I am Detective Samara Holt, and what you are about to read is everything I remember from the strangest case I’ve ever worked: the disappearances of Occoquan, Virginia.

Being a detective, I’ve always found an interest in true crime. Disappearances, murder mysteries, cold cases… all of it activates that part of my brain that desperately seeks out answers. But if there’s one case that’s always piqued my interest the most… it’s the case of Occoquan, Virginia. By all accounts, Occoquan was a normal little region. Not much happened there in terms of crime, and its main drawing point was the large Occoquan river that ran through the area. For years, Occoquan was a popular and peaceful place to live as houses were built on the riverfront and overviewed the gorgeous, lively water and lush forests. But that peacefulness and normality couldn’t last forever. 

The Crane family built their own mansion on the waterfront and owned acres of land in the 60s. They lived in their Victorian-style mansion for about five solid years… until their youngest daughter, Amy, went missing. She was last seen swimming in the river with her sister near the dock. The account from her sister, Carla, was that Amy was in the water and having fun, then she looked at the dock and her smile faded. Carla blinked… and Amy seemingly ceased to exist in that very moment. The Crane children (Carla and her two older brothers Jeremy and Hector) were said to have gone mad the year following Amy’s sudden disappearance, so much so that Johnathan and Elizabeth Crane were forced to seclude their children from the outside world. Eye witness accounts attest to seeing Carla run into the nearby woods in 1967 only to never return to the Crane household. Two years later, Elizabeth Crane died of mysterious causes and Johnathan Crane lived alone until 1971. In the wake of his death, there have been no signs of Jeremy or Hector Crane. Seemingly just gone, as if they never even existed.

For years, the Crane household stood over the edge of the Occoquan river… and that household is seemingly the harbinger of the region’s strange activity. My first job as detective was in ‘97, hired by the mother of Hugo Barnes. I even remember the strangeness of my first assigned job being a missing child report—shouldn’t that have gone to someone with more experience? But I still took the job with grace and speed. I was hopeful about the case and hauled my ass down to Hugo’s mother, Janice. As soon as I drove into Occoquan though, I realized why I was dumped with this assignment… the city was filled to the brim with missing child posters. It was simply another job from this place the others didn’t want to take up. It was practically a ghost town; there were buildings, businesses, and houses, but rarely ever a soul in sight. I drove down the road to Janice Barnes’ house, a practically deserted street that looked straight out of some horror film. The sky was a deep navy blue with the sun setting behind the trees in the distance, dense forests enveloping both sides of the route, and a single half-working streetlight down the road illuminating the low-hanging fog with a flickering blue-ish fluorescent light. The streetlight was covered in varying posters all pleading for help in finding some poor parents’ child. I swerved into Janice’s driveway and hopped out of my vehicle. The air was dense with the smell of damp leaves… and as still and quiet as a predator waiting to ambush.

I knocked on Janice’s door, and you could hear it echo for miles. As I waited for her to answer, I observed the surrounding area. But one particular thing was hard not to notice… up on the hillside, towering over everything else and seemingly illuminated by the now rising moon, overlooked the Crane Mansion. Its twisted and oblique, curving and jagged shapes pierced through the moonlight. Even then, I could feel just how evil that house was, its presence looming and oppressive. Not long after my knock, Janice creaked open her door and invited me in. She was a frail, middle-aged woman with the voice of a chain smoker. 

“Just in here,” she croaked as she guided me to Hugo’s room. “I need you to explain this to me.”

Inside his bedroom, she shivered in her robe and hair curlers. “He screamed… God, he screamed for me. But when I ran in here…” She then shoved Hugo’s bed away from the wall, and beneath it were claw marks dug into the hardwood floor. Starting from the foot of the bed… and ending at the corner of the wall. “Gone… just… gone. Where’d he go?” she cried out as a tear rolled down her powdered cheek. 

The case of Hugo Barnes was the first sign for me to investigate further in Occoquan. How can a child just disappear into nothingness from the safety of his own home like that? Luckily, my superiors felt the same and left me with all the missing child reports of Occoquan, Virginia. Case after case, I’d speak to mothers and/or fathers who recounted their children seemingly vanishing into thin air without a trace.

Marnie Hughes was the next major case I took. Her family moved to Occoquan in ‘98 just down the street from the Crane Mansion. Marnie was just a normal 15-year-old girl. She loved her family; she had plenty of friends at her relatively small school and did well in her classes. But out of nowhere, she developed some form of epilepsy halfway through her first semester. She began to suffer from what her doctors described as “unpredictable full-body seizures” that they blamed for the sudden onset of “unusual schizophrenia”. Marnie would suddenly fall into bouts of spasms and afterwards claimed that “the thing in the walls” was trying to ferry her away. She was seen by doctors who prescribed her antipsychotics for her hallucinations. Marnie suffered for weeks, and her parents mentally degraded along with her. CPS and the police were called to a horrifying scene on November 2nd, 1998. When entering the house, they found Marnie’s parents trying to cook her alive in the oven, claiming that ‘the devil’ wanted their daughter, so they tried to send her to God before the devil could take her. Needless to say, they were arrested on account of attempted first degree murder and Marnie was admitted into an institution for mentally troubled children. This institution is where I come into play… as only a week after her admittance, she escaped into the Occoquan woods. We spent weeks searching for her out in those woods, but we never found her. She was another child who vanished into thin air.

The events of that case will haunt me for as long as they rot inside my mind. The first thing I feel I need to speak on was ‘the tape’... a recording of Marnie’s first and only therapy session at the institution. I’ll do my best to transcribe what was said.

Dr. Burkes: “So, where do we feel comfortable beginning?”

Marnie: “... here… when I moved here.”

Dr. Burkes: “What about here? Was the move stressful? I can only imagine that it was.”

Marnie: “yeah… but… that wasn’t the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “So, what is, Marnie? Was it kids at school or your par-”

Marnie: “It… it is the problem.”

Dr. Burkes: “... It?”

Marnie: “god… you can’t see it either. I’m fucking going crazy here! It’s been here the whole time!”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, you’ve got to work with me here or else we’ll never get anywhere. Are you seeing things again? Like hallucinations?”

Marnie: “You can call it a hallucination… you can call it whatever you want like my other doctors… but that’s not going to stop the fact that it’s in here... with us.”

Dr. Burkes: “You need to be taking your meds, Marnie. They are supposed to help with your symptoms.”

Marnie: “You… are… not listening to me.”

At this point in the tape, Marnie is audibly frustrated. She’s sobbing into her hands as if totally defeated. Her psychiatrist clicks her pen and lets out a sigh.

Dr. Burkes: “Okay… okay. Let’s discuss this then. If you’re taking your medication, and this isn’t a hallucination… reason with me. Talking through it will help us both understand what you’re dealing with. I truly do want to help you, Marnie. I’m sincerely sorry for not believing you, tell me everything.”

Marnie: “... I saw it… I saw it a few days after… we moved in. In the woods… by the river…”

Dr. Burkes: “It’s okay to cry, Marnie. No need to stop yourself.”

Marnie: “I didn’t pay it much mind; I thought it was one of the neighbors from the mansion. But… I learned no one lived there… and I still kept seeing it for weeks. It watched me from the woods. And then it called my name.”

Dr. Burkes: “... The Crane Mansion, right?”

Marnie: “It… knew my name. I couldn’t sleep… it was always watching… always. I could feel it peer in through my window… it never just observed… it wanted… it… desired.”

Dr. Burkes: “Don’t take me wrong, but… I feel as though what you’re experiencing… is a manifestation of your fear. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that what you’re experiencing isn’t real or isn’t tangible. But I’m saying that if we can address and figure out this fear, whatever you’re seeing may leave you alone.”

Marnie: “... Dr. Celine Burkes… maiden name Tilman.”

Dr. Burkes: “... How do you know that?”

Marnie: “You went to George Mason University and you lived in Virginia your whole life. You moved to Occoquan six years ago and you had a miscarriage when you were 19.”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Marnie, stop!”

Marnie: “Your father died of cancer when you were seven and your mother raised you alone since. She’s currently in the hospital due to complications from smoking and you fear that you’re to blame for not getting her into rehab an-”

Dr. Burkes jumps from her chair at this point, knocking it over I presume.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! Stop this! How? How do you know this?”

Marnie: “It’s in the room… with us.”

Dr. Burkes presumably picks her chair up and sits back down. She laughs out loud to herself, most likely in disbelief at the situation.

Dr. Burkes: “What… is It, Marnie?”

Marnie: “Its name… is Sweet Tooth. It loves to eat sweet things.”

Dr. Burkes: “Where is it? Where in the room is it?”

Marnie: “... … …”

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie, where… is it?”

Marnie: “It’s… standing right next to you.”

At this point in the tape… everything goes quiet for a solid five seconds. Dr. Burkes then all of a sudden gasps but doesn’t move from her chair. The fear in her voice as she closed out the tape sent chills down my spine when I heard it.

Dr. Burkes: “... … … I can feel it breathing down my neck.”

The tape abruptly cuts after Burkes’ confession. Not long after this tape, Marnie was last seen running into the woods. Dr. Burkes also became catatonic and was institutionalized, believing that her imaginary friend named Sweet Tooth wanted her to die so they could be friends forever.

I joined in on the search parties that scoured the woods for Marnie Hughes, hoping to find her and the only lead I had to the disappearances of Occoquan’s children… Sweet Tooth. I had a group of other detectives working with me on this case, and the police force finally decided to look into this seriously for the first time in years since it’s the only time any suspect was even so much as mentioned. The first few days of the search were mostly uneventful. The most notable thing was the search dogs continuously leading us up barren and empty trees and to the river. More members of the police force joined in on the searches as some other children disappeared into the woods during our case, and quite a number of civilians helped us out as well. A part of this case that really stuck out to me was when I mapped where each missing child was last seen. Not only did all of them go missing in the woods (including Hugo Barnes whose house was sequestered in the forest), they formed a perfect triangle around the Crane Mansion.

But there was one notable early search. A few colleagues and I headed out in the woods by the Crane Mansion. It was pitch black, dense fog permeated every corner of the forest, and aside from us… there wasn’t a sound filling the air. No crickets, no frogs, not a single coo from an owl. Silence… intermingled with the occasional search dog and the brushing of dead leaves on the forest floor. Our flashlights barely helped as they seemingly never actually breached the fog for more than five inches in front of us. 

About an hour into the woods, I was startled by an officer yelling, “Hey! I think I finally got something!”. 

The rush over to him was filled with a fear that can only be described as bricks crushing my lungs. Was it Marnie? Was it… her corpse? Those questions filtered through my mind, leaving me with nothing but dread where my stomach should’ve been. All of that only to find a bundle of sticks, leaves and rocks. They were snapped and tied together in a strange formation that resembled some kind of rune. I’ll insert a quick drawing of what I remember it looking like, as the original pictures we took are tucked away in evidence. Rune

Right by it though, there were three piles of rocks that seemed to form some triangular formation around the make-shift figure. We took pictures for evidence, but we didn’t really find anything else that night. It seems so strange to me now how casual we were about finding the sticks and rocks… because from there on out they became a staple of every search. We were bound to find at least a handful of those sticks… all accompanied by rock piles forming a triangle around them. 

My next event of note was about three weeks after our first search. We trampled through the damp woods, this time during the evening. It was strange being out in those woods and actually being able to hear and see the wildlife. Crows called, moths parked on the bark of trees, and the occasional swan could be heard out on the nearby river. I remember having found a trail and following it with a few colleagues and a search dog. The trail was increasingly hard to follow and seemed to twist and turn through the forest at random. Eventually we stumbled upon a strange sight. Dolls… strewn throughout the trees. They were all clearly decaying, having been exposed to the forces of nature for who knows how long. We followed the rotting dolls until they led us into a nook in the path which took us up to a hidden area that was built within the Crane estate. What we found was unbelievably strange. Past the rusted gate of this area was a small gravesite. It didn’t belong to the city, and it was never documented as having been owned or made by the Cranes. Stranger still… the headstones listed people yet to die. It was right around this discovery when a colleague noted something… eerie. 

Silence…

No more birds, no more insects, even the sounds of our feet on leaves seemed muffled. We took pictures and quickly left. We traveled back up the trail to meet with the other officers and detectives, but our search dog stopped in her tracks about halfway through. I remember her owner, Search and Rescue Officer Marks, tugging on her leash to get her to move, but no response. She stared out into the dense forest, alerted and entranced by something. We waited for her to ease up and come along but her tail was firmly tucked between her legs and the hair on her back was puffed up like a porcupine. Something we couldn’t see was spooking her. As Marks went to tug her away and up the path again, she let out the lowest and most bone chilling growl I’ve ever heard come out of a dog. Not wanting to fuck around and find out, I started up the path again. I must’ve scared the dog because she startled and snapped out of whatever state she was in and followed us.

The chills that ran throughout my body were enough to make me haul ass back up that trail, and as I looked back at my colleagues… I glimpsed something out in the woods. It looked like a flowy, stained, white dress meandering behind a tree. Instinct kicked in ignoring my previous fear and I booked it into the woods without a second thought. I rushed toward the tree where I swore I just saw a girl… and nothing. My colleagues ran up behind me with the exception of the dog and Marks, the dog standing alert and terrified at the edge of the path. Before I could say anything, an officer bent down and picked something off of the ground. A picture… a picture that will be seared into my memory until the day I die. A pale corpse… clearly waterlogged and rotting away… in a white, flowy dress… Marnie.

The following days were much the same as they had been… no new clues, no hints, only more disappearances. That was until the Jordan family case, which began to set a new precedent for things to come. The Jordans were a relatively average family who lived within the more urban parts of Occoquan. By all accounts, they were normal. So, no one had any suspicion to believe that they’d murder and cannibalize their own children, then ritualistically kill themselves by hanging in their front yard tree… swinging side by side with the strewn corpses of their half-eaten children Micah and Candice Jordan. This case is of interest because of one singular thing found at the crime scene… Micah’s diary… which detailed his parents meeting a ‘Neighbor’ named Sweet Tooth. This then became a trend, seemingly random couples in Occoquan dying in murder/suicides… and if they were unlucky enough to have children… cannibalization. 

It was a Friday when I had my own run-in with… this Sweet Tooth. My house had been silent that evening as I went over details of the crime scenes. Each one followed the same pattern… the couple would meet a new neighbor named Sweet Tooth. He’d integrate himself into the family and become acquainted with them. In all the diaries, phone texts, saved calls, notes etc. the couples seemed to be convinced of the unimportance of physical life. Each family brainwashed by this ‘Sweet Tooth’, convinced to give up their “mortal forms” and “free” their souls to some god in the afterlife. 

It must’ve been about an hour, as the sun began to set, the night washing over the woods around my house in a pitch, murky blackness. I finished combing over the diaries and notes and drawings and photos which really began to stick with me. This field of work truly does take its toll on you, especially after having to dive headfirst into cases like this… it just becomes overwhelming and emotionally exhausting. I needed to call my mother, reading about these kinds of incidents really fucked with me. Something came over me, the urge to tell her how much I loved her. I was on the call for all of five minutes when something caught my eye out in my backyard… a white, flowy dress. I apologized to my mother for leaving the call so quick and hung up. Bursting out of my house with my Magnum and flashlight, I wandered around my yard. Silence… pure and utter silence. Meandering in the darkness of my yard, I could feel the blood drain from my face. A giggle echoed through the eerily silent woods and I scanned the imposing tree line. Nothing looked out of place but that feeling of dread struck me deep in the chest until I felt like I simply just couldn’t breathe anymore.

I scanned through the tree line thoroughly, increasingly frustrated by whatever taunted me. A solid thirty seconds must’ve passed before I decided to give up my pathetic and terrified search and head back to my house, but something horrid stopped me in my tracks. Lurking there… at the window by my desk… was a young boy, maybe 12, with a brunette bowl cut and a garishly colored turtleneck… Hugo Barnes. I approached the window as he glided out of sight… and in the dark hallway, a tall figure left my room and headed out my front door. I busted inside and did a full military squad inspection of my house… not a soul in sight. I looked at my desk where Hugo was… and it took a solid minute for me to realize what I was seeing. My papers drawn across my desk with the names of the murder/suicide families written across my map… a triangular shape with the Crane Mansion waiting in the middle of the formation. Something lingered in the air, it was no longer my home but an unwelcoming conjuring of fear. An urge itched within my mind; I needed to investigate the remnants of the Crane Mansion. I went into my room to grab my coat, and that’s when I noticed the tape sitting in the middle of my bed. I picked it up and let curiosity indulge itself, sliding it into the player.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie!”

