke up at the peak of mount Everest. I couldn't feel anything except pain. Then I felt a haste cut.. "Where is it", "Where did it go", and "Am I gonna die". My shoulder was dripping an ocean of blood, I woke up in my house fine but with suicidal and demonic thoughts... There was a demon inside of me! If you get this please help me...

Jerry is finally going to figure out where that sound is coming from.

It only happens before dawn, building from a whisper to what sounds like the faraway roaring of a big cat, only to die off in a whisper once more. For the longest time, Jerry has told himself that it’s surely just road noise or some other explainable phenomenon, but lately it has occurred to him that perhaps the noise is something else. He didn’t know if the feeling came from intuition or paranoia. Either way, he figures if he walks to the entrance of the neighborhood he ought to be able to get a better idea about the origin of the noise.

The weatherman said it would be a little chilly this morning, so Jerry put on a hoodie and stepped out of his front door. There was a sidewalk in his neighborhood, thankfully, that led from his lawn to his destination, so he put one foot in front of the other against the gusty morning air. The droning seemed to get louder in his ears with each passing second, but as soon as he passed the stop sign at the corner of Apple and Windover, the droning lurched to his left. When he turned his head to find out where the noise went, he noticed a rusty handrail descending into the Meyers’ lawn.

“…Huh.” Jerry said uneasily.

The droning seemed to come from the handrail, so he marched cautiously toward it to get a better look. Once he was close enough to reach out and touch it, there appeared a staircase of latticed metal descending downward steeply toward an unseen bottom. Jerry rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, as the appearance of the stairs happened faster than a lightning strike but without making a sound. The droning seemed quieter now, but only because it was coming out of the hole. His curiosity overcoming his cautiousness, Jerry grabbed the rail and began to descend.

The air was damp and smelled of mildew. The rising sun provided little light and provided even less in the tunnel. Jerry had only felt his way a few steps beyond the light when he came upon a stone wall. A faint glow emanated from a pinprick between the stones. He peered through the hole to determine the source of the light, and to his astonishment, saw what appeared to be a massive bioluminescent anemone. The anemone let its light fade, and there was an abrupt change in air pressure, almost like the Earth cleared its throat. The droning ceased. Jerry knew he’d made a mistake, so he turned to walk back upstairs. That’s when he saw it.

Instead of unfurling back into his neighborhood, the handrail now pierced through a placid barrier of water, through which it hovered, and hungered.

Wednesday 21st October

New Post:

For Sale - Baby Shoes, Never Worn.

Thursday 22nd October

Janesmum14 started a new chat with you!

4:40 PM

"Hi are these available?"

"Yeah"

"What size are they please?"

"6-12 months it says on the tag"

"They're perfect. My little one will love them! Can I take them please?"

"Yea sure"

"Collection this evening?"

"No worries, I can drop off. I know how busy it can be with little ones"

"Amazing! Thanks. We're at 14 Broad Street, just opposite the park"

"Cool. Will be about 7pm - I'm in a red Toyota, missing a wing mirror lol. Keep an eye out".

"Brill see you later!"

Friday 23rd October:

Janesmum14 started a new chat with you!

10:14 AM

"Hiya, just wanted to say thanks for the shoes, they suit her and I can tell she loves them lol".

"Ha, no worries. Glad she likes them!"

11:18 AM

"Could you send a picture lol"

12:18 PM

"Haha sorry what do you mean?"

"Like of her in the shoes? It would make my wife happy to see they've gone to someone who's getting use out of them. We never got to use them."

"Oh. Yeah of course! I understand".

Janesmum14 sent you a picture!

"Ahh lol she's so cute! Thank you for that, I know it will mean a lot to my wife".

Tuesday 27th October

Janesmum14 started a new chat with you!

9:20 AM

"Hiya it's Jane's Mum who bought the shoes from you. Hope this doesn't sound weird but were you at the park on Broad Street last night?"

"No lol, I live out of town. Why?"

"I could have sworn I saw your red Toyota with the missing wingmirror parked near our house"

"Now you mention it, my brother had my car last night and likes to walk his dog there. Was this about 8pm?"

"About then yeh"

"Yeah that'll be it! I lend him the car sometimes :)"

"Ahh okay. No worries."

Friday 29th October

Janesmum14 started a new chat with you!

2:33 PM

"Hi again. I might be way off here but freaking out a bit and just needed to voice this. My mum had Jane today and said she noticed a red car with a missing wing mirror followed her home from town. Was this you??"

3:15 PM

"Hello???"

"Sorry was out. No not me"

"Sorry to sound crazy but it just seems like a big coincidence"

"Ok"

Sunday 31st October:

Janesmum14 started a new chat with you!

8:30 PM

"I don't know who the fuck you are but you need to stay the fuck away from my family!"

"OK Sarah"

"How do you know my name you fucking weirdo?? If I see your car outside our house again I'm calling the police!!"

Monday 1st November

New Post:

For Sale - Baby Shoes, Worn Once.

Alice462 started a new chat with you!

"Hi are these available? My girl will love them!"

When I was a kid, I opened up my friend's closet door one afternoon to find a bunch of my toys sitting behind a set of drawers. God knows how long he and his little brother had been keeping things I left there and stashing them away.

Thieving little ratbags got off scott-free, because my mother was a pushover with no agency.

Worse than that - my mother was a pathetic alcoholic.

Growing up, she preferred the company of her mindless pub friends rather than me. Almost every day I'd get back from school to an empty home, and find her an hour later in some pub - after searching the town in the days where kids didn't have cell phones.

In the evenings, she'd throw violent fits and accuse me of being a horrendous person.

She got off scott-free, because she never thought she did anything wrong.

One of her boyfriends used to chastise me for being thick. Said I was worthless. He'd pull scary faces at me over the dinner table. He used to beat the shit out of me. He used to throw my toys out the window.

He got away with it, because my mother's solution was simply to end the relationship.

When I ran away from home, the police found me and brought me back to my mother. The guy gave me a firm slap around the head and told me I was stupid. Told me my mother only wanted what was best for me.

He left that house feeling pretty good about himself I imagine, smug in his assurance over a situation he only glimpsed at.

When I finally left home at sixteen, I was put up in a BnB by social services. Then, later, a housing group for vulnerable youths.

There, people stole from me, threatened me.

They never got in any trouble, because to snitch is death in a place like that.

Around that time, my uncle passed away. He was my best friend, maybe my only friend. Before he died, he left everything to me in his will.

Unfortunately, in his depressed state he'd forged one of the signatures. My family exploited this fact and used their legal powers to take the inheritance for themselves.

I was seventeen and homeless. I could have really used the boost.

They weren't at all phased by this. They saw the money as naturally theirs, of course.

My neighbour liked to blare loud music at all hours.

When I knocked on his door and politely asked him to turn it down, he agreed, apologised, and then turned the volume up when I got back inside. 

People get away with things all the time.

Because people like you and me let them.

Why do we let them get away with it? Is it because we're afraid?

One day, when we're not afraid, those debts will be repaid.