My name is Jenna. Me and my friends, Taylor, Anne, and Mandy love watching those ghost-hunter type shows where they explore abandoned places and haunted landmarks and things like that. Recently, there was an episode on our favorite show, where they explored an abandoned asylum in our town, Mayland. We all decided not to watch the episode, and instead explore the asylum ourselves this coming Halloween, in 2 days.

After coming home from Taylor’s house that day, I immediately started regretting my decisions. I didn’t think I was ready to experience this from the other side of the TV. The day we were supposed to leave for the asylum, I had told my sister that if I didn’t return home by 9:00 PM, to call the police and send them to the asylum. She tried to stop me before I left, but I assured her that I would be fine. I wasn’t even sure of that myself.

I gathered my things. I brought a tiny pocket knife, a padlock, flashlight, and a Bible. I didn’t think to bring any ghost-detection materials because I assumed someone else in the group would do so. I told my mother I was going to Anne’s house for a Halloween party. She was the only friend in the group my mother trusted, so she let me go.

We all gathered at Mandy’s house beforehand. The girls were making jokes, and laughing about the whole experience, like we were going to some sort of amusement park. The only person who’s discomfort I could see was Taylor’s. She sat in the kitchen with tears in her eyes. I asked her why she was upset. She said that it was no big deal and that she would just suck it up for the girls. Taylor was the one driving us, and I was sitting in the backseat with Mandy. The asylum was nowhere near the house, it was about a 45 minute drive. We could see the asylum immediately. It was a giant building with almost zero windows.

Mandy asked us, “Should we really be doing this?” Nobody replied. “I’m… you know… I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Taylor said, trying to play it cool. We all looked at each other and decided to do it. This was really happening.

The door was a little rusty, but the facilities inside didn’t look completely horrible. There was rust on some parts of the iron gates that covered the cells. Some broken tiles and dirt in some places, but it wasn’t as bad as we thought. The one thing we almost couldn’t handle was the smell. It was the most vile thing we had ever smelled. Disgusting. It smelled like… rotting corpses. Unironically…

We put on face masks that Mandy brought with her. Taylor called out, “Hello? Is anybody here?” She held out an EMF meter and waved it around. I held my breath. It remained in the shades of green, indicating that there probably weren’t very many ghosts around us. Thank God. She continued to hold it in front of her as we walked from the reception to the main hallway. It continued to flash light green, close to yellow, but not yet there. By this point we were all huddled up while walking and holding hands and locking arms, all of that. Suddenly, we heard a beep from the EMF meter.

Yellow. It had flashed yellow. Anne let out a little yelp as Taylor called out again, “Is anybody here?” Tears began to pool in my eyes. It flashed green again. Taylor pulled out her next ghost-hunting device thing. It was a spirit box. She whispered, “Are there any ghosts here?” 

There was no reply. Just static. Sometimes it got louder, sometimes it got softer. But it was still just static. It was driving us crazy. Taylor got annoyed with the lack of response, so she yelled, “IS ANYBODY HERE?!” and held the spirit box up to her ear. The static suddenly got louder, as if it boomed, and Taylor dropped the spirit box in pain as she fell to the floor.

We rushed to her and tried to pick her up from the floor, as she held her ear in pain. We decided to stop the “ghost hunt” and instead, just explore the asylum as it is. She still held out the EMF reader, though. It remained green/light yellow the entire time, until we reached this giant hall, full of cells. It began to flash dark orange, the second highest level. We all looked at each other, before proceeding to the giant hall.

We explored the first floor of the hall, and nothing really disturbed us. We split up after that. Taylor and Mandy explored the right side of the second floor, and Anne and I explored the right side of the second floor. Everything was fine until we heard a scream from Taylor and Mandy’s side. I looked behind me, and there I found Taylor and Mandy, practically glued to each other, in front of an old man. An old man in cell 24.

Anne and I rushed to Taylor and Mandy, still standing there in shock. The man looked at us. “Are you lot the newest patients? What are those uniforms?” he asked. We didn’t know how to reply to that. “What do you mean patients? What are you even doing here? I thought they evacuated all the patients.” Mandy managed to mutter. He scratched his head, then walked towards us. We shuffled backwards a bit, but we were too curious about his story. “I believe they are still here. I feel it. They are my family,” he said.