Marnie: “It’s… speaking… it’s speaking to you.”

Dr. Burkes audibly jumped up from her chair, sending it crashing as Marnie yelped.

Dr. Burkes: “Marnie! What is it? What is it? Tell it to leave me alone! I can feel it breathing on me! Make it stop!”

Dr. Burkes was clearly in hysterics, she was screaming and crying, backing away from her tape recorder.

Dr. Burkes: “Make it leave me alone, Marnie! What the hell is it saying?”

Marnie: “It’s saying…”

Sweet Tooth: “You’re so sweet, Samara!”

The mention of my name felt like a fist pummeling my gut. I got in my car, and I don’t think I’ve speeded so fast in my life. Red lights didn’t matter to me. I needed to get down to the station and find this heathen. Me and quite a few officers made haste toward the Crane Mansion. The drive down the twisted roads felt like an unforgiving eternity, marked by posters taunting me. Pulling onto the decrepit street, here it stood, its jagged and vicious architecture peering down on all of Occoquan. The windows hauntingly appeared like malicious eyes enveloped in the blackness of the night. The mansion wasn’t locked, and its massive doors creaked open like the moaning souls of the damned. Walking in, the air felt so thick you could cut it, and the floorboards creaked as if in pain with every step. 

The house reeked with the stench of copper, rotting fish, and the odor of trash left out to sit in the hot sun for days. No one seemed to have moved in after the Cranes. All of their items and furniture sat in the house, rotting away like the forgotten relics they were. Me and two of the four officers headed down into the basement after clearing the first floor, the other two officers made their way upstairs. But it wasn’t long until me and my colleagues came across the waterlogged, decomposing corpse of Marnie Hughes in the basement. We tried contacting the two who went upstairs but our walkies hissed with a vicious static. One of my two officers went up to find them as me and the other officer searched the remaining basement. 

We found a cellar that was boarded up by the Cranes after they built the house. Despite the evident corpse, the cellar was where the stench seemed to really be emanating from. It was almost like burnt hair permeating every inch of my nostrils. My futile attempts to open the cellar ceased quickly as I found myself the only one working on it. My eyes fixed on the other officer; a short man called Perez. Even within the overpowering darkness, I could see that his eyes were wide, and his gun drawn… both in the direction of the corner of the basement. I caught on and glanced over. Standing in and facing the corner, enveloped by but significantly darker than the darkness itself, stood an almost indescribable figure. It must’ve been at least seven and a half feet in height, as its head was cocked to the side, too tall for the basement. The sound of dripping water now flooded my ears as my eyes adjusted to the amorphous *thing* standing before us. It shivered in the corner as a noise emanated from it. “Breathing” I guess is how I would describe the rustic sound it made. Yet as soon as I lifted my flashlight… nothing… what was once there now ceased to exist.

Just then, a commotion was heard upstairs. Perez and I ran past where the corpse of Marnie Hughes should’ve been lying but wasn’t anymore and trudged up the basement steps in a panic. The other three officers practically came tumbling down the second story. What we heard of their testaments, I still don’t want to believe. The older female officer, Matthews, opened a closet door in one of the childrens’ rooms. And following a stench coming from the crawlspace in the lower corner of the closet, she opened it. The Crane Mansion has since been gutted from the inside out… after Matthews uncovered the darkest secret of Occoquan. Inside the walls, floors, roofs, ceilings, and yards of that evil house… the bones and rotting remains of hundreds of missing children laid. The Crane household was demolished not long after, and the remains of those poor souls were put to rest at once. The only thing remaining of the mansion is the cellar… I don’t know whether they couldn’t open it, or merely didn’t wanna see what horrors it held, but it lays there… haunting the forest where the Crane Mansion once stood.

That brings me to today, I moved away from Occoquan in the year 2000. The knowledge that something incredibly dangerous was out there and I was directly putting myself in its way was overbearing. But the area’s mysteries have always been in the back of mind. What was inside the cellar that the Cranes felt the need to board up so tightly? What was Sweet Tooth? And what did it want with the children and families of Occoquan? But I still fear that whatever Sweet Tooth was, it’s still out there. The corpse of Marnie Hughes still remains unfound. There’s been an influx of missing children’s cases not only where I’m currently situated, but throughout all of the Mid-Atlantic USA. Be careful. 

[Part 5]

To read part 4 click here.
To read part 3 click here.
To read part 2 click here.
To read part 1 click here.

Everything hapens for a reason, that is, to lead one to their true purpse. All things in my life have broght me to this moment. To my moment of surender. To my transformation. I can see that now. More precisely, I have been exposed to the truth. And it is simple and beutiful. All things in the unverse are in constant motion. Everything that we see, feel and touch is in constant oscilation - resonating at various frequencies at all times. In other words, sound is at the heart of our entire existence. Everything is constituted in sound at its most elemental level. Every atom in existance is full of vibrating life. If things were to sudenly stop vibrating, there would be nothing. If we were to peel back the material ilusions of reality, we would see that pure sound is the building block of everything that we know. No one knows what causes these vibrations or where they come from, but we do know that they are the foundational basis of eternity. There will always be something rather than nothing - therefore, there will always be vibration. There is no reality without the tiny oscillations that prop up the totality of creation. Here is another truth - what we all share in common with each other, is our basic instinct to surive. Every single human endeavor can be traced back to a single purpse - the desire to overcome death. To become one with eternity. To draw neare to the source of eternal vibration and movement. The marks of our yearning for more time are etched into the rituals of our daily life. They are present in our religious practices, in our artistic expressions, in our scientific progress, in our societal organization, etc. Everything we do, from prayer to recycling, from exercise to psychotherapy, from meditation to invention, from parenting to engineering, is done in resignation against death. From the moment we learn about death at a young age, we are placed on a path to resist the natural entropy that we are cursed to. We do what is within our means to prolong our lives as much as possible or we struggle against the clock to leave something behind that is representative of our time on earth - hoping against hope that its presence remains long after we are gon.. 

I believe I have found the key to my eternal life. Not in the form of legacy or a barely meaningful prolongation of life. I am speaking about true eternity. Every human being on earth has a soul, and that soul is nothing more than vibration same as everything else. When the soul of a person ceases to vibrate, the body that functions as its vessel is no longer living. Except, the relationship between body and soul is symbiotic. The body cannot survive without the vibration of the soul and the vibration of the soul can only be sustained by the vitality of the body it inhabits. I know that with time, my body will grow old and give out. There is no escaping that. But I also know that the only true purpose my body serves , is to house my soul. I have found a way to utilize my body, so that my soul can continue to live beyond the usefulness of my body in its current state. That is why I am choosing to repurpose my body, so that my soul can continue to live. 

I am going to transform my body into an instrument. 

If the soul is nothing more than a vibration, then it is logical to assume that every time its frequency is reproduced, it will be made manifest beyond the need of a human body. This is not unlike the teachings of christ in Matthew 18:20 in which he tells his discipls that although he will no longer be with them physically, when two or more of them gather in his name, he will be present. This is because at the moment of the crucifixion, the spirit of God emptied out into creation in the form of the holy spirit. The holy spirit is what is present when Christ’s followers gather in his name. In the same way, I will no longer be present physically, yet the presence of my soul will be recalled whenever my frequency is reproduced by another. 

I don’t have much time left. I am expecting someone. As I mentioned before, the truth has been shown to me - I did not stumble upon it. I met someone that has beenguiding me through my understanding and exploration of the transformation. I am but one of many that have been willing to sacrifice their bodys so that their soul can live on. I am about to become part of The Great Continuum of Resonance that is the Infinite Error. It was no random mistake that I found the folder in the old computer. It found me. I was chosen. The Infinite Errorr project is not yet complete - in fact, it may never be complete. Every song in that project contains the sound of somebody’s soul frequency. I am choosing to submit myself to the project - to become a song within it. That is how my soul will live on. I don’t know how many others will sacrifice themselves in service of the Infinite Error, but once you understand the nature of the sacrifice, you understand that it is the greatest privilege - it is a gift that cannot be refused. It is the gift of eternity. Who would deny it? Who would deny this eternal life? Why would anyone toil through a life that is destined to end cruelly and abruptly? To allow themselves to be forgotten to the wind? To spend their whole lives torturing themselves into building something that will only ever end in abandon and decay? 

I choose to live. My forger will arrive any instant now. He will take bones from my body and will transform them into instruments not unlike woods or reeds. I have undergone multiple tests to discover my spirit’s frequency. The largest bone-flute will reproduce the base frequency of my soul while the smaller ones will reproduce key overtones that are unique to my frequency ID. Drums will be made from my skin that will be tuned accordingly, as well as strings and bows made from my intestines and hair. These instruments will then be recorded in order to create a song in which I will live forevermore. 

The Infinite Error was calling me to be a part of it. I can see now that the paranormal events that I had been experencing (the shadows, the unexplained noises, the movement of different objects in my home, the speaking voices and the disembodied music) were not disturbances but calls of love. A seduction ritual towards eternity. It was not showing me my mother because it wanted to torment me, it was showing me that there is a way out of my pain. Out into the great expanse of the infinite. 

I want to make it clear that I am not a victim. That I am addding myself willingly to the great resonance of the infinite error. I am happy to become what I will be. To be one of the few that will stare death in the face and survive.

I have a strange fear. You’ll probably laugh when I tell you what it is, but you might feel differently after I tell you why I have it.

I suffer from cucurbitophobia: the fear of pumpkins.

Fears as specific and irrational as that usually begin in childhood, and sometimes for no reason at all. But let me assure you, I have a very good reason to fear them.

I sit here now, typing this story as the living remainder of a set of twins. My name is Kalem, and I’ll tell you the tragic story of my brother, and the horror of what happened in the years since his untimely death.

It happened when we were young, only eleven years old. We were an odd pair to see - we had the misfortune of being born with curious cow’s licks of hair on top of our heads that would put Alfalfa from The Little Rascals to shame. Our mother (much to our chagrin) called us her “little pumpkins”, on account of our hair looking like little curled stalks. Our round little bellies didn’t exactly help either.

I was the calmer of us both, being reserved where my brother Kiefer was wild. He was the one who blurted out the answers in class and couldn’t sit still. The risk-taker, the stuntman, the show-off. It usually fell to me as the older and wiser sibling to watch out for him, though I was only a few minutes older.

We were walking home one blustery autumn evening, the trees ablaze with gold and orange as we huddled up from the chill of a cloudless dusk. Piles of leaves had been swept from the paths in the fear that they’d make an ice rink of the paths should it rain. The piles didn’t last long as kids kicked them about and jumped into them for fun.

Kiefer of course couldn’t resist, running headlong into the first pile he saw.

It happened so fast. Upsettingly fast, as death always does; without warning and without any power on my part to stop it. The swish of the leaves were punctuated with a crack, and autumns earthen gown was daubed in red.

A rock. Just a poorly-placed rock, probably put their as a joke by someone who didn’t realise that it would change someone’s life forever.

The leaves came to rest and I still hadn’t moved. A freezing breeze blew enough aside for me to see what remained of my twin’s head.

Pumpkin seeds.

It was a curious thought. I could only guess why the words popped into my head back then, but I know now that the smashed pumpkins on the doorsteps of that street seemed to mock my brother’s remains. How the skull fragments and loose brain matter did indeed seem to resemble the inside of a pumpkin.

I shook but not from the cold, and I suppose the sight of me collapsed and shivering got enough attention for an ambulance to be called.

I honestly don’t recall what followed. It was a whirlwind of tears, condolences, and the gnawing fear that I would be punished for failing to protect my little brother.

Punishment came in the form of never being called my mother’s little pumpkin again. I was glad of it; the word itself and the season it was associated with forever haunted me from that day on. But I never thought I would miss the affection of the nickname.

At some point I shaved my hair, all the better to get rid of that “stalk” of mine. I couldn’t bring myself to eat in the months after either, but that was okay. The thinner I got, the further away I could get from resembling my twin as he was when he passed, and further away from looking like the pumpkins that served as an annual reminder of that horrible day.

Every time I saw pumpkins, even in the form of decorations, I would lose it. I would hyperventilate, feel so nauseous I could vomit, and I was flooded with adrenaline and an utterly implacable panic to do something to save my brother that I consciously knew had been gone for years.

People noticed, and laughed behind my back at my reactions. Word had inevitably spread of what happened, and I reckon that people’s pity was the only thing that saved me from the more mean-spirited pranks.

For years, I went on as that weird skinny bald kid that was afraid of pumpkins.

I began to go off the beaten path whenever I could in the run-up to autumn, taking long routes home in a bid to avoid any places where people might have hung up halloween decorations.

It was during one such walk that the true horror of my story takes place.

It was early June; nowhere near Halloween, but my walks through the back roads and wooded trails of my home town had become a habit, and a great sanctuary throughout the hardest years of my life.

It was a gray day, heavy and humid. Bugs clung to my sweat-covered skin, the dead heat brought me to panting as woods turned blue as dusk set in. Just as I was planning to make my way back to my car, I saw a light in the woods. Not other walkers; the lights flickered, and were lined up invitingly.

Was it some sort of gathering? Candles used in a ritual or campsite?

I moved closer, pushing my way through bramble and nettles as I moved away from the path. A final push through the branches brought me right in front of the lights, and my breath caught in my throat.

Pumpkins. Tiny green pumpkins, each with a little candle placed neatly inside. The faces on each one were expertly carved despite the small size, eerily child-like with large eyes and tiny teeth.

One, two, three…

I already knew how many. Somehow I knew. The number sickened me as I counted; four, five, six…

Don’t let it be true. Let this be some weird dream. Don’t let this be real as I’m standing here shivering in the middle of nowhere about to throw up with fear as I’m counting nine, ten… eleven pumpkins.

My sweat in the summer heat turned to ice as I counted a baby pumpkin for every year my brother lived for. A chill breeze that had no place blowing in summer whipped past me, instantly extinguishing the candles. I was left there, shivering and panting in the dim blue of dusk.

No one was around for miles. No one to make their way out here, placing each pumpkin, lovingly carving them and lighting each candle… the scene was simply wrong.

I felt watched despite the isolation. So when the bushes nearby rustled, my heart almost stopped dead. I barely mustered the will to turn my head enough to see. More rustling.

It has to be a badger, a fox, a roaming dog, it can’t be anything else.

But it was.

A spindly hand reached forth, fingers tiny but sharp as needles, clawing the rest of its sickening form forth from the bush. Nails encrusted with dirt, as if it dragged itself from the ground.

A bulbous head leered at me from the dark, smile visible only as a leering void in the murky white outline of the thing’s face. It was barely visible in what remained of dusk’s light, but I could see enough to send my heart pounding. Its head shook gently in a mockery of infantile tremors, and I could feel its eyes regard me with inhuman malice.

The candle flames erupted anew, casting the creature into light.

Its face was like a blank mask of skin, with eyes and a mouth carved into it with the same tools and skill as that of the pumpkins. Hairless and childlike, it crawled forward, smiling at me with fangs that were just a crude sheet of tooth, seemingly left in its gums as an afterthought by whatever it was had carved its face.

From its head protruded a bony spur, curved and twisting from an inflamed scalp like the stalk of a-

Pumpkin.

All reason left me as I sprinted from the woods. Blindly I ran through the dark, heedless of the thorns and nettles stinging at my skin.

The pumpkin-thing trailed after me somehow, crying one minute and giggling the next in a foul approximation of a baby’s voice. I didn’t dare look behind me to see how close it got to me, or what unsettling way its tiny body would have to move in order to keep up with me.

Gasping for air and half-mad with fear, I made it to my car and sped back to the lights of town. I hoped against hope that I could get away before it could make it to my car… hoped that it wouldn’t be clinging underneath or behind it…

It took me the better part of an hour to stop shaking enough to step out of the car.

Nothing ever clung to my car, and I never had any trouble as long as I remained away from those woods. But that was only the first chase.

The next would come months later, on none other than Halloween night.

I had, by some miracle, made some friends. I suppose that in a strange way, that experience in the woods had inoculated me to pumpkins in general. After all, how could your average Halloween decoration compare to that thing in the woods?

My new friends were chill, into the same things I was into, pretty much everything I could want from the friends I never had from my years spent isolating. I even opened up to them about what happened to me, and my not-so-irrational fear, which they understood without judgement and with boundless support.

And so when I was ultimately invited to a Halloween party, I felt brave enough to accept; with the promise of enough alcohol to loosen me up should the abundant decorations become a bit much for me.

On the night, it wasn't actually that bad. I was nervous, as much about the inevitable pumpkin decorations as I was about being out of my social comfort zone. As I got talking to my new friends, mingling with people and having some drinks, I began to have fun. I even got pretty drunk - I didn’t have enough experience with these settings to know my limits. I began to let loose and forget about everything.

Until I saw him.

I felt eyes on me through the crowds of costumed party-goers. Instinctively I looked, and almost dropped my drink.

A pale, smiling face. Dirt. Leering smile. Powdery green leaves growing from his head, crowning a sharp bony spur from a hairless scalp. A round head. A pumpkin head. With a hole in it.

It was coming towards me. Please let it be a costume. Please why can’t anyone see it isn’t? Why can’t anyone see the-

-hole in its head gnawed by slugs, juices leaking from it, seeds visible just like the brains and fragments of-

I ran before anyone could ask me what I was staring at.

I stumbled out the back door, into a dark lane between houses. I had to lean over a bin to throw up my drinks before I could gather the breath to run.

That’s when I saw the pumpkin.

Placed down behind the bin, where no one would see it. Immaculately carved, candle lit, a smile all for my eyes only. The door opened behind me, and I bolted before I could see if it was the pumpkin thing.

I don’t recall the rest of the night. I reckon my intoxication might be what saved me.

I awoke in a hospital, head pounding and mouth dry. I had been found passed out on a street corner nearby, having tripped while running and hitting my head on a doorstep. Any fear I felt from the night before was replaced with shame and guilt from how I acted in front of my friends, and from what my mother would think knowing I nearly shared the same fate as my brother.

After my second brush with death and the pumpkin thing, I decided to take some time to look after myself. I became a homebody, doing lots of self-care and getting to know my mind and body. I made peace with a lot of things in that time; my guilt, my fears, all that I had lost due to them.

My friends regularly came to visit, and for a time, things were looking up.

Until one evening, I heard a bang downstairs as I was heading to bed.

Gently I crept downstairs, wary of turning the lights on for fear of giving my position away to any intruders.

A warm light shone through the crack of the kitchen door. I hadn’t left any lights on.

I pushed the door open as silently as I could.

In that instant, all the fears of my past that I thought I had gained some mastery over flooded through me. My heart hammered in my chest, and my throat tightened so much that I couldn’t swallow what little spit was left in my now-dry mouth.

On my kitchen table, sat a pumpkin, rotten and sagging. Patches of white mould lined the stubborn smile that clung to it’s mushy mouth, and fat slugs oozed across what remained of its scalp. A candle burned inside, bright still but flickering as the flame sizzled the dripping mush of the pumpkins fetid flesh.

A footstep slapped against the floor behind me, preceded by the smell of decay - as I knew it surely would the moment I laid eyes upon the pumpkin.

This time, I was ready.

I turned in time to take the thing head on. A frail and rotten form fell onto me, feebly whipping fingers of root and bone at my face. I shielded myself, but the old nails and thorny roots that made up its hands bit deep despite how feeble the creature seemed.

Panting for breath as adrenaline flooded my blood, a stinking pile of the things flesh sloughed off, right into my gasping mouth. I coughed and retched, but it was too late - I had swallowed in my panic.

Rage gripped me, replacing my disgust as I prepared to my mount my own assault.

I could see glimpses of it between my arms - a rotten, shrunken thing, wrinkled by age and decay, barely able to see me at all. Halloween had long since passed, and soon it seemed, so would this thing.

I would see to that myself.

I seized it, struggling with the last reserves of its mad strength, and wrestled it to the ground.

I gripped the bony spur protruding from its scalp, and time seemed to stop.

I looked down upon the thing, upon this creature that had haunted me for months, this creature that stood for all that haunted me for my entire life. The guilt, the shame, the fear, lost time and lost experiences.

All that I had confronted since my brushes with death, came to stand before me and test me as I held the creatures life in my hands. I would not be found wanting.

With a roar of thoughtless emotion, I slammed the creatures head into the floor.

A sickening thud marked the first impact of many. Over and over again I slammed the rotten mess into the ground, releasing decades of bottled emotion. Catharsis with each crack, release with each repeated blow.

Soon only fetid juices, smashed slugs and pumpkin seeds were all that remained of the creature.

The sight did not upset me. It did not bring back haunting memories, did not bring back the guilt or the shame or the fear. They were just pumpkin seeds. Seeds from a smashed pumpkin.

The following June, I planted those same seeds. I felt they were symbolic; I would take something that had caused me so much anguish, and turn them into a force of creation. I would nurture my own pumpkins, in my own soil, where I could make peace with them and my past in my own space.

What grew from them were just ordinary pumpkins, thankfully.

I’ve attended a lot of therapy, and I’m making great progress. I’m even starting to enjoy Halloween now.

I even grew my hair out again, stupid little cow’s lick and all - it doesn’t look quite so stupid on my adult head, and I kept the weight off too which helps.

One morning however, I was combing my hair, keeping that tuft of hair in check. My comb caught on something.

I struggled to push the comb through, but the knot of hair was too thick. Frustrated, I wrangled the hair in the mirror to see what the obstruction was.

I parted my hair… and saw a bony spur jutting from my scalp, twisted and sharp.

My heart pounded, fear gripping me as my mind raced. How can this be? How can this be happening after everything was done with?

Then I remembered - the final attack. The chunk of rotting flesh that fell into my mouth… the chunk I swallowed.

The slugs… The seeds…

I was worried about the pumpkin patch, but I should have worried about my own body. Nausea overcame me as I thought of all these months having gone by, with whatever remained of that thing slowly gestating inside me in ways that made no sense at all.

I vomited as everything hit me, rendering all my growth and progress for naught.

Gasping, I stared in dumb shock at what lay in the sink.

Bright orange juices mixed with my own bile. Bright orange juices, bile… and pumpkin seeds.

I didn't expect my camping trip to be the nightmare that it was. My high school friend Mark and I have had this tradition of hiking up and camping at Mount Alto in our old hometown since we both turned eighteen. It was a bit of a hassle to plan it every year now that we were adults and had to work around our jobs, but we always pulled it off. We both thought this visit was the most needed out of all of them though. 

Three months ago, Mark's mother succumbed to the cancer that was eating away at her pancreas, and just a few weeks ago my live-in girlfriend Andrea and I decided not only did our ship sail, but it crashed on the rocks. I moved back home with my dad as it was Andrea's apartment I was staying in, and Mark also moved back in with his father in his time of grief, since he was an only child and there was no one else to be around him. 

It had been a while since our last discussion about it, but we were finally able to pack all of our camping gear into Mark's truck and head down the old dirt road that led to the mountain. I can still feel the refreshing breeze of the hot summer air on my face as we rolled down the windows and Mark lowered the volume of the 90s grunge rock music blaring from the truck radio to flash me a grin.

"We made it, just a few more minutes and we'll be at Camp Shangri-la. You did remember to bring toilet paper this time, right?" He chuckled, his southern accent adding to the light-heartedness of the moment as he jokingly slapped my thigh. I let out a groan and shot him a playful smirk in return, tired of hearing the same old joke.

"Four years ago, man, four years. You're not going to let me live down the whole poison ivy incident, huh?" I jokingly echoed his playful pat on the leg. "I'll make you a deal, buddy. I'll hide the toilet paper this time. That way, you can experience what it's like to have a swollen, blistering, asscrack." 

We both shared a laugh and carried on with our banter, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the recent turmoil between my girlfriend and me. It had only been a few weeks since everything happened, and I knew that healing would take time. The wound in my heart was still fresh, and the shock of it all lingered in my mind. We had been inseparable, crazy about each other. Six years back, we were just two carefree youngsters who crossed paths at a dive bar during a friend's gig. A few coffee dates later, and sparks flew between us. She was the one person who truly got me, and we had a seamless companionship. But when an unexpected pregnancy led to a heartbreaking miscarriage, everything changed. Grief wedged its way between us, causing a gradual drift. I couldn't pinpoint blame on either of us, but the shared loss acted as a silent barrier, pushing us apart.

I glanced over at Mark, his gaze fixed on the rough dirt road ahead as we ascended the familiar hill. His thoughts, however, seemed to have drifted back to the music playing on the radio, evidenced by his off-key singing. As I observed him, I couldn't help but admire his ability to push aside any emotional turmoil, even if it was just for a weekend. The pain of losing a girlfriend paled in comparison to the devastating loss of his mother, who had been a beacon of love and support not just for him, but for all his friends who visited their home. I remember a time from our childhood when we were both twelve years old and faced a bully at school; while my parents were unable to intervene due to work commitments, Mark's mother fearlessly confronted the issue with the school administration on our behalf. 

However, fate was cruel, and within a short period after being diagnosed with cancer, she succumbed to the illness, leaving a void in their family that could never be filled. The cancer had snatched away a truly remarkable soul. As I dwelled on these memories, lost in my thoughts, I suddenly realized that Mark had brought the truck to a stop, silencing the engine.

"We've arrived, dude," he exclaimed, his grin spreading from ear to ear. Tossing his sandy blonde locks back from his face, he retrieved some of the smaller camping bags from the backseat. I gazed out the window, unfastening my seatbelt, feeling a wave of peace wash over me as I took in the forested area on my right. This was our sanctuary, our escape from the world. Stepping out of the car, I planted a foot on the pine cone and bark-strewn ground, immediately greeted by the symphony of birdsong and the sweet scent of nature. A sense of serenity enveloped me as I surveyed the woods that now surrounded us. Over by the flatbed of the truck, I could hear Mark grunting as he struggled with our larger bags, tossing them to the ground. I glanced back at him, seeing him haul out the massive bag containing our tent.

"Hey, Mark, I'm gonna take a little walk around here while we're here and take a leak. I'll lend a hand in a bit," I called out, already making my way towards a tree to do so.

"Sure thing" I heard Mark call out as I strode down the gentle slope into the forest. "Take it all in and let it all out," he added with a chuckle, amused by his own words. I couldn't help but grin at his usual antics, shaking my head as I continued, enjoying the crackling of twigs and pine needles under my boots. Reaching the base of the hill, I sought out a tree away from our campsite and began to relieve myself. Suddenly, a sound pricked my ears, a faint gasping coming from the nearby creek. It sounded like something struggling to catch their breath but trying to remain silent. Hastily finishing up, I zipped up my pants and cautiously made my way toward the source of the noise.

I could sense that the sound was coming from behind a large rock near the creek bed. However, as I approached, the noise surprisingly grew fainter instead of louder. Upon closer inspection, I discovered the tragic scene before me - a young fawn, mutilated and gasping for air. The deer's wide eyes held a look of fear and desperation as it struggled for breath. The lower half of its body was completely missing, with its entrails scattered on the ground and attracting flies. The remaining top half of the fawn bore small, bloody circular wounds that seemed to be from some sort of sharp object. Feeling overwhelmed and unsure of what to do, I called out for Mark. Even though I couldn't tear my eyes away from the horrific sight, I could hear the sound of Mark racing down the hill towards me.

"What the fuck?" Mark exclaimed as he stood beside me, his voice trembling as he gazed at the gruesome sight before us.

"What should we do?" I struggled to articulate, a wave of nausea washing over me as I observed the unfortunate creature. Mark scanned the area and located a hefty rock, lifting it above his head.

"We need to end its suffering," he gruffly declared, "you might want to turn away." I averted my gaze from the injured animal for the first time, and the sound of the rock Mark wielded striking the deer echoed through the air, putting an end to its agony.

"Jesus!" Mark's exclamation startled me, prompting me to gaze back at the gruesome sight. Instead of a deer's head, all that remained was a flattened mass of flesh, teeth, and brains, with bright purple wriggling worms squirming within the brain tissue. These chubby purple creatures were nestled in the brain matter of the once-vibrant animal, moving their hairy, gelatinous bodies in a dance like they were at a party or in the throes of merriment.

"What in the hell are those?" I shouted, taken aback by the unnerving sight of the worms. Mark stood there, wide-eyed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I don't know. Perhaps some kind of parasite? I've heard that deer can contract a parasite that devours their brain, causing them to behave strangely," Mark mused. I turned away, unable to stomach the grotesque scene, and vomited, but Mark continued to talk as if oblivious to my distress. "As for what may have happened, it could have been wolves. Not a bear, though. We don't have those in this area," he remarked, finally noticing my vomiting and offering a comforting pat on the back. "I've made some progress with setting up the tent. Why don't you take a walk and gather firewood while I finish up? It might help you get some fresh air."

I nodded, still hunched over and wiping away the drool from my mouth. "Yeah, sure," I managed to say through a few more coughs. After ensuring that nothing else was going to come out of my stomach, I forced myself to move away. The nauseating sensation continued to permeate my body, my face flushing with heat and my stomach threatening to empty itself again. My arms felt heavy, and I had to will my legs to keep moving. It was like wading through thick water.

 I couldn't deny Mark's suggestion about those strange purple worms, but they were unlike anything I had ever encountered before. My knowledge of parasites was limited, but it just felt unnatural for something so repulsive and hairy to exist. Mark, being a veterinarian's assistant, had a good understanding of animals.

I recall visiting the clinic one day to have a lunch break with Mark. He introduced me to the doctor he had been assisting, and as soon as Mark spotted me, he hurriedly led me past the waiting room filled with people and their sick pets. We entered the doctor's office, where he introduced us to Doctor Albright. While Doctor Albright seemed friendly enough, the sight of a jar on his desk containing a dog's heart infested with heartworms was quite unsettling. I understood the concept of showcasing the reason behind the work being done, but the display had a disturbing quality that reminded me of scenes from a horror movie. Despite this, the shocking sight of the infected heart paled in comparison to the unsettling creature Mark and I had just witnessed emerging from the deer's head.

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted as I stumbled, my foot catching on a tree root along the edge of the creek. I tumbled to the ground, my head striking a rock. A flash of white light enveloped my vision, prompting me to shut my eyes against the pulsating pain. Tentatively reaching up to touch the point of impact on my forehead, I felt the dampness of a trickle of blood – just what I needed. Opening my eyes, I discovered that I hadn't collided with a rock, but rather a metal surface. Before me lay a sizable square concrete foundation encasing a large metal circular lid, reminiscent of a manhole cover, complete with handles on the sides.

"What in the fuck?" I muttered aloud, struggling to stand up after the impact that left me disoriented. Bending down, I peered closer at the curious vent opening. Between the handles, which appeared designed for accessing whatever was concealed beneath, was a string of numbers and letters: '17439-HP10-4A'. Instead of clarifying its purpose, this alphanumeric sequence only piqued my interest further, compelling me to reach for one of the handles.

"Are you alright?" Mark's concerned voice behind me interrupted my contemplation, causing me to turn and motion him over.

"Come take a look at this, I found something," I called back, gesturing towards the mysterious lid. As Mark approached and observed the unusual opening, a look of bewilderment crossed his face.

"I don't know what it is, but I have a feeling whatever is below is just waiting for us to dive in on an adventure," I said with a touch of cheesy excitement. Mark chuckled and playfully rolled his eyes, motioning to grab the handle on the opposite side of me. Without hesitation, I reached out for the handle on my side as we both silently counted down from three, preparing to lift.

The lid was incredibly heavy, causing us to strain and grunt as we attempted to budge the metal covering. I felt a trickle of sweat mix with the blood from the small cut above my eyebrow, but the adrenaline kept me pushing forward. As we continued to heave the weighty object, it eventually gave way and lifted, leaving Mark and me holding it just a few inches above the opening.

With a final effort, we carefully shifted the cover to the side of the ground, revealing the hidden depths beneath. Peering into the darkness, we both felt a surge of curiosity and anticipation.

In front of us, a gaping hole revealed a stainless steel staircase descending into darkness. The pitch-black surroundings made it difficult to make out many details, but the sunlight above hinted at an arching passageway just past the stairs leading further underground. I caught Mark's eyes, and he returned the silent exchange before gesturing for me to go first.

Turning to my pocket, I pulled out my cellphone and turned on the flashlight, disregarding the lack of service bars on my home screen. Stepping onto the metal staircase, each clang resonated loudly as I descended, Mark's steady steps echoing mine a few paces behind. His phone illuminated the space above my head as we ventured downward.

As I neared the bottom, my light swept over the doorless, expansive hallway, revealing only mundane concrete walls with a peculiar touch of black paint on either side of the entrance. The markings read "SITE 17439-HP10-4A-A1," leaving us to wonder what awaited beyond.

I glanced back at Mark, who had his light fixed on the same lettering, shaking his head in bewilderment like me. Moving down the hallway, the feeble glow from my phone revealed a plain wooden door at the far end, adorned with a glass panel window that hinted at an office beyond, though visibility was scarce. My hand reached for the doorknob just as Mark's voice gave me pause.