It sent a shiver down our spines. We looked around us. Every cell was empty except for this one. He walked away after that, just wandering into the halls. He looked like he knew where he was going, so we didn’t stop him. We just watched him slowly walk out of the hall, the look of pure horror still etched into our faces. We walked into his cell. Cell 24. There was a shabby little bed, a table, and a chair beside it. It was like a prison cell. Not to mention, that “rotting corpse” stench began getting stronger. It was disgusting. There was also a tiny end table beside the bed. We opened the first drawer. Nothing. We opened the second drawer. There we found a tidy little blue journal. It was made of leather. We opened it, and there we found some sort of diary-journal, assumed to be owned by that old man. He had jotted down things like what he had for breakfast, or cell-mates he didn’t like. There were a lot of them. Then we reached the last page. At least, the last page with writing on it.

It was the same phrase written about 3 times. “...burning in the basement, burning in the basement, BURN THEM IN THE BASEMENT” The last phrase was written in capital letters. Mandy dropped the journal and started crying. We were mortified. What did it mean? The man was already too far away to hear our screams, so we cried all we wanted. What the heck? What was burning in the basement. We all looked up in realization. The rotting corpse smell… was indeed coming… from the basement. We all hid behind Taylor, walking towards the basement door. She was the only person with any sliver of courage left in her. The smell was getting stronger and stronger, we knew it was coming from the basement. “3. 2. 1,” we opened the door.

It was pitch black, until someone opened the light switch. The four of us looked at each other. We were all holding hands. Whatever opened the light switch, was in the basement itself.

We looked down, and were mortified. Wouldn’t you be too if you found 45 asylum patients, faces all pale, looking like zombies, staring directly at you? Well, other than 2 of them. Those 2 were eating away at a fellow patient’s corpse. I suppose they had been locked down there for a while. We screamed in terror. That’s when one of them whispered something to another patient, and they whispered it to someone else, until they collectively screamed, “YOU’RE WITH CLIFFORD! YOU WERE WITH HIM!” in a chant-like tone. They continued screaming it, as they sniffed and made sniffing motions from afar, as if they were dogs. Taylor mentioned that they were talking about the old man we had found in cell 24. We all screamed from the top of our lungs, and hid in a cell, where they couldn’t find us.

We were all screaming and crying except for Anne. She kept a straight face and stared at Taylor, as if she wanted to murder her. Nobody had enough energy to speak, so Anne spoke. “Taylor. How did you know where the basement was?” she said as we looked at her, as her crying and gasping for air, turned into one dark smirk, her eyes staring right back at Anne, until she spoke softly, “I watched the episode. I’m only getting out of here if everybody else dies.” We screamed. Loud enough for the other “zombie patients” to hear us.

Taylor ran out of the cell, locking us into the it, as those “zombie patients” rushed towards us. Banging on the rusty iron bars. We all hid behind Taylor when we walked towards the basement. She was leading us to most of the places. She was the one who mentioned that the man from cell 24 was Clifford. We realized it too late. Taylor had already escaped. I had mentioned previously that there were almost zero windows. Almost. One of the few windows was in Clifford’s cell, the one we were currently in. We looked back at the patients banging on the iron bars. They would give way soon. We didn’t know what the patients would do if they got in. All 45 of them.

We looked out of the window, to see Clifford, holding a lighter, smirking, as he mouthed, “Thank you,” then proceeded to shout “THOSE IN THE BUILDING MUST BURN” 3 times, before tossing the lighter towards the gasoline he had poured onto the wall. The building was on fire. We were trapped. Anne was the only one who brought a watch, and so I asked her. “What time is it?” desperately hoping, just hoping that it would be what I was thinking. She replied, “just above 9 PM.” I started bursting into tears. It was 9:05 PM. The same time I had told my sister to call the police if I wasn’t home yet. The last thing we did was wait until they arrived, hoping my sister remembered. She did. We heard the sirens wailing in the distance, but the patients were about to break in. We propped the bed vertically onto the gates, then proceeded to build the barricade with the table, chair, and end table, proving to be effective, even if just for a while. We screamed for the police out the windows, hoping they could hear it over the roaring flames of the burning building.

We heard spraying water, then saw people dressed in red hard hats and firemen uniforms. Someone must have reported the fire as well. “Just a little longer. It has to last a little longer,” Mandy yelped, as the patients were trying to push through the barricade. We waved to the firemen, waiting to be saved. They noticed us. The police were able to break through the lock Taylor placed in the entrance. I suppose they heard either the screaming of us 3 teenage girls, or the screaming of the 45 crazies trying to break into a cell. Either way, it was enough to alert them of our location. I clutched my Bible as the barricade began to give way, just as the police arrived, with their guns, enough to scare the patients away. We screamed and waved our arms, waiting to be saved, as the officers broke through the iron bars, and brought us out. Thankfully, the smoke from the fire earlier was blocked by the face masks we were still wearing.