"Wait." I turned to find him standing behind me, the brightness of his phone obscuring his features. "Maybe we should reconsider. This seems more heavy than we thought," he hesitated, "like it could involve some shady government stuff. I don't want to get mixed up in legal trouble."

I scoffed, "Seriously? We've come this far, and besides, look inside." Gesturing with my phone towards the window, I continued, "It's just as dark in there as it is out here." I turned the knob, feeling the door unlatch from the concrete wall. "This place is deserted. No one knows we're here in the middle of nowhere in buttfuck Georgia, exploring some mysterious underground bunker," I declared, already stepping through the doorway.

Surveying the room, the once typical reception area now appeared desolate, as if hastily vacated. The sizable white desk, hosting two now-disconnected computers, had its drawers forcibly yanked open, eerily empty. The towers of the machines had been stripped bare, bereft of their hardware, leaving only hollow shells behind. A noticeable absence of grime on the walls hinted at where frames once held portraits or artworks now absent. Dark hallways stretched into the underground facility from each side, the darkness impenetrable from our vantage point.

 Adjacent to one corridor lay three overturned filing cabinets. Intrigued, I cautiously advanced further into the room, and my steps echoed in the unsettling silence. A damp squelch underfoot drew my attention downwards, and pointing my phone to the floor with my light, I discovered a small pool of a peculiar, gel-like substance. As I tried to lift my foot, the liquid resisted, its surface teeming with tiny, shifting bubbles. Examining my boot, I noticed a similar layer coating the sole, mirroring the bubbling activity beneath. Alerting Mark to the unusual sight, I directed his attention to the odd liquid clinging to my boot, seeking his thoughts.

"What's your take on this?" I asked, prompting him to abandon the filing cabinets he was standing over and scrutinize the mysterious substance. His response was punctuated by a contemplative hum, suggesting deep thought.

"I don't know. It seems to look like the mucus left by a snail, but I can't be certain. Better not touch it," Mark cautioned, his eyes scanning the room for clues. "I spotted something similar on one of the  filing cabinets, but I sure as hell didn't touch it."

Directing my phone's light towards the cabinets he mentioned, I asked, "Did you find anything in there?"

"No," he replied tersely. "There wasn't a single file folder inside. What's even more peculiar is how spotless this place appears, despite its emptiness."

Mark's observation was astute; the reception area, apart from the strange liquid I had encountered, was unusually clean for an abandoned location. There wasn't any dust, as if it had only been empty a short time, but suddenly a noise emanated from one of the hallways, jolting us from our thoughts. The sound of someone struggling for breath and grunting in pain reverberated through the silent air, prompting Mark to cast me an alarmed glance.

"Someone is still here" Mark exclaimed urgently. Before I had a chance to reply, he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the distressing sounds. I followed suit, trying to keep pace with him, but he had a significant advantage in speed, being a track team member back in school.

"Mark, hold on!" I shouted, struggling to close the gap between us, but his agility outmatched mine, compounded by his initial head start.

"Someone is injured, Luke!" he called out as he neared the corner where the cries echoed from. Determined to catch up, I pushed myself harder, yet I couldn't reach him in speed.

As I approached, my heart sank at the sight before me. Mark had reached the hallway's corner just as a figure pounced on him from the darkness. He staggered backward, pinned against the wall by the assailant. Drawing closer, I discerned the figure latched onto Mark was a man. His khaki pants were drenched in the strange liquid I had encountered, bubbles forming amidst the dampness. His torn lab coat, covered with vomit, revealed the familiar purple worms from those on the deer we saw earlier.

With a desperate gaze, the man peered up at Mark through shattered eyeglasses, one eye infested with wriggling worms protruding from his pupil, waving left and right trying to reach out to Mark.

"Please..." the stranger pleaded with Mark, who attempted to pull away from his grip. "We were mistaken. It cannot die. It refuses to let us die" His voice was chilling, a cacophony of two distinct tones speaking simultaneously. One voice filled with anguish, the other eerily serene. With each word he spoke, more of those grotesque worms spilled out of his mouth and onto Mark's waist. Mark managed to deliver a knee to the man's chest, dislodging his grip, before bolting back in the direction we had come from, grasping my arm in the process.

"GO!" Mark bellowed, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. Without hesitation, I pivoted on my heels and sprinted after him, my heart pounding in my chest. Behind us, the man's desperate gasps and moans echoed down the corridor. I glanced back to see the man on his knees, retching up a grotesque mass of worms onto the floor. Tears streamed down his face as he whispered apologies into the darkness, his voice raw with desperation, and those same dual voices.

 There was no time for sympathy as I turned my attention back to Mark, my muscles straining as I pushed myself to keep pace. Just as I thought we might escape, a door swung open with a deafening crash, slamming into my face with brutal force. Agony exploded through my skull as I stumbled backward and crashed to the ground just as everything around me went dark. 

As my eyes fluttered open, I was met with a wave of excruciating pain that threatened to consume me. My head pounded relentlessly, my ears rang with a deafening sound. Blood dripped down my face, mingling with my tears as I lay on my back, disoriented and lost.

The surrounding chaos blurred into indiscernible shapes and shadows, but the agonizing cries of wounded animals echoed through the darkness. Staring at the ceiling I could tell I was no longer in the hallway, but in a different room. With a heavy groan, I mustered all of my strength to roll onto my side, only to discover my cell phone lying next to me, its flashlight casting a glow.

Barely able to lift myself to my knees, I grasped the phone and brought it closer to my face. Through the haze, I saw a message displayed on the screen - a cryptic warning was left in the body of a text from myself with no recipient.

 "Sorry about knocking you out, "but there's no time. It's loose, and they're coming. Find the key in your pocket, take a left, and head for the stairs. I'm already gone, you won't find me. Tell them what you saw."

As the gravity of the situation sunk in, I realized that I needed to hurry. I groaned more as I pulled myself to my feet. Shining my phone ahead of me to get an understanding of where I was. In front of me was a large metal table, littered with broken vials and scattered papers covered in some kind of chemical. To the left of the table were large kennels stacked on top of each other; I walked over to them and was startled to see the animals that were inside. In one was a brown falcon lying on its side and flailing its wing and legs; those hairy purple worms were covering its body, digging in and back out of holes covering its body, its flailing wing had several of them nestled in between its feathers, some of them were flying off with every flap. 

In another kennel was a small bulldog, dripping out of the mouth with worms; it lunged towards the door of the kennel, barking at me, trying to break free. Another kennel had another baby deer that was constantly screaming; both its eyes were gone, and in its place were just mounds of wriggling, purple, hairy worms. I stepped backward away from the horrible site, backing into the table, my hand bracing on one of the wet pieces of paper on the table. I moved my light over it and could make some of it out, but the chemical poured over it made it difficult to read. 

**The study of (illegible) infestations has taken a terrifying turn as we observe the takeover of hosts by these new entities that grant them incredible strength, dexterity, and unyielding resistance to conventional forms of (illegible). As the impending threat of human testing looms, ethical concerns abound as we witness the monstrous transformation of subjects into seemingly unkillable beings.

Methods: Subjects were exposed to parasitic infestation through controlled ingestion of contaminated food sources. Observations were made over an extended period to assess the progression of the infestation and its effects on host physiology.

Results: The parasitic infestation led to a nightmarish transformation in hosts, as they exhibited unprecedented muscle growth, enhanced dexterity, and an alarming increase in cell growth that rendered them impervious to traditional methods of treatment. Subjects displayed a terrifying hostility towards researchers and demonstrated a chilling ability to survive lethal doses of eradication attempts.

Discussion: The findings of this study reveal a sinister power within the parasitic entities that take control of hosts, granting them superhuman (illegible) and an unnerving resilience to harm. The ethical implications of continuing such experiments on human subjects are deeply troubling, as the potential consequences of unleashing these monstrous capabilities are beyond comprehension.

Conclusion: The parasitic infestation has unleashed a (illegible) within our research facility, as hosts are transformed into terrifying beings with incomprehensible strength, dexterity, and invulnerability. The looming specter of human testing raises grave concerns about the ethical boundaries we are willing to cross in the pursuit of scientific knowledge. As a researcher haunted by the horrors I have witnessed, I fear the horrors that may be unleashed if we continue down this treacherous path.**

I dropped the soggy paper back down on the table, inclining that whoever had written this report may be the person who dragged me into this room. I started towards the open doorway of the room, even more eager than before to leave. I stood in the hallway and recognized the staircase leading up the phone message must have been referring to 50 or so yards to my left, but a wet growling noise to my right caught my attention. Turning around, my heart froze at the sight of a large, humanoid creature clinging to the side of the wall on all fours. 

The purple-skinned humanoid creature loomed before me, its lab coat and khakis in shreds and tatters. Its broken frame eyeglasses were askew on its large, yellow, predatory eyes that seemed to pierce through my very soul with a malevolent glow. Its muscular arms and legs were elongated and sinewy, with patches of dark hairs erupting from its sickly violet skin. The creature's bald head was adorned with a writhing mass of long, purple, worm-like tendrils that cascaded down its spine, wriggling and squirming in a grotesque display.

And from its twisted, contorted mouth hung the gruesome visage of my friend Mark's decapitated head, blood still oozing from the severed neck, the lifeless eyes staring blankly ahead. The creature stood there in eerie silence, a nightmarish amalgamation of horror and desolation, its presence sending chills down my spine as I struggled to comprehend the unimaginable sight before me. It opened its mouth and let out another wet growl, dropping Mark's head to the ground in the process. I was no longer frozen in place, it seemed as if my body moved on its own as I turned around and began racing for the staircase.

 I could hear the creature behind me running along the walls in hot pursuit of me. Every fiber of my body screamed in pain as I struggled to run across the concrete ground, hearing the beast pounce from wall to wall in its attempt to catch me, bellowing out an unearthly scream in its frustration. 

My legs seemed to find new strength while I ran up the cold staircase, and I propelled my whole body up into the double door covering that was at the very end of the staircase. Standing once again in the woods of Mount Alto, I looked around for something to keep the doors closed and quickly found a heavy tree branch just lying a few feet away from me. Hurriedly, I grabbed it, dragged it back to the doorway, and wedged it under the handle of the doors just as the creature threw itself into them, causing the doors to budge slightly and the branch to crack a little. 

I turned away and started running along the creek bed, seeing the familiar hill Mark parked on just up ahead. My lungs felt like they were about to explode from the amount I was exerting myself as I passed the metal covering Mark and I used to enter the underground lab, but I couldn't slow down, not even as I passed the fawn we saw earlier, trying to push itself up on its remaining two legs despite not having a lower body or head. 

I fell to my hands and knees, hearing the roar of the creature in the distance as I climbed the hill without falling, standing up, and throwing myself into Mark's truck once I made it to the top. I cussed as my nervous hands struggled to turn the key in the ignition, but settled myself once I heard the truck pur to life. As quickly as I could I made a sharp U-turn and began speeding off back to town on the bumpy dirt road that got us here. Along the way, I could hear helicopters above tearing through the sky, but I felt comfortable that they couldn't see the truck through the canopy of trees. 

That was three days ago. Despite seeing several strange armored jeeps heading in the direction of Mount Alto, and occasionally seeing helicopters flying overhead in town, there has been complete media silence. I haven't been able to sleep, and I'm afraid of leaving my home. I don't know what was going on in that bunker, but whatever they were working on, is out now. 

[Part 4]

To read part 3 click here.
To read part 2 click here.
To read part 1 click here.

I really was sick when I called in to work saying I’d stay home for a few days after what happened. The nausea and the confusion hasn’t gone away. At this point, I don’t know if understanding what is going on will help at all, but I knew that I needed to go back to that basement to grab the computer. I feel as if I am at the edge of a precipice. And that the only way to be released from this all, is to jump. 

How in the world was my mother involved in this? It doesn’t make any sense. 

But I somehow feel that it’s not that simple. There is something else at work here. 

I think that what I found in that computer released an evil into my life that is deliberately trying to hurt me. It wants to torture me. It knows everything about me. It knows about my mother. The woman that destroyed my life. My defiler. 

It’s taunting me. 

It knew that showing me that image would drag me back into the pits from which I escaped years ago. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do than trying to find an answer. To rid myself of the presence that’s been haunting me. The more I try to ignore what is happening, the more that the abnormal events around me increase in intensity and frequency. 

I’ll mention just a few. 

Sometimes I can hear the songs being played around my house. Sometimes in the room I’m in, and sometimes I can hear them playing in a different room. When it first started happening, I disconnected and hid all of my speakers but the phenomenon persists. The sound was clearly not coming from any speaker. When it happens, I walk around to try and find the source, but the sound just moves with me… it’s as if the sound has no physical origin point and just occupies all space simultaneously. I of course thought that I might be hearing it in my head, but I’ve been able to record with my phone when it happens, and it does capture the sounds. Here’s a video.

I’ve been hearing voices as well. Sometimes it’s a voice reciting the lyrics from the songs but changing them to include my name or details about my life that I don’t want to remember. 

I’ve also been seeing a shadow in my room late at night. It’s not a shadow in the shape of anything - it’s more like a division of sorts… Like a wall of black that splits my room in two. It started in the back of the room but it’s been getting closer and closer to my bed every night. It’s as if my room is slowly being filled with a dark shadow that is soon to devour the entirety of it. I took some pictures which you can see here. 

I needed to get out of the house. I pulled myself together and headed back to the studio. I sought out the tech guy there and brought him the old computer to see if he could find something else inside. I struggled to stay focused when he told me I looked like shit. 

“I found this computer in the basement that isn’t on the studio’s inventory list. I think it was definitely used for recording at some point. Can you check to see if you find anything inside? I’d like to figure out who it belonged to.” He put it on his desk and turned it on. “This is pretty old. You said you found it in the basement?” he said while looking through it. “That’s right. The only thing I found inside was a single folder with a corrupted audio file in it.” He checked around for a bit but didn’t find anything new. He then switched to MS-DOS or something and was typing commands into it. “If it wasn’t in the inventory list, it probably belonged to a previous employee. Why are you interested in it?” I said I just wanted to be thorough. “You should talk to Mark, he would probably know where it — huh… That’s odd.” he said while leaning in. “What is it? What did you find?” I said while leaning in too. “The disk is full. But there’s nothing on the computer that I can find other than that folder on the desktop.” He kept on typing and said “I see. There’s a partition on the drive. The part that can currently be accessed takes up a very small part of the full drive. That’s why it appears full. What’s strange is that it doesn’t pull up a password request when I try to access it.” He thought for a second then stood up from his chair and began inspecting the computer. “Did you notice there’s a key hole on the PC?” He said while pointing to it. I hadn’t noticed it. “This is a long shot, but I’m just now remembering some pretty rare custom jobs that were made to physically secure partitions. Rather than the computer requesting a code, the partition would open with a physical key. Very rare and expensive stuff back in the day. Did you happen to find a key somewhere near the computer?” I said I hadn’t. I had looked thoroughly through the box I found it in. Then he said “Normally, the key holes on these computers were used to prevent it from turning being turned on without the key, but this one turns on without it, even though the key slot is turned to ‘locked’. I could try and pry it open, but in the rare case that it is indeed used to access the partition, I could permanently damage it. It’s up to you if you want me to try.” “I’ve never even heard of anything like that before. What are the chances that’s what’s going on?” I asked. “Slim.” He said. “But the disk is partitioned, and the key slot is set to locked. Now, if there’s any place where someone would be able to get this kind of custom job, it’d be in this city. The probability of it also increases if the computer was used to record an especially important project.” I didn’t know what to say. “Think it over, let me know what you want to do. It’d be interesting to force it open and see if that’s the case, but again, that could damage the partition and render it useless. Interesting stuff though. Keep me posted.” 

I wanted to inspect the computer further, but I couldn’t just take it home without asking for permission, so I had to talk to my immediate boss. Luckily, we’re friends. 

“You look like shit. Everything ok?” he asked when I sat in front of his desk. “I haven’t been getting much sleep lately but I’m hanging in there.” I said. He knows I’ve been on the wagon for years and I fear he suspects that I relapsed. I quickly changed the subject. “I’m actually here to talk about the data transfers I was assigned to do. I’m basically finished but I found an old computer in the basement that isn’t on the inventory list I was given. I found a strange folder in it that has been freaking me out.” “How so?” he asked. “Well…” I said, “It turns out the folder had hidden songs in it that I was able to find.” I was debating how much I needed to get into detail. “I don’t know who’s songs they are. As far as I know, they’ve never been published and they’re not from any artist in the label.” “Ok. Well, what’s bothering you? You look disturbed. What’s going on?” he asked. Avoiding eye contact, I said “Look… I can tell you that I found some things on the computer that are directly linked to me. To my personal life. To my family. I need to know where it came from. Who it belonged to.” “Where is it? You have it here?” he asked. “I took it down to the basement where I’ve been working.” I said. He looked at me and said “Show me.” 