The patients snarled at us, while backed into a corner by the policemen holding guns up. We were saved. Finally. The one thing that continued to disturb us was that they never found Clifford. Or Taylor. We can only assume what happened to them.

I hugged my sister as I reached home, thanking her for saving my life. My parents lectured me about lying to them and doing stupid things like that. For the first time, like ever, I appreciated that lecture. Eventually, they burst into tears and we all hugged for what felt like forever. I needed that. My parents called my friends’ parents to ensure that the other girls were ok. They were. Except for Taylors' parents, or Taylor, wherever she was. Anyways, things like that, I’d rather not ask.

I haven't slept in 2 days. I can't. I haven't been able to get rid of it. I need help. Any help.

It started a week ago. My job at the factory is boring. So unbelievably boring. But it has its benefits. It's easy work, I won't say it's terribly important but it's easy. And I don't get interrupted often. So I listen to music. Or audiobooks. Or anything really. Just something you pass the monotony of the day until the end of my shift. My old headphones, reliable as they were, finally gave out on me. So I finally bit the bullet on a new pair. It's where the issues started.

I did my usual that day. Clocked in, sat down along a long production line, put the headphones on, and fiddled the day away. About 2 hours into my shift I heard the faintest knocking sound. I don't how long it had been there. It must have blended in with the music but I couldn't unhear it now. I paused the music but the knocking persisted. "Must be something wrong with one of the machine belts" I thought as I took the headphones off. But the sound disappeared.

I looked around carefully and listened but outside the quiet hum of the machines it was silent. Until the headphones went back on. Then a gentle distant knocking continued. I tried to turn up the music and to my surprise, the knocking didn't get any louder. I shook it off as a weird quirk of the headphones and got back to work. The rest of my day was like every other.

The next day at work started just the same and just as yesterday my headphones started to knock. Only this time, it was louder. It wasn't loud per say but even at louder volumes it could still be heard just barely under the blaring tones of my music. At lunch I asked a coworker from a different building if she could help me. She was in charge of some of the maintenance at the factory and I figured if I could get a quick answer, she would find it.

"Hey, Brianne, you got a second? I have a tech question."

Brianne gave me a half smile. "You're lucky you don't bug me often or I'm going to charge you next time. What's up?"

I took my headphones off from around my neck. I got these 2 days ago. New model. There's an odd knocking sound that doesn't seem related to the volume, any thoughts?"

She took them from me. "Couldn't be a normal problem could it?" She took the headphones for a beat and listened. "How often is it happening?"

"All the time"

She handed them back. "Well then I fixed it because it's not there now"

"Really? Thank yo-" I stopped as the headphones went back on. "Very funny. It's still there."

She snatched them back and put them on " Dude I'm telling you it's not there. Now I'm going to eat my food. Here, take them back but I'm not messing with you, it's silent when I listen."

I go back to lunch and try and listen to an audio book but that knocking really disrupts the flow of things. So off they stay for the rest of the day. I get off work and go to the store where I bought them. I politely ask for a replacement pair and although the clerk didn't hear an issue either, he didn't see anything wrong with the return. He stowed the pair I had and handed me a sealed box and I went on my way. I opened them at home and put them on..... And the knock returned. It grew louder than earlier and had a new feeling behind it. One of urgency. I threw the headphones off and dug in my drawers. I found an old pair of ear buds. It's the kind that frays internally after a while and unless you play Cat's Cradle with the cord, never plays out of both ears. But I needed something else.

And that's when I heard it again. Knocking. Knocking. Endless, God damn, knocking. And a voice. Soft. Child like. As quiet as the knocking when it first started. And only four words.

"Can I come in?"

I threw the buds across the room and they lied there. Inanimate and uncaring and I caught my breath. It was ridiculous right? How could a voice call to me from there? I checked my phone and had no one on a call. I walked to the door and no one was there. Probably some girl who got the houses mixed up and left. But I wouldn't pick up the ear buds and head phones again. I went to sleep. I dreamt of little things. I was a hero for a brief moment. A student forgetting a test the next. And then, I stood in front of a door way.