We went down to the basement together and headed towards the desk where the computer was at. “Jesus. What a mess! It’s actually really creepy down here. How long have you been spending your time down here? No wonder you’re all depressed and shit.” He said while laughing and patting me on the back. “Just a couple of weeks. The fucking fluorescent lighting doesn’t help.” I said. “Anyway, this is the computer I found. You recognize it?”. He looked at it intently, then his eyes opened wide and said “You know what? I think I actually do.” He sat down and continued “This studio wasn’t originally built by the record label. It belonged to someone else. A man. Some rich guy with musical aspirations or something. The label was growing quickly and they needed a studio, so they didn’t have time to build from scratch. Looking to buy one, they came across this guy. Anyway, when the purchase was completed, we noticed the guy had left behind a bunch of stuff. Books, notes, and this computer. I think that’s the one. We tried reaching out , tried getting his stuff back to him, but no one ever saw him again.” Finally. Some answers. “Who was he? What was his name?” I asked. 

“I honestly can’t remember, but I’m sure his name is on the contract somewhere.” he said. 

“Did you ever see him?” I asked. “Yeah, I did. I was there the day he came in to sign the papers” he said. “I remember because he gave me the creeps. He gave everyone the creeps.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “What did he look like?” “No, he looked pretty normal I suppose, if a bit haggard. It was more about his vibe, I guess. You know when someone carries a certain heaviness with them? And you can feel it? It was like that. He just created a kind of thick atmosphere. Plus, the rumors about him going around the studio didn’t help.” I perked up. “What? What rumors?” “Ah, just stupid shit our engineers started. I guess some of the things he left behind were kind of weird. Plus, one of them had already heard strange things about him before he ever showed up.” Mark said. “What kinds of things?” I asked. He looked at my desperation and humored me. “Look, I don’t know. Things I’ve never believed myself. Paranormal things. Apparently this guy was into some weird satanic shit or something? But, not in the Slayer or Black Sabbath kind of way. He wasn’t like a goth rockstar or something like that. Apparently he was pretty serious about his work. He… Nah.” He said while waving away with his hand. “No, no. What were you going to say?” I said. He looked embarrassed when he said “Look, I feel stupid even saying it. Apparently the guy was trying to open some kind of portal to hell with his music or some shit? I don’t know!” My stomach dropped. It all made sense. “Hey, you just went super pale” Mark said while standing up to touch my arm “Are you ok?” I felt like I was going to pass out. “No, yeah. I’m ok.” I tried pulling myself together and said “What else would they say?” He sat back down slowly while looking at me with concern and said “I guess the books he left behind were indeed related to witchcraft, demonology, etc. That’s about all I can remember. Look, what’s going on? Why are you interested in this stuff? What did you see exactly?” he asked while turning to look at the computer. “I think someone or something is fucking with me personally and I want to get to the bottom of it. I wanted to ask if it’s ok if I can take the computer home. I want to try and see if I can find any other info.” I said. He looked at me, worried and said “Something is fucking with you? What the fuck are you talking about? You don’t believe in any of this shit do you?” I took a second before saying “Mark, if you were in my place you would have no doubt in your mind that something is happening that has no rational or normal explanation. I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I have some answers but right now I just need your help.” I said while crying. “Let me take the computer with me, and help me find the name of the man that it belonged to. Please.” Mark looked at me and down to the floor and said “Of course. Anything you need. I just need to ask you one thing.” He looked at me and asked “Are you drinking? Are you using?” I looked at him and lied. “No.” I said. “I’m not. I’m just very scared and very sleep deprived. But thanks for helping me out. I’ll give you a call soon.” He looked at me with compassion and said “I know you had a rough past. You’ve come a long way in building yourself up. Don’t throw that away. If this whole thing is bringing you down, maybe it’s best you forget it and get back to taking care of yourself. I’ll be here if you need me.” 

But I wouldn’t forget it. The abyss was staring back at me. I had nowhere to hide. 

I put the computer in my car and headed home. 

When I walked into my house, I was surprised to feel a different atmosphere than what I had been experiencing lately. There was a stillness in the air that was almost relaxing. I put the computer in my living room table and I headed to my room to try to get some sleep. I was exhausted and I wanted to take advantage of the quiet. 

I woke up in the middle of the night to an extremely loud sound that was coming from what seemed to be my next door neighbor’s house. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I realized that it was one of the songs from the old computer. I quickly grabbed my phone and called my neighbor to see what was going on. No answer. I didn’t know what to do. Why was that music playing from his house? I grabbed my keys, headed outside and shut the door behind me. A couple of the neighbors were standing on their front porch to see what was going on. I raised my arm to show my keys while walking towards my neighbor’s house door. A few years ago he had left me a key to his place in case of an emergency - he is an older man. I rang the doorbell, knocked loudly and called out his name multiple times to see if he would come to the door but no one answered. I quickly scrambled through my keys to find his and opened the door. The smell inside the house hit me like a ton of bricks. The smell of sulphur in the air was so pungent that I had to pull my shirt over my nose before walking in. The house was completely and utterly dark. Something was definitely wrong. There was an extremely heavy and deep darkness in the house. I turned on the light from my phone to see more clearly, but it literally wouldn’t illuminate further than a foot in front of me. It was as if the house itself was rejecting any light source. Even the light from the street wasn’t coming in through the windows. I tried flipping a few switches and lamps but no lights would turn on. 

The air was so heavy - I felt like I could barely breathe. I needed to find the source of the music and turn it off - it was driving me insane. I slowly walked through the house, trying to follow the sound but it was difficult. It seemed like it was coming from every corner of the house at once. I walked past the living room and kitchen into a hallway that split into different bedrooms. I tried every door but they were all locked, except for the one at the very end of the hall. I slowly opened it and there was a small computer set up with a couple of small speakers. The computer was off, the speakers were playing by themselves. The sound was so deafeningly loud that I had to cover my ears while trying to find their power cord. I finally found it and yanked it away from the wall. The music immediately stopped. I couldn’t believe what was happening. The speakers were so tiny and old. It made absolutely no sense. I quickly walked out of the office and started calling out my neighbor’s name. No answer. Most rooms were locked but there was no sign of anyone having been there in a long time. Everything was clean and in its place. I even checked the fridge and there was nothing inside it. It was strange. I could have sworn I had seen my neighbor earlier that day while leaving my house in the morning. I needed to get out of that house. Something in the house was looking at me. I just knew it. I quickly stepped outside and called my neighbor one more time. Nothing. No answer. I locked his door and turned to see a couple of the neighbors standing by the sidewalk. I explained that I checked the house and that there was nobody there. They asked about the music and I said that there must have been some kind of malfunction. They asked if we should notify the cops but we noticed that the neighbor’s car was not in the driveway. He was definitely not home. I said I’d give him a call again in the morning and notify them if I found anything out. We said goodnight and I walked back to my house. 

The front door was open. I knew I had closed it when I stepped out. I walked inside and looked around to see if anything was out of place but I didn’t find anything. I forcibly thought that maybe I hadn’t closed it properly. I sat down in my living room couch to take a breath. I was rubbing my face when I looked down on the desk where I had placed the old computer. 

There was a key right in front of the keyboard. 

I picked it up to look at it. It wasn’t mine. Someone had put it there. 

I walked to the window looking out to the street to look for any movement. Nothing out of the ordinary. I phoned the neighbors I had just seen to ask if they saw anyone coming into my place - neither had seen anything. 

I sat back down and inspected the key. I immediately knew what it opened, but I was so scared to use it. I gathered myself as best I could, turned on the computer, inserted the key into the PC and turned it. 

Immediately I could hear that the drive was being read. About a dozen different folders appeared on the desktop. 

I opened the folder under the one I already knew. There was a bunch of audio and video files inside. I double-clicked on the first audio file to play it. It was one of the songs from the original folder, but it was a different version of it and it lasted twice as long. I skipped ahead through the song to where the song seemed to end, but there was still a few minutes left of recording. The audio was very faint and muffled but I could hear a man’s voice. I leaned in and put up the volume to hear more clearly. I felt a chill moving through my entire body. It became clear that he was chanting some kind of spell. I quickly stopped the file and headed back to the folder to open one of the video files.

[Part 5]

I'm currently in the process of writing an anthology surrounding the end of the world and a tear in the sky. I have plans to publish, but due to its nature as "journal" it's likely to be difficult. Thought maybe I would share a small portion and see what you all think of the style and maybe see what you all think of it's merit. Somehow I don't think posting a fourty thousand words story would work well here, so what you read here will be missing a bit of context.

Thanks for having a look.

July 9th, 1995

My name is Casey Tomlinson. I'm still alive.

The cold hasn’t let up. I’ve been keeping the fire going as much as I can, but the wood’s burning faster than I’d like. I know I’ll need to find more soon. I’ve been avoiding the thought of cutting more trees—the ones near the cabin don’t look right. The bark’s starting to crack and peel in strange ways, like it’s rotting from the inside out. It’s almost like they’re sick, like the land itself is infected by whatever’s happening to the sky.

I spent most of the day inside today, just trying to keep warm and keep my mind busy. I started reading an old book I found buried in one of the closets. It’s a cheap thriller from the 80s, nothing special, but it’s been a good distraction. I wish I had more books, something to take me away from all this for just a little while longer.

I heard the wind again tonight. Same whispers as before, faint and fleeting, just at the edge of hearing. I’ve tried ignoring it, but it’s getting harder. Every time I sit in silence, it’s there, just beneath the crackling of the fire. I don’t know if it’s the wind or something else. I’m not sure I want to find out.

It’s funny—I used to love the silence out here. Now it’s suffocating.

July 14th, 1995

My name is Casey Tomlinson. I'm still alive.

The power flickered today. Only for a second, but it was enough to remind me how fragile everything is. I’ve been keeping the heat off as much as possible, only turning it on when absolutely necessary. That flicker tells me I might not have a choice in the matter soon.

The wind’s picked up again, howling through the cracks in the cabin like it’s carrying voices. I swear I can hear faint whispers sometimes, just on the edge of hearing. It’s probably just my mind playing tricks on me, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is out there, watching.

I can't confidently say it's my mind playing tricks. Not anymore.

I’ve been thinking about Sarah a lot lately. About how different things might have been if we’d stayed together. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything in the end, but at least I wouldn’t be alone.

July 28th, 1995

My name is Casey Tomlinson. I'm alive.

It was freezing last night. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like you’ll never be warm again. I haven’t run the generator much in the last few years—trying to save as much fuel as I can, stretching it out as long as possible. But I figured, hell, if I was going to freeze to death, I might as well go out comfortable. The fuel’s going bad soon anyway. I needed the heat.

I set it up around sunset, got the old heater going. For a while, I even let myself relax, listening to the hum of the generator outside and the faint rattle of the heater as it kicked on. It was nice... for about an hour.

Then I heard something else. A whooshing noise, low at first, like something was dragging itself through the snow. At first, I thought it was just the wind playing tricks on me.

It wasn’t.

I felt a scraping pressure on the log I was leaned against. I jumped up and through the window I saw...something. something terrible.

It was huge, taller than any man I’ve ever seen, its body hunched and twisted like it didn’t quite know how to stand. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and stretched tight over its bones. Long, spindly limbs, with too many joints. And the face… God, the face. No eyes, just two black pits where eyes should’ve been, like it had been hollowed out. The mouth was worse. Too wide, too human, except for the way the jaw seemed to unhinge, stretching open like a snake’s. It didn’t make a sound. It just… stood there. Was it John again?

It pressed its face against the window, and I swear it was sniffing, trying to pick up on something. Its breath fogged up the glass as it tilted its head from side to side, like it was listening. I didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might hear that, too.

It slowly moved to the door, scratching at it first, methodical and deliberate, like it was testing it, pawing at the knob almost like it...remembered. Apparently the flash of remembrance wasn't enough though as it slammed into the door hard enough to shake the entire cabin, I felt the dust from the ceiling rain down on my head and shoulders.

I thought it was going to break through, so I grabbed the shotgun, knowing damn well it wouldn’t do anything. I stood frozen, shotgun leveled at the entryway.

For a few minutes, it just stood there. Scratching. Slamming. Listening.

Eventually it...gave up. Dissolves back into the shadows beyond the cabin.

I sat there in the dark for hours, too scared to move. Too scared to turn anything back on. Listening to the wind and small sounds out there, the occasional sickly color poking out of the clouds was just enough to let me catch glimpses of the tracks it left outside.

That’s when I figured it out.

The generator. It was the only thing different. I had been careful for so long, keeping everything off, using as little electricity as possible. But the minute I ran the generator? It showed up. It wasn’t a coincidence. It’s like they’re drawn to it, like moths to a flame. They sense it, somehow.

I won’t be making that mistake again.

I am new to the subreddit, and I was hoping someone could let me know how to properly format a story to post on this sub. I plan on using about 1500-2000 words, I was wondering if I should just post a link to it, or maybe if I should post the whole thing in segments on here. I did not see any formatting or posting guidelines in the rules so I figured I would ask. Thanks.

Hello, everyone. I’m writing here in the hopes that someone, anyone, might help me understand the strange things that have been happening to me lately. I can’t find the journal I’d been writing in, probably lost in the clutter of moving boxes, so I’ll do my best to detail everything I can remember.

My girlfriend, Mina, and I recently moved in together to an old house her family helped us find. Her mom’s a realtor, so she helped us get a good deal on the place. Mina had initially complained about how secluded it was from town, about an hour’s drive down a forest road, but after a few days, she too seemed to warm up to the idea. Soon enough we were packing our things and discussing our plans for furnishing the place. Any unease we’d had had melted away into a new hope for the future.

The first few days had been perfectly normal, Mina and I playfully arguing over where to place the furniture and what boxes to prioritize. We’d settled in one night for takeout and a movie, Mina half asleep against my thigh, when I first sensed that something was off. It started as a sudden tension in my neck, my nerves prickling as if someone were staring at me. A quick glance down at Mina told me she was glued to the movie, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. I looked over my shoulder instinctively, paranoid of the unknown like I was a young girl again. The living room window sat like a gaping maw of darkness, bare for the time being until we could go buy some curtains. Maybe it was my exhaustion getting to me, but I swore I saw something shifting beyond the glass.

Then came the tapping. A soft, rhythmic click against the glass that startled me into high alert. Mina gave a soft noise of protest as I twisted to better look at the window. With how little I could see beyond it, the world outside may as well have not existed.

“Abby? What’s wrong?”

“I thought I heard something tapping on the window.” Yet the tapping had stopped, leaving us with nothing more than the sound of our movie playing in the background.

“It was probably just a tree branch. We are in the middle of the woods after all.” Her explanation made sense, but something told me it was more than that.

“You’re probably right. It just felt like something was watching me.” Mina smacked my arm, pulling my attention away from the window.

“Stop messing with me,” she said, pouting, “you know I can’t stand scary stories.” I wanted to tell her I wasn’t trying to mess with her, but that would only make her a nervous wreck. And I had no proof that the noise was anything more than my own paranoia.

“Sorry, Mina. I probably just imagined it.”

“Well stop imagining it,” she said with a small smile. She sat up, yawning and stretching after her partially aware nap. “I’m heading to bed. Don’t stay up too late, okay?” I assured her I wouldn’t and she headed off toward our bedroom without another word. I reached for the remote, turning the volume on the movie down to little more than a whisper, straining my ears to see if I’d hear anything else.

The tapping came back. Not right away, but the second I started to relax it came back. I wanted to write it off as a tree branch like Mina had suggested. After all, it was hitting the same spot on the window over and over again. I’d barely decided to cut down whatever branch was causing such a racket in the morning when I nearly jumped out of my skin. The tapping had moved. Now it was coming from the window by the front door, louder this time as if whatever was making that sound was putting more effort into it. It wasn’t a tree branch.

I waited until morning to go outside and investigate. Mina had gone to work already, and the house felt too big and too quiet without her. I hadn’t managed to sleep a wink that night, too busy constructing a million possible scenarios in my head of what could have been lurking outside our front door. The more I thought, the worse the possibilities became.

I went around the side of the house to check out the living room window first. Sure enough, there was a tree outside the window. But it was nowhere near close enough to touch the glass. Surveying the tree itself didn’t give me any further answers. It was an old, massive oak tree, its gnarled, twisting bark only broken by a few stray scratch marks. Maybe a bear, or some other type of wild animal marking its territory. Nothing strange for a random tree in the middle of the woods.

It was when I checked the front door that I found something else. Something that in any other situation I probably wouldn’t have taken note of. Lying next to the front step, directly beneath the window where the tapping had been, was the body of a black bird. A crow, maybe? I couldn’t be sure. But what I was sure of was, that this bird hadn’t died by hitting the window or anything like that. Its throat had been torn out, one wing bent and mutilated by an unseen assailant. On any other day, I would have chalked it up to a feral cat or a fox in the woods. But the sight of it immediately sent a chill down my spine that I couldn’t explain. I nudged it carefully with the toe of my shoe. Immediately I felt the feel of eyes on my back, boring through me. An almost judgemental feeling. Yet when I turned back to the trees, I didn’t see anything but twisting branches.

Over the following few days, the tapping continued. Every night after Mina went to bed, the tapping would return like clockwork. Clicking against the glass as if whatever lurked in the darkness wanted my attention. And each morning I would go outside to find yet another dead animal outside the window. Different animals too, as if my mysterious stalker was testing my reactions. Mina thinks I’m losing it a bit. That dead animals in the woods aren’t anything strange. And for a bit, I believed her. I’d had the tendency to overreact in the past to things that didn’t mean anything. Seen dangers in things that were completely benign. Surely this was more of the same?

This morning changed everything.

After Mina left for work I stepped outside to see if I’d been left another present by the window. It had been the first night without hearing any taps on the window, so I wasn’t surprised to see no sign of yet another mutilated animal. It was almost a relief. Maybe whatever was leaving those animals had gotten bored of messing with me. Or maybe it really had been some sort of animal that had finally realized humans were living in its storage space. But as I turned back to the door I saw a pair of muddy prints on the doorstep. They were small and incomplete, the shape reminding me of the toe of a pointed boot with a small smudge of dirt where the heel would be. Too big to be Mina’s for certain.

But that wasn’t what really caught my attention. Sure, it was just one more weird breadcrumb from the last few days, but it wasn’t nearly enough to distract me from the inch-long white object sitting between the prints. I think some part of me knew what it was before I reached down to pick it up, even if I didn’t want to admit it. But as soon as I straightened up to look at it, I nearly threw up. Between my fingers was a piece of bone, and it reminded me of the time when I got an x-ray of my broken hand as a child. I was certain that what sat in my palm was a finger bone. Clean from any bit of blood or sinew that should have coated it and covered instead with small teeth marks.

I haven’t told Mina yet about the bone. I still have a few hours before she gets home and my head hasn’t stopped spinning. What do I even tell her? Or should I not even mention it at all? It’s sitting on the table right now, mocking me. Hopefully, someone who sees this can help give me some guidance. Or, maybe someone out there knows what’s happening to me. But for now, I think I’m going to go into town for a bit. Just get away for an hour or two and clear my head. Maybe this all means nothing. Or maybe it means something. I guess only time, or maybe you guys reading this, will tell.

…and I would like advice.

Is there a good place I can post and keep a comprehensive record of my short stories? They all connect together and I want to release them slowly because I have one done and two started. So I would like some advice. Thank you

[Part 3]
To read part 2 click here.
To read part 1 click here.

Hi everyone, I hope you’re all doing better than I am. Because everything has escalated to whole new levels of horror and it’s clear now that I am a target, although for who or what is still unclear. This post will be a bit shorter than the first two, but I am confident of what I need to do next and will keep on updating you guys until I get to the bottom of the situation. 

I feel as if finding and listening to these songs has unleashed some kind of evil presence into my life. Whatever it is, it’s been haunting me in ways that become more obvious and frequent with time. At home, I constantly find things out of place that I know I didn’t move, things like my keys, books and frames fall to the floor with no explanation, the smoke alarm has gone off a couple of times and I’ve been experiencing sleep paralysis pretty much every night. Worst of all, I hear noises of something or someone moving around in my house. This happens at all hours of the day - I hear things in plain daylight and they also wake me up in the middle of the night. I’ve searched the house multiple times but there’s never any evidence of anyone having been there other than me. It all sounds so cliché - hell, I’ve even thought about bringing a priest over, even though I’m not a very religious person. I don’t know what to do other than trying to get to the bottom of where this music comes from. 

I previously mentioned how the songs that I found in the old computer have been changing in different ways - in order to gain some clarity and assurance, I decided to do some formal testing of the different mutations that I have noticed so far. Despite my analytical and technological limitations, I’ve tried to be as scientific as possible and the results have been undeniably unnatural. I should mention that the results I’ll be posting will be limited. I do not want to get into any legal issues with the record label, or worse, to reveal my identity. Having said that, I am willing to take a few small liberties because as far as I know, these songs have not been formally published and I have not found anything online regarding the origins of the project. 

First I focused on the issue of time. As you know, the songs have been changing in length - I did some tests with two different computers to isolate and explore the issue in more detail. I transferred one of the songs that had been changing the most with an external drive from my lap top to the main computer that is used in the label’s recording studio. I’m friends with the engineer there and he helped me to set up an A/B comparison. In all my days of being around recording sessions, I had never been so terrified by the idea of an A/B. Normally I love these. They are usually set up for exciting and interesting comparisons between two different takes, mixes or masters. You can really get a sense of the incredible depth that lies below the surface of sound and how small differences can have profound emotional impact on the listening experience. Sometimes, wether a song is truly great comes down to the tiniest bit of difference in certain levels or frequencies. Sound is a beautiful and deep thing that I’ve always thought to be sacred, but this is something else. This is about something profane and corrupted. 

I opened the exact same file with the same audio software on both computers and set their playback markers to zero and pressed play on both computers at the same time. Nothing out of the ordinary happened - the songs played normally and were in sync. I tried with a few more songs from the folder, but everything seemed to be ok. I wasn’t about to give up. I went back and played the songs again from the top. Multiple times. Nothing. It was getting late. I could tell that my friend was growing impatient, especially since I was purposefully vague about what I was looking for. I didn’t feel like I could just come out and say what I was testing for without sounding like a complete nut job. He was beginning to worm around in his seat and sighing loudly. After a few minutes, he said he was going to check out for the night but that I could stay back and continue looking for whatever it was I needed to find. He gave me instructions on how to turn off the studio equipment and lock up. He wished me luck and headed out. 

Things changed almost immediately after he left - I started to feel very uneasy and anxious. I was the only person left at the studio and there was a heaviness in the air that hadn’t been there before. I tried to distract myself by continuing my tests. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. That’s when it happened. One of the songs I had previously tested started to phase out, as if they were recorded at different speeds. If you don’t know what that means, I uploaded a video of the phenomenon which you can check out here. You can hear how the rhythm starts out the same on both sources, but then one of them starts to stretch out and goes out of sync with the other. I quickly stopped the tracks and played a different track (some generic beat I found online) in order to make sure that it wasn’t a sample rate issue or anything of the sort. That played fine. But something else happened again that has been freaking me out since a few days ago. The green light belonging to the front facing camera of my laptop turned on. It’s happened a few times already and I never have any other programs opened that would even use the camera. I quickly put some tape over the camera and thought about what to do next. I could go home, or I could continue with the tests to see if I found anything else. I decided to stay a bit longer since it’s not like going home would be any more comforting.

I imported another song on both computers and pressed play. This time the rhythm wasn’t phasing, but I began to hear something I hadn’t heard before coming from the speakers that made my blood curdle - it was screaming. It wasn’t very clear so I put up the master volume on the console and leaned in a bit closer. It wasn’t just one voice. It was like a choir of screaming voices. They were starting to get louder. 

I tried to stop both tracks but neither keyboard was responding. I brought down the fader on the console but it wasn’t responding either - the volume became so oppressively loud that I had to cover my ears. 

Then I remembered there was a power switch for the speakers on the wall. I quickly ran toward it and flipped the switch. 

I almost wish I hadn’t. 

The music immediately stopped but the screaming continued - this time inside the building. It was coming from right outside the main studio room. As soon as I exited the studio, the screams stopped. 

To my left, I heard a door shut very loudly - It was the basement door. 

I stared at it for a bit, placed my hand on the handle and slowly opened it. 

I saw the stairs leading down into the basement. I started walking down slowly. 

Looking back, I know I was acting incredibly carelessly. But in the moment, I was in a kind of trance. 

Completely possessed by my need for answers. Reaching the basement floor, I looked around and tried to hear for any movement. There was a very specific kind of silence that felt like “less than nothing”. 

The best way I can describe it is like a very faint “white noise” that was all around me. Like when you record silence on to tape and listen back at a very loud level - a kind of negative hiss. 

I turned to the table where I had been working and saw the old computer there. Something came over me. A cold sweat. I couldn’t move or breathe. I knew that something was there in the room and was trying to communicate with me, or manipulate me. 

It felt as if the air was sucked out of the room when I remembered two things. 

One, that when I first attempted to listen to the song in the old computer, I could only hear white noise. Two, that amongst all the equipment in the basement, I had found an old oscilloscope that was in working order. 

I had received the message - a weight was lifted off of me and I could move again. I can’t describe where the urge came from to do what I did next. It felt as if the thought had been put in my mind by a demon. 

I grabbed the oscilloscope from one of the rooms and connected it to the old computer’s headphone output. I turned it on and went to the only folder it contained. I then played the track in it, so that the noise would feed into the oscilloscope. Its screen started to show what normal white noise looks like, except in its distinctive green color. I wasn’t at all sure what I was looking for but I started to turn the fine tune knobs on it to see what would happen. I think the white noise began to change because I noticed that an image began to take form. I leaned in closer to the screen to try to make sense of it. I kept on messing with the knobs until the image became as clear as possible. What I saw in that oscilloscope screen will haunt me for the rest of my days.

It was an image of my mother. 

The witch has been dead for years.

[Part 4]

[Part 2]

To read part 1 click here.

The files from the unaccounted-for computer have parasitically attached themselves to my life over the last few days and have taken up most of my time and attention. With the way things have been going, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared. I haven’t listened to much else, despite being a prolific music listener and audiophile all of my life. I’ve developed a kind of obsession with these songs. I’ve come to know them like the back of my hand. Well... more or less. I came to know the lyrics, structure, instrumentation, arrangement, etc. of each song, and that’s given way to a series of dizzying problems.

Going back to my previous post, I mentioned how on first listen while in the basement, I had a strong feeling that there was something wrong with the songs. I don’t just mean with the strange behavior of the files but with the music itself - it really came off as ominous and threatening. Naturally, I assumed that becoming familiar with them, I would gradually outgrow those feelings. The opposite has happened. I mean, I did eventually overcome my fear of the music itself - in fact I find it to be quite profound and interesting. But something else is wrong.

I honestly don’t know how to write about this in a way that comes off as reasonable, so I’ll just write it as it has happened and let it stagger you the same way it did to me.

The songs are changing. In multiple ways.

It all started with trivial lyric changes that I chalked up to memory distortion. At first I would notice how one word would change for another that sounded very similar to it, etc. I obviously thought that I clearly had not listened to the lyrics carefully enough - that perhaps I was mistaking the song structure. But then, it started to become clear that something really wrong was happening. Entire lines would change - at first the lyrics of one verse would swap with another, but eventually I was listening to completely new words that I knew for sure were not initially there. I tried to convince myself that it was just me, and that the mysterious origin of the files was feeding into my perception of them. I needed to gain some clarity. I made a few notes regarding simple empirical things that could be known about the songs - I wrote down the lyrics for each song, as well as their root key and length. I first started to notice variating lengths in the files when I went for a run that always takes me forty minutes to complete. By then, I knew without question that the full length of the project ran thirty-eight minutes in total.. When I reached the end of my run, the project was still running - it went on for a full seven minutes longer than possible, clocking in at forty-five minutes. I checked the time to confirm the phenomenon and it was 100% due to variations of time in the songs. Then, bigger changes began to happen. Entire structural changes were occurring within the songs. Verses and choruses were being switched around and arrangements played by specific instruments were being replaced with others along with general differences in tonality - sometimes by as little as a quarter tone to as drastic as a couple of whole tones. Recently, I clocked a song running for a full thirteen minutes when I had recorded its length at just under five minutes. How can it be possible that the musical content of these files is changing?

I haven’t even mentioned what is the most unnatural and terrifying thing about this whole affair. The content of the lyrics seem to be aware of who I am, what I am doing and what I am thinking. I don’t want to include too many details about my personal life but I’ll say that throughout my life I have had a very difficult relationship with a particular member of my family, and that two days ago I had a falling out with this person that was way more destructive and toxic than any previous one (there have been many but this may truly be the last). In as few words as possible, I went through something unspeakable for many years during my childhood and this family member revealed that they knew exactly what was going on and did nothing to help. After this confrontation I came home in a daze. I felt like my mind and body were going to give out - I’ve been sober for over 14 years and I’d never truly considered drinking or consuming drugs again for over 10. I was so tempted to make a quick stop before getting home to make the pain go away. But I did what I’ve done for the past 14 years that has never failed me - losing myself in a room filled with music.

As soon as I arrived home, I quickly went up to my studio and put on a special playlist that I’ve curated over the years for when things get rough. I slowly started to come around and feel a little better. I remember I was listening to a J.J. Cale song when suddenly the song was cut off and a song that I immediately recognized as part of the Infinite Error folder started playing. Strange, I thought, but didn’t hesitate in just re-playing the song I was previously listening to. But it happened again. Too in the moment, I said fuck it and just kept listening - I had bigger problems to attend to than worrying about some computer glitch. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for that kind of music but there was something exhilarating about the song that I found distracting in a way that I really needed.

Then it started happening again - the song was changing. But this time, the lyrics were unmistakably about me. About my past. I will not go into detail about what it said but the lyrics were a perverse and cruel poem about my childhood, describing things that are so specific to my memories that I was left with no doubt in my mind that something evil and demonic was happening with these songs.

It’s impossible to explain how crushed I felt in that moment - I struggled to turn off the music and my computerbecause my hands were shaking horribly. I felt as if the entirety of creation and its spiritual underside had spat on my face.

I am lost. I am at my weakest. And I have no explanation for what is going on.

I’ll be updating with another post soon.

I see myself, as in I watch myself move, act, speak, eat, and everything I do it does. I say it but I don't know if it is an it, if it is me or some version of me or something that possesses me. Either way, “it” wants to be me. All of its actions are mine, but it doesn't ask me. It doesn't need me. I ask myself if I am purely a vessel, perhaps it's a ghost wanting a second chance at life, but that theory is stricken down when it dives into the same depravity I do. I am not a good man, I am knee deep into things I have been told to not share amongst strangers, but what are strangers when you don't even have friends, but I will still heed what my therapist says. More to that previous theory, it does not imprison me, it let's me back in; it's the only reason why I am able to write this. I don't want to share this with my therapist, because all he will do is incidentally give it more control. I don't trust it, I hate it. I thought to myself that perhaps the only way to get rid of it is to kill it. I asked myself, “how do I kill ‘it’?” I corrected myself “‘me.’” I realized that I was talking to it, I realized it wants my soul. I imagined it was a demon from the hell written in Dante’s inferno, a Screwtape, searching for a victim. It won't have me, but by proxy, I won't have it.

[Part 1]

They finally decided to copy all of their digital storage to an online server as backup. Quite late to be honest. I know a few of their old hard drives gave out over the last few years and naturally a bit of panic settled in. There’s actually tons of important data included in recording sessions, it’s not just about storing the audio masters. Sometimes artists want to come back to an old session to re-mix it, or maybe they need individual tracks for live sequencing, or perhaps they need isolated stems for sampling purposes. Beyond that, some of the recording sessions are from some pretty legendary artists and worth preservation for their historical and educational value. I won’t name any of the actual artists under the label I work for, but take Michael Jackson’s Beat It as an example: you could theoretically go back and look at the multiple vocal and instrument takes that were recorded, then edit them together and create an entirely new version of it. How sick is that?
Granted, producers usually would have already “comped” together all of the best takes for the final version, but still - who wouldn’t want to listen to a quasi-parallel universe version of Thriller? All that to say, there’s some incredibly valuable information in the label’s archive, and losing any of it can lead to some serious trouble.

Anyway, some weeks ago my boss emailed me an inventory sheet that included a list of the brands, models and serial numbers of about three dozen old computers and sixty hard-drives to go through and sent me down to the basement to begin. It’s kind of creepy being down here to be honest. It’s not just the no-windows thing and the fluorescent lighting which has always made me feel uncomfortable. It’s also the layout of the basement, which is very odd in comparison to the layout upstairs. It’s basically a long, continuous strip of rooms, one immediately leading into the next through single doors, with no hallways - I think I counted nine rooms when I explored the space on the first day. My guess is that throughout the years, the studio kept on digging to build subsequent rooms when they would run out of storage. Every room is a storage nightmare of recording equipment and utilities; microphones, stands, hardware units, instruments, speakers, panels, tape machines, boxes full of old tape reels, and an absolutely terrifying amount of cables. My boss told me that I am likely to find computers and drives in every room, so to search each one thoroughly.

I set up “camp” in the first room, using an old and gutted mixing console as my working station, in which I placed my equipment for the transfers and an old lamp I found for warm lighting. I actually preferred having that as my only source of lighting than to have those horrid fluorescent lights on. There’s been an eerie vibe down here from the start. It’s probably the fact that right across from where I sit, I can actually see all the way to the last room - its doorway and all the subsequent ones perfectly aligned to the first. A specific kind of charged darkness deepens from room to room, creating a kind of square spiral of increasingly heavy shades of black. It’s been a pretty slow but (thankfully) steady process so far. I’ve been carefully searching all of the rooms, one by one. Today I was searching through the last room. Most computers have worked fine so far, but most have brand-specific missing cables and/or accessories (mouse, keyboard, etc.), all of which have been fairly annoying to find online in working condition.

I brought the first computer I found and set it on my station, a PC which looked to be from the mid 90s. I wrote its serial number down but could not match it to any of the numbers on the inventory list. Not that odd, I guess. It could have been used for purposes other than recording or perhaps was an employee’s forgotten computer. Either way, I want to take a quick look to be sure. I switch it on and start searching through it. Nothing. There is absolutely nothing on the computer except for a single folder right on the desktop titled “Infinite Error”. The name didn’t ring any bells in relation to the label. I open it and inside is a single audio file. I try to play the audio file but nothing comes out of the computer speaker. I check the volume wheel to see if it’s low but no audio is coming out. No problem. I connect the computer’s audio output to an external speaker I’d been using and attempt to play it a second time. Now audio is coming out but it appears to be just white noise. I know the speakers are working properly so I think it’s possibly corrupted. Wanting to be thorough, I copy the folder to the main computer in which I’m organizing the central archive where it can possibly be fixed.

That’s when things started to get weird.

When I opened the folder on the main computer, it now contained two audio files. I preview the first audio file, and instead of white noise now it plays back a song - same with the second file which was another song. This will sound irrelevant but the music immediately deepened the dread that I had been feeling in the basement, especially when looking down the doorways. I quickly stopped the song. Confused, I thought of one last thing to do before moving on - I grabbed the folder and duplicated it to see if that would reveal more files, but nothing. I then took out my laptop and copied the folder there. That worked… Now it contained three files. Three different songs. I quickly turned on another computer and copied it there. Four songs. I repeated this six more times with six more computers. That’s where the folder stopped revealing itself further. I now had a folder with ten songs on it - each song more sinister than the last. I’ve never seen anything like this. Though I’m technically not supposed to, I’ve copied the folder with the ten songs on it to my phone and laptop to take with me and see what I can find out. I’m both intrigued by the multiplication of its files, but also by the music. I’ve never heard anything like it.

Any help would be appreciated. Has anyone experienced anything like this? I know for a fact that the old computer’s audio output does indeed work, since I copied a separate audio file to it and it played back fine. The audio file on the original folder still plays back as white noise. It’s almost like the folder wants to spread? I sound insane lol. Help a lad insane out ;)

I’ll be updating with another post soon.

[Part 2]

When I turned sixteen my dad gave me a video camera. It was old and heavy, the body made of metal, it made a soft “click click click” noise, and the film inside advanced frame by frame.

He smiled at me, “I thought filming would be a good outlet for you. I know you’ve been having a hard time since your mom disappeared. She loved filming with old cameras, she had one almost exactly like this. I thought it would help you feel closer to her.”

It was an old video camera. It actually recorded on film! I couldn’t believe my dad was so cheap, it looked like something he had picked up at a garage sale. I turned it over in my hands a couple times, examining the scuffed metal.

I forced a grin. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, doing my best to hide the sarcastic undertones to my voice. “Happy birthday, kiddo!” He responded, beaming as if he had given me something much more valuable than this beat up yard sale camera could possibly have been worth.

Despite my lack of excitement over the gift, I decided to try and make my dad happy, and took the camera to school with me the next day. The camera was old and clunky and felt awkward in both my bag and my hands.

As I wandered the halls, I felt almost drawn to a boy with long blond hair. Now, I should tell you, I had never seen this boy before at my school. He seemed standoffish, but I assumed that was just because, as far as I knew, he was new to the school. Intrigued by him I had the sudden urge to start filming him with my camera, although I wasn't sure why. It was like the camera whispered in my ear “him”.

With a hesitant hand, I pulled the camera from my bag and lifted the heavy cool metal to my eye. Without knowing exactly what I was doing, I pressed the shutter button. It was as if the camera was whispering to me, telling me what to do. There was a cool rush as I pushed the button. All the air around me became ice cold. The busy hallway fell silent, all I could hear was the soft “click, click, click” as the shutter closed again and again.

I began to follow the boy, filming him without a thought of stopping. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing, or if I was even capturing the mundane image of this boy, sitting in the back of his classes, head down, not speaking to anyone. I had never actually loaded the ancient camera. I didn’t even know how, or where to get film for a camera like this. Learning that had been my mission today, not this.

As the day progressed I began to notice something begin to change in the viewfinder. There was an odd, brown haze beginning to form around the blond boy that seemed to follow him everywhere. Curious, and with a great deal of difficulty, I pulled my face from the back of the camera for just one moment, without lifting my finger from the shutter button, but I couldn’t see it, it was only visible through the viewfinder.

I seemed invisible that day, not only to the boy but to everyone around me as well. I went into classes that weren’t mine, walked right past my friends in the hall without saying a word to them, or them to me. It was like I had simply slipped from the world, and disappeared into the cold metal body of the camera. The longer I filmed, it felt as if I drifted more into the camera, it was as if my whole world was that viewfinder, and my finger on the shutter. I found it harder and harder to focus on anything but Max and watch as the haze surrounding him became darker and darker.

After the final bell, I followed Max home without even thinking. I followed him down streets I barely knew, into a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. When we reached his house, I stopped and hesitated for a minute, torn between my mind which said not to enter a stranger’s house, and the pull of the camera, longing to continue to follow Max. As I stood outside the unfamiliar home, unsure what to do, there was a warm rush of air, and realization that I was somewhere I didn’t belong. For the first time all day I let my finger off the shutter. I stood on the street as the world slowly came back into focus, sounds returned, and I could feel warmth rushing over my body. I shoved the camera in my bag and shuffled awkwardly away from his house and towards my own. I felt as if I had been suddenly woken from sleep walking, and I was standing somewhere I didn’t know. As I neared my own home, I grew more and more determined to get some information from my dad on just where he had gotten this strange camera from.

“Hey, Dad?” I called in a questioning voice as I walked into our home and wandered towards his dusty office where I knew he would be. He looked up from an ancient-looking leatherbound book.

“Yes, kiddo?” He mumbled, his attention split between me and the book. I slid into the soft leather chair across the desk from him. Almost reluctantly I pulled the camera from my bag, placing it on the desk between us. Now that it was out of my hands there was a mixed feeling of longing to pick it back up and at the same time a sense of foreboding.

“So, about this camera, where did you find it?” I asked. My eyes unwilling to leave it as it sat innocently on the desk between us. I could almost feel the cool metal calling to me to pick it back up.

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, I know I probably should have bought you something, but, well, it was my mom’s, I found it in the basement, and I had this feeling like it was meant for you.” He looked up at me nervously.

I blinked. My grandmother was almost never talked about. She had loved all things art, much like my mother. All I knew about her was, that just like my own mother, she had disappeared when my dad was eight. We never really talked about my mother either. I wasn’t really sure what had happened to her, I had very few memories of my mom. I do remember her almost fading away in the days before she disappeared. I remember thinking she was just disappearing into a new art project, like she had many times before when “inspiration struck”, but this time felt different. I was like the light was fading from her, rather than her disappearing into her art, like she had before. Then one day she was just gone.

Nobody could find her. I remember us and the police searching for months, but there was no trail, she hadn’t taken her stuff, she hadn’t taken any money, her cards were never used. She was never found, and slowly, she just faded from existence. I stirred myself from my thoughts and looked up at my dad again.

“So why give it to me?” I asked.

My dad looked at me, not really responding. His eyes seemed to glaze over a little bit before he spoke. “It was meant for you,” He replied quietly.

I was startled by this answer. One of my few memories of my mother was what she had always said about any art I had created. Any time I insisted what I made wasn’t very good, because it didn’t compare with the things she did, she would tell me; “Art was meant to be created, my love, the things you make are meant for you. So long as you put your soul into them, they are beautiful.”

I could almost feel the camera calling out to me, whispering “you belong to me”, I finally gave in and reached out for it. My dad smiled a little, an almost possessed look on his face. I touched the little door for the film softly. “Where did you get the film?” I asked my mind, still reeling about my mother, and the strange need I felt to hold the camera.

My dad shrugs, “It was already loaded and ready to use, why? Is there something wrong with it?” I shook my head and shrugged, “I don’t know.” I responded, my voice shaking a little bit, remembering the odd haze around the boy I had been filming. As I opened my mouth to speak, it was like I couldn’t, all the words left and my tongue felt like lead. I held the camera, cradling it in my arms. Unable to think clearly enough to continue the conversation with my dad, I stood to leave, “thanks” I half whispered as I slipped out of the study, and watched my dad disappear back into his book without even looking back at me.

Alone in my room I decided to look the camera over more carefully. The metal body was scuffed in a few places. It was wrapped in some sort of soft black leather. The lens was small and the glass seemed slightly fogged. The shutter button seemed worn and didn’t pop all the way back out, like it had been pushed down for a long time. The winder on the other hand seemed almost new. I realized, when I had filmed, I hadn't even wound it once. I wasn't really sure how a camera like this was supposed to work, but I assumed you weren’t supposed to be able to film without winding it. I knew almost nothing about this camera, yet I had pushed that shutter button today without thinking, almost as if I had always used it. I flipped it over and looked at the film door, it looked like it was stuck shut. I twist the small key, attempting to open it. The key twisted easily, but the door was jammed closed. There seemed to be no way to open the door to remove the film.

I stared at the camera, debating doing some research on it, but it felt almost wrong, like it would somehow break the spell and take away the confidence I had felt earlier when I began to film. Instead, I lifted the camera cautiously to my eye and lightly ran a finger over the shutter button. I jumped as I watched dark shapes move around in my room, unsure what they were. I lowered the camera again and stared at the blank corner of my room, waiting for the shadows to appear again. They didn’t.

Over the next few days, I became obsessed with filming Max. I would get to school, find him, and follow him all day, never pulling my eye from the viewfinder, even though the brown haze completely consumed him now. I could feel myself almost fading into the camera. I was completely invisible, I didn’t go to my classes, I didn’t talk to my friends, and the scary thing was, nobody seemed to notice, and nobody seemed to care.

At the end of each day, I would find myself, standing outside Max’s now familiar home, still feeling as though this was a space I could not enter. Each day, I would reluctantly let my finger off the shutter, and watch as the world slowly came back into focus. I would shove the camera in my bag and hurry home. I avoided my dad at all costs. The first couple days, he tried to talk to me, but I would brush him off, I think eventually he just assumed his gift had worked and I had become consumed with art. Just like my mother used to with her projects. I was consumed, but by the camera, not art. I would disappear into my room the moment I got home, and lay in bed, staring at the camera, wishing I was still filming until I fell asleep. When I slept, I dreamed of the dark shapes, they closed in around me, I could feel them getting closer and hungrier each night, but for what, I wasn’t sure.

After filming Max for about three days, he had become completely indistinguishable from the haze. When I started filming he seemed normal and a little shy. He always sat in the back of the class, kept his head down and tried to be invisible, but as my filming continued he became more energetic. He seemed possessed with some kind of charismatic energy. He was constantly surrounded by people, like they just couldn’t escape him. Although I noticed, I thought nothing of it, my thoughts consumed with filming, and satisfying the insatiable hunger of the camera.

The next day, on our usually solitary walk to his house, something happened, and I’ll tell you right now, I know this whole mess is somehow my fault. As we neared Max’s house, another boy came up to Max and the boys began to walk home together. I found myself following, filming, watching hungrily as the boys interacted. I could feel the camera almost vibrating in my hands, and for some reason, it filled me with giddy excitement.

As we walked, Max and the boy took a detour from our usual route, taking a trail through the forest that backed Max’s house. As they walked, the haze became darker than I had seen it before. I felt the shadows from my dreams pushing against me, they were starving, and they knew that their long awaited meal was coming. I watched from behind my camera as with a sudden and unexpected movement Max pushed the boy down to the ground, with a fierce hungry violence. He kneeled down on the boy’s chest and grabbed a rock. He smashed it down on the boy’s head, each strike more violent than the last.

I was frozen, terrified, yet entranced, unable to do anything but film. My finger longing to lift from the button, and break away from the camera. It was like it was fused to me. I had become the camera. As I watched the brown haze faded from around Max with each strike and settled on the boy’s body. I could feel the darkness from my dreams feeding on the body as it released its grip on Max.

I watched through the viewfinder as the darkness began to fade from the body. The feeling of hunger softly ebbing away. Suddenly, Max jumped up, seeming to wake from a dream. He stood over the body, he stared from the boy’s smashed face to his bloody hands, an expression of shock on his face. I was unmoving, as I watched the haze, as it faded from the body and melted into the ground. Max ran from the woods, but the connection between myself and Max was broken.

As Max disappeared into the woods, I felt the same rush of warm air I had felt each time we reached his house, and the sensation of waking from a dream. I released the shutter button and came out of the camera world, into the all to bright real world. Scared by what I had seen, I ran home, barely aware of the camera still clutched tightly in my hands.

When I reached my house, I found it blissfully empty as I ran to my room slamming the door behind me. I shoved the camera into a corner in my closet with a mix of emotions. I could feel the darkness around me, its eyes on me as my hands shook and tears burned my eyes. I vowed I would never touch that horrible camera again.

Over the next few days, I tried to get back to my real life. Max had mysteriously left school, and I tried hard not to think about why, and ignore the rumors that he had murdered the boy who lived down the street from him. However, I felt disconnected from real life, I couldn’t think clearly, or engage with classmates or school work. It was as if all of the color had been drained from the real world, and I had become a ghost of myself. I felt the darkness pushing against me, and myself getting weaker the longer I went without filming. I began to feel the hunger again, and I knew it was the hunger of the darkness, and of the camera.

It was a Saturday, when I couldn’t resist the pull of the camera or hunger of the darkness pressing against me. I pulled the camera apprehensively from the closet. When I pulled the viewfinder to my eye I knew the dark hazy shapes would be all around me. I watched as they moved aggressively in the frame, their hunger burning into me. I knew what I needed, what they needed, a new subject to film.

Despite it being almost 10:00 pm, I found myself walking down the street in the cool night air. The camera glued to my face, my finger running lightly around the shutter button. I was desperate, I needed someone to film, or I knew the darkness would consume me. I didn’t understand this need. I’ve always been introverted. A few close friends, but the camera had made me lose touch with almost all of them. It was like I’d ceased to exist in the real world. My world consisted of nothing but the small frame of the camera. I felt hungry for a new subject, it was the only thing that mattered. I needed to find someone to film.

As if my needs and my desperation had been heard, I saw a girl walking across the street with a dog. She had long black hair and didn’t seem to see me at all. Within seconds, I was obsessed, the camera pulling me towards her. I found myself crossing the street to follow her. The camera willing me to film, forcing me to follow her, just as it had forced me to follow Max. The pull was both terrifying and hypnotic. I followed her all the way home, sitting outside her window watching the dark haze build as she slept.

It built much quicker, than it had with Max. I knew the darkness was starving. I found myself powerless to do anything but film. She became my new subject. I could not escape the hungry pull of the camera. The longer I filmed her, the more of a sinking feeling I had of what was coming if I continued to film her, and yet, I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to, It was as if the camera and I had become one. The dark shapes and the haze had consumed me.

Unlike with Max, I never left this girl. There was no more rush of warm air, the world never came back into focus. I never went home, never slept, never ate. All I was was the camera. I could feel my own hunger building with the darkness, and I knew the only thing that would satisfy my own hunger was the violence I knew was coming.

Then it happened, the sweet release I had been waiting for. It was Max, he met the girl I’d been filming for the past couple days. He was free of the haze I had gotten used to seeing surrounding him. He looked normal. I watched the girl talk to him for a few moments. By this point she was nothing but the haze, and like I’d known would happen, she led Max into the woods.

Part of me wanted to pull my finger from the shutter button, silence the soft “click, click, click” that has become the only sound I could hear. Yet, part of me longed for the coming violence. I wanted him to die, I needed it. I could feel the camera begging for what was coming. I watched her attack Max, with a horrific thirst seeming to seep from the camera into my veins; I wanted it. I wanted to see the bloodshed. I wanted to see the life fade from Max. I needed it.

I had become one with the camera. I watched as the brown haze faded from her and consumed Max’s lifeless body. I watched as the now haze-free girl stood over Max’s body. I could see the look of fear and confusion on her face. All traces of the violence she had executed so intensely just moments before were completely gone. She took off into the woods, but I remained, glued to the spot where I stood.

My hands shook, and I felt the camera slip from my grasp. Something deep within me stirred and I became horrified about what I’d seen, but I also found myself unable to scream, or cry, or even tell anyone about what was on my camera, just as I hadn’t been able to tell anyone when I started using it. I stared down at the camera on the forest floor. It was just me, me and the cool metal of that beautiful, terrible camera. I could feel it calling to me. I felt myself itching to reach for the camera.

I slowly crouched down and scooped it up, checking anxiously to see if it had broken in the fall. The camera seemed intact, short of a small new dent near the shutter button. I ran my finger over it lightly. I could feel the darkness in the camera closing in around me, and my last shreds of humanity slipping away.

I knew at that moment, sitting on the forest floor that I had two choices. I could continue to film, continue to keep the darkness trapped in the camera satisfied, or I could fight it, and have that darkness turn on me, consume me, and leave me like Max. Lifeless on the forest floor. I looked down at the camera, and considered my options..

I know what I have to do. I need to run from this place, as far as I can go, before the hunger becomes too much for me again, then I will rewind the tape and film over the awful events that happened in this place. I’m writing all this now, so that you know not to look for me. I’m sorry to leave, abandoning you like my mother and your mother did. The camera is pulling me, I cannot escape it. I know nobody will ever see me, that the camera will make me fade from existence. That the darkness that has somehow been trapped within this camera must be fed, or it will come for me, for you, for everyone I love.. I am leaving, so that the darkness can’t destroy anyone else from our family. I know more will die as I search for a way to end this, to break free from the camera’s pull and escape the darkness. So here it is, my tale, my confession. I am the camera girl, and I make people die.

I had been sitting at home, flipping through a magazine and half-watching TV, when my phone rang. The woman on the other end sounded frantic, almost too eager to secure a sitter for the night. Her voice, tight with urgency, made me hesitate at first. But the pay she offered was hard to ignore.

"Please," she had said. "I just need someone reliable. Just for tonight. “

I’d agreed, but as I hung up the phone, a strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. It was a babysitting job, nothing more. So why did I feel so uneasy?

The house stood at the end of a long, winding driveway, hidden among tall, dark trees. It wasn’t the kind of house you’d expect to feel unsettling at first glance. It was modern, clean, and neatly kept. But something about the place felt wrong, even before I stepped inside. The windows were dark and reflective, catching the last fading light of the evening sky. I felt a strange heaviness as I stood outside, staring up at the house.

I knocked, and within moments, Mrs. Winters opened the door. She was tall and thin, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her dress, a soft blue, was elegant but a little too formal for a quiet evening at home. Her face a mask of politeness, with just a hint of something unreadable behind her eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, stepping aside to let me in. “I know it’s last minute.”

The house was warm, but not in a welcoming way. The air felt stifling, heavy. The scent of lavender lingered, but it couldn’t mask something else underneath. Something faint, like old wood or damp air.

“No problem,” I replied, forcing a smile as I stepped inside.

Mrs. Winters gestured toward the staircase, but then turned to me, her voice lowering. “Before you go upstairs, there are a few important rules you need to follow.”

She handed me a piece of paper, the edges worn, like it had been folded and unfolded many times. The rules were written in neat, slanted handwriting.

1. Do not open the window in Daniel’s room.

2. If you hear knocking at the door, do not answer it.

3. Keep the closet door in Daniel’s room closed at all times.

4. Do not go into the basement, for any reason.

The list of rules made my stomach twist a little. “These are... rather specific” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Mrs. Winters’ eyes flickered to the staircase again before she looked back at me. “Just… follow the rules and you’ll be fine.”

She didn’t wait for me to ask anything else. She grabbed her coat from a nearby chair, gave me a tight smile, and hurried out the front door. The click of the door shutting echoed louder than it should have.

For a moment, I stood in the foyer, staring down at the list in my hand. The rules felt odd .. no, they felt wrong. But I couldn’t put my finger on why.

Taking a deep breath, I folded the paper and tucked it into my pocket before heading upstairs. Daniel’s room was at the end of a long, dim hallway. The door was slightly open, and the light from inside spilled out in a thin line across the floor.

I knocked softly, pushing the door open a little more. Daniel sat on the edge of his bed, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“Hi, Daniel,” I said gently, stepping inside.

He didn’t respond, just sat there, staring at the wall across from him. His small hands clutched the edge of the bed, his knuckles pale. The room itself was neat, but something about it felt… off. The air was colder than the rest of the house, and there was a strange stillness to everything, like the room had been frozen in time.

I glanced at the closet door. It was closed, just as the rule had instructed. For some reason, the sight of it sent a chill down my spine.

“Do you want to play a game or read before bed?” I asked, trying to break the silence.

Daniel shook his head slowly, still not looking at me. “You can’t open the window.”

The bluntness of his words startled me. “I know. I won’t open it.”

“She doesn't like it when it’s closed,” he added quietly, almost to himself.

I frowned, my heart beating a little faster. “Who doesn’t like it?”

Daniel’s grip on the bed tightened, but he didn’t answer. His eyes flickered briefly toward the closet door, then back to the window.

The silence in the room grew heavier. I could hear the faint ticking of a clock from somewhere downstairs, the only sound in the house. I sat down in the chair near his bed, trying to shake the strange sense of dread settling over me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, unsure of what else to say.

Daniel finally looked at me, his dark eyes wide and unnervingly calm. “She comes when it’s dark.”

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly. “Who comes?”

He didn’t answer, just turned back toward the window. The air felt colder now, almost suffocating. I glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see someone standing outside, but the glass was empty, reflecting only the dim light from inside the room.

Minutes passed, the quiet stretching unnaturally. I found myself staring at the closet door again, the simple instruction on the list playing over in my mind. Keep it closed. But why? What could possibly be in a child’s closet that would require such a rule?

Without warning, Daniel crossed the room and stood in front of the window, his face inches from the glass.

My heart skipped a beat as I stood up, remembering the first rule. Do not open the window in Daniel’s room.

“Daniel,” I called softly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Please step away from the window.”

He didn’t respond right away. My pulse quickened as I took a step closer, my mind racing with the rule. Why wasn’t I allowed to open the window? What would happen if I did?

“Daniel, you need to stay away from the window,” I said, more firmly this time.

Slowly, Daniel turned to face me. His eyes were wide, but there was something off about his expression. He stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged and walked out of the room without a word.

He was already in the hallway, his small figure disappearing around the corner. I hurried after him, my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to do, but the house felt different now, like it was watching us. As I followed Daniel down the stairs, the floor creaked underfoot, and the air grew colder.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, Daniel was standing in the foyer, staring at the front door. His hands were clenched at his sides, his head tilted slightly as if he was listening for something.

“Hey...what are you doing?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“She knocks sometimes,” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the door. “But you can’t open it. You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, trying to calm the rising panic in my chest. “Yes, I know. Come back upstairs, okay?”

He ignored me, taking a step closer to the door. My pulse quickened. I took a deep breath and moved toward him, reaching out to take his hand. But before I could grab him, he spun around and darted toward the living room, moving faster than I expected.

I followed him into the living room, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The room was dark, the curtains drawn tight. Daniel stood in the center of the room, staring at the fireplace. The embers from a fire long since extinguished flickered faintly, casting strange shadows on the walls.

He moved toward the far corner of the room, where a small door was built into the wall. My heart sank as I realized what it was : the basement door.

He just stared at me for a moment, then pulled away from my grasp and walked back toward the stairs. My legs felt weak as I stood there, staring at the basement door.

When I caught up to him, he was already halfway up the stairs, his small hands trailing along the banister. He moved quietly, as if the house itself was watching him, waiting for something.

Back upstairs, Daniel walked into his room without a word and sat down on the bed, his eyes once again drawn to the closet. The doors were still closed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was moving behind it. There was a faint, almost imperceptible noise coming from it, like the soft scrape of nails against wood.

I forced myself to stay calm, my eyes flicking to the window. It was shut tight, the curtains still.

“Daniel ... what's inside the closet?” I asked, my voice serious .

“She is.” Daniel whispered.

The third rule said to keep the closet door in Daniel’s room closed at all times but I felt a strong , unnatural pull to open the doors . I had to see what was inside..

My hands were shaking as I moved toward the closet door, and just as I reached it a faint knock echoed through the house.

My heart stopped. I looked at Daniel, who was now staring at the door with an expression that sent chills down my spine.

The knock echoed through the house, soft at first but unmistakable. It wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that made my stomach twist.

I froze, remembering the second rule. If you hear knocking at the door, do not answer it.

Without warning, Daniel stood up and walked toward the door. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were drawn to the sound. My heart pounded in my chest, and I rushed toward him, grabbing his arm before he could reach the handle.

“We can’t open it,” I repeated, my voice tight with fear.

He turned to look at me, his dark eyes wide and unblinking. “She needs me”

His words made my skin crawl. I pulled him away from the door, leading him back to the bed, but his gaze never left the door. The knocking had stopped, but the silence that followed was even worse. It hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as though the house itself was holding its breath.

I looked at Daniel, hoping he would say something, anything, to explain what was happening.

But instead, he started running toward the living room, his steps quick and purposeful.

“Daniel , wait!” I called, hurrying after him.

I caught up to him just as he stopped in front of the basement door.

The boy didn’t hesitate. His small fingers wrapped around the door handle, and before I could stop him, he pulled it open. A gust of cold air rushed up from the dark staircase below, and an unsettling shiver rippled through my body.

“Daniel, we can’t go down there,” I said, my voice shaking.

But the child wasn’t listening. His eyes were wide and glassy, as though something had taken hold of him, pulling him into the darkness below. Without a word, he stepped down onto the first creaky stair, his small frame swallowed by the shadows. I hesitated for a split second before rushing after him. I couldn’t leave him alone down there, no matter what the rules said.

Each step I took felt heavier than the last. The air was cold, unnaturally so, and the smell of damp earth and something old and decaying filled the space. It clung to my skin, thick like a fog that made it hard to breathe.

At the bottom of the stairs, Daniel stood perfectly still. His gaze was fixated on a small, dust-covered table in the corner of the room. The single lightbulb overhead flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows that danced across the walls. Everything felt wrong, like the basement had been waiting for us all along.

I stepped closer, trying to steady my breathing. Daniel walked over to the table, his small hands reaching for something resting there. When he lifted it, I saw that it was an old photograph in a cracked, weathered frame. His fingers trembled slightly as he stared down at the image. I moved closer, and when I saw what was in the picture, my heart skipped a beat.

It was a photo of two women. One I immediately recognized as Mrs. Winters, his mother. The other woman looked almost identical to her, but she was younger, and there was something unsettling about the way she stood. Her smile was too wide, her eyes too focused on Daniel, who was a toddler in the photo, cradled in her arms.

“That used to be my aunt Vivian..” Daniel whispered, his voice barely audible. “She died in a car accident. Mom survived..”

“She was always around me,” he continued, his voice growing quieter, as though the memories were pulling him deeper into a trance. “It was like having two mothers. She tried to be nice, spending all her time with us, but… my mother didn’t like it too much . She didn’t like how much time she spent with me.”

A chill crawled up my spine as the flickering light dimmed even further. The basement felt darker, the air heavier. I took the photo from Daniel’s trembling hands, placing it back on the table, but something made me turn toward the far corner of the basement. There, where the light barely touched, I saw something shift in the shadows.

Then, a cold, raspy voice, full of bitterness, cut through the silence.

“She never deserved you.”

The sound made my blood run cold. I turned slowly, my heart pounding as the shadows in the corner began to twist and writhe, forming a shape. A figure. It moved slowly, as though it had been waiting there all along.

Hanging from the wall, half-hidden in the darkness, was the twisted figure of a woman. Her limbs were too long, unnaturally thin, her body contorted in a way that made my stomach turn. Her face was pale, sunken, and her eyes… black pits of rage and envy…were locked onto Daniel.

“I’ve waited long enough.” the voice hissed, echoing through the room like a venomous whisper.

Daniel’s body stiffened beside me, his breath shallow and shaky. I could feel the air around us growing colder, and my skin prickled with fear. The figure detached itself from the wall with a sickening crack, her long, spider-like limbs stretching as she moved closer, her smile twisting into something cruel and hateful.

“It’s time to come with me, Daniel,” she hissed again, her voice low and filled with malevolent intent.

Before I could react, Daniel’s body began to rise off the floor, his feet lifting from the cold concrete as though an invisible hand had pulled him upward. His eyes rolled back into his head, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides as the spirit moved toward him, her twisted form looming over him.

I screamed, rushing toward Daniel, but the moment I reached for him, a force slammed into me, sending me staggering backward. The cold pressed in on me from all sides, and I could hear her laughter . It was deep, menacing, and filled with satisfaction.

Daniel’s body convulsed in midair, his eyes now completely white as the spirit tried to take him over. Her long, twisted arms reached for him, her bony fingers inches from his skin. Desperation clawed at me as I searched the room for something, anything, that could stop her.

That’s when I saw it.

An old vase, sitting on a shelf in the corner, covered in dust and cobwebs. My heart pounded as I ran toward it, my hands trembling as I grabbed it. The label on the vase was faded, barely legible, but I could make out the name : Vivian Price

It was HER .

The realization hit me like a wave . Her presence had lingered all these years because she wasn’t fully gone. She had never truly left. The ashes were more than just remnants of a body. They were the prison of a malevolent force that had waited for this moment.

I clutched the vase tightly and sprinted toward the stairs, the wind howling through the basement as if the spirit knew what I was about to do. The cold bit at my skin, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop. I had to finish this.

Outside, the night air was frigid and sharp, the wind tearing through the trees as if the world itself was trying to stop me. I stumbled into the garden, the soft earth giving way beneath my feet as I dropped to my knees, frantically digging a hole with my bare hands. The wind howled louder, and I could hear the spirit’s enraged voice screaming inside the house, but I didn’t care. I had to bury her. I had to end this.

With trembling hands, I placed the vase into the ground and began covering it with dirt. The wind swirled around me, fierce and wild, but as soon as the last bit of earth was in place, everything stopped. The wind died. The air grew still. A heavy silence fell over the yard, and for a moment, everything was eerily calm.

Then, from inside the house, I heard a piercing scream, sharp and furious. It cut through the air, filled with anger and pain, but just as suddenly as it started, it was gone. The night was silent again, and I knew it was over.

I ran back into the house, my heart racing. In the basement, Daniel lay on the floor, gasping for breath, his body trembling. The shadows that had clung to the walls had disappeared, and the oppressive weight that had filled the room was gone.

I knelt beside him, pulling him into my arms, holding him close. "It’s over," I whispered, my voice shaking. "She can’t hurt you anymore."

Daniel’s small body shook as he clung to me, but I could feel the tension leaving him, the fear that had gripped him finally loosening its hold. The spirit of his aunt, the jealousy, the resentment that had consumed her in life and twisted her in death, was gone, buried with her ashes.

https://open.spotify.com/episode/0GOV1axJmEhrhhgIv75Ydl?si=Poa7wtErQHmjg09uuRy9cA

I wrote this last year and Creepy Pod turned it into an audio narration last month and I wanted to share with other horror writers.

The story is about a dad and what he decides to do with his dead son's corpse.

I’m writing a novel that is Terrifie-esque, except I don’t know how to not make it a copy and paste of Terrifier. Only one installment, but I also want it to be a slasher. One of my main problems his how to invent new kills. Any ideas or tricks? And a little help on how to not make it a copy and paste of Terrifie pls!