It was an older door. It didn't feel ancient and not even necessarily out of place or time but it was worn. Paint chipped at its edges, the hinge was rusted in places but it looked solid in construction and a beautiful shade of red. On the other side, a knock. Steady, rhythmic, growing ever louder. The door appeared to grow more near despite my feet feeling glued to the floor in this space, like the floor was contracting beneath me.

My hand moved. I watched it leave my side and drift towards the door in a motion I did not command. The knocking continued, louder and louder. It was deafening. My hand touched the door and I heard the voice.

"Stop." The voice said. The same small, young, feminine voice as before. "I'm not alone."

I awoke in a start, sweat covering my body. It was only 1:35 in the morning. I could feel my heart racing, beating in my ears. Only, it wasn't my heart. It was the knocking.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I couldn't sleep the rest of the night. It was all I could do to drown out the incessant knocking. Fortunately it was Saturday and I didn't have to explain this to my coworkers but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't find a source. I tore clocks off the wall. I turned off every electronic. I ripped up floorboards praying this was some perverse Edgar Allen Poe joke but it didn't matter. Whether I was at home. Whether I was outside. Whether I had something in my ears or not the knocking persisted.

"PLEASE STOP KNOCKING! I begged to no one and cradled my head in my hands trying desperately to block the noise from within. And I heard it again.

"Can I come in?"

She sounded clearer than last time, closer. And scared. I closed my eyes and I took a breath "If I say yes, do you stop knocking?"

"Yes I promise."

"You can come in." And almost before the last word left my mouth I was met with blissful deafening silence. I cried. Tears of joy that my mind was mine again. Never again would I complain about the peace of quiet.

"Thank you"

Dread filled my body all at once at the voice that was not mine. Her voice filled my mind, like the voice that reads out your thoughts had changed. It was still sweet and young, there was no malice in it. But it didn't belong there.

"Why?" I asked "Why can I still here you?"

"Because you let me in. You let me leave that place."

"What place? What are you talking about?"

"The place beyond the door."

And it started again. Far too soon it started again. That fucking knocking.

"No. NO! YOU said you would STOP THIS! WHY DO YOU KEEP KNOCKING?"

Her voice was subdued. Terrified. "I'm not."

"I told you I wasn't alone."

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"You can't open the door again."

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"No matter how long. No matter how loud."

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"You can't answer him."

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

A voice I hadn't heard before came in from a distance away. From a direction I could not trace. From every direction and from no where. It was confident. It was curious. It held a weight, even while quiet, like malice manifest. I felt it smile behind its breath as it spoke.

"Can I come in?"

My therapist told me that writing about things could help. She looked away when she said it, so I’m not sure she believes that. I think she just doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I’m gonna write about it anyway. I’m gonna write about it because it DID happen, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks. At least if I post it here, someone might actually read it. If I post it here, maybe I can help someone.

I should probably start with the move.

My dad had taken a job outside of Cleveland. It was a spur of the moment thing. He didn’t really have a choice, given the circumstances. He accepted the first job offer, looked at one house, and drove a U-HAUL straight to Peninsula.

My dad is a suburban nature-lover. He’s the kind of guy who hikes trails on the weekend in clean boots and cargo shorts. To be fair, his cargo shorts are kind of legendary though. Some of his pockets literally have smaller pockets inside. At the time I thought he just needed some place to put all the crap he bought. I figured that he collected gear, which collected dust, and that was just the consumerist circle of life.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t entirely a coincidence we ended up living in Cuyahoga Valley National Park. The hiring manager at Whalen and Erie Railroad had given us a generous relocation stipend. So when someone tipped off my dad to a “gem of a property in the park,” he jumped on it.

The gem, as it turned out, was overhyped. Aside from the incredible great room, which kind of looked like a glass cathedral standing over the valley, the house was a dump. The septic tank was a rust-caked hole, and the well water looked like it was pumped from a muddy tire-track.

Ironically, the dilapidated state of the house probably sealed the deal. The owner was an old widow with no family. When she showed us the house, she turned the knob on the kitchen faucet, and it sputtered brown bubbles. She let out this pathetic, nervous laugh and said something like “Robert always did all that stuff,” before stifling a sob and apologizing. I think my dad was about to cry himself, and he made a cash offer the same day.

We quickly settled into our new home. Living in the heart of the park, it felt silly to drive to the trailhead when you could just step out of your house directly into the woods. So I started blazing my own trails. It was that time of year when you can lose yourself in the rhythmic shuffling of leaves underfoot. It’s an amazing time to visit Northeastern Ohio, if you stick to the trails. 

I would spend hours everyday wandering the woods. I didn’t want to go to school, and my dad didn’t have the heart to make me. So we reached an agreement: I could pursue a GED from home as long as I remained open and honest about how I was feeling. I would never hurt myself, but given our family history, I didn’t blame him for worrying.

So while he was at work, I walked. The main valley is majestic, but I’m fond of the untouched places. There are lots of little feeder valleys, these soil-rich places where the roots haven’t stopped the erosion. I bought a book on the park, and I used it to pick out different kinds of trees while I walked through the valleys: American Beech, Sugar Maple, Norway Maple, Red Maple, Red Oak, Pin Oak, White Oak. I got pretty good at identifying them. My favorite was Musclewood, which kind of looks like a wizard turned a jacked horse into a tree.

If you take the time to look at the trees in a forest, one thing you’ll notice is that they carve out little fiefdoms. If you see an oak, it’s probably surrounded by oaks. Sometimes, like with Quaking Aspen, it’s because a single tree sprouts so many trunks that the whole damn forest is just one tree, but usually it’s just good old competition. Black Walnut, for example, likes to poison the soil around it with juglone.

I was walking along the valley floor when I noticed them. At the head of this small valley were six beech trees. Each of them was nearly identical in height and circumference. As I got closer, it was clear that they were spread out to form a perfect hexagon. I stopped dead in my tracks. Surrounded by perfect wilderness, these six gray trees in their nice configuration felt like concrete monuments.

Someone had planted them. For a second, I wondered if maybe, just over the ridge, there was a park bench with a little plaque commemorating a loved one for whom these trees had been planted. Far from comforting me, the thought triggered a fear that I was not alone. Was someone else standing out of sight? Lurking? Watching me? I turned a slow circle, looking in every direction.

There was no one. Of course there was no one. The nearest trail was at least a half-mile away. Uneasiness slowly overtook me with that realization. If no one comes out here, then who planted the trees? I turned back to face them. Inspecting them a second time, I could see there was something carved on the trunks. 

It wasn’t any language I could read, at least not at that distance. The symbols ran in thin interweaving bands that wrapped each trunk at the same height. I wanted a better look, and my curiosity got the better of me. I started to walk toward the closest tree, but the sound of my first step startled me. 

The forest had become perfectly silent. I don’t mean quiet. It didn’t get quiet. It was silent. No squirrels. No birds. No wind. It was silent. Tinnitus rang like an alarm in my ear. The word “PREDATOR” pressed at the back of my mind like a hot iron. I froze. Every muscle tensed with the effort of not moving. Not an inch. Not a millimeter. Motion was sound and sound was death.

With shallow breaths, I slowly craned my head five degrees to the left, then five degrees to the right. I strained my eyes to the edge of their sockets trying to see as much as I could. No signs of movement. I looked a second time, turning my head a little more. Nothing. On my third scan, I saw it. There, in the middle of the hexagon, was a seventh tree.

I was confused at first. It seemed to blip into my peripheral vision as I turned my head away. I turned back, and it was gone. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. Surely it was a trick of the light. But again, when I turned my head slowly, the tree appeared at the very edge of my vision.

The seventh tree stood perfectly centered between the others. I held it there, at the corner of my eye. I willed my vision to clarify, to show me something of the tree. It did not. I couldn’t make out any details, but I could tell from the dark colors that, unlike the other trees, this one was scarred, top to bottom with illegible symbols.

As I stood there frozen, half-seeing a tree that wasn’t there, the symbols started to glow. In an instant, I felt an intense heat on the side of my face. My breaths were no longer shallow by choice; they were squeezed from me by an electric tension in my chest. Just before full panic set in, a twig snapped.

The forest erupted with the sound of my flight. My shoes kicked leaves, gouged soil, and sent rocks tumbling into the creek as I screamed each breath. This was life or death, a frantic, mindless sprint. As I tore around a bend in the valley floor, I dared to look over my shoulder. I needed to know.

I should have been looking ahead.

The back of my skull slammed into the ground. As I lay there, head swimming, a shadowy figure stepped into my blurred vision. “Womp womp womp?” It was talking, but I couldn’t understand anything over the “shhhhhh” of blood shooting through my veins. I felt the figure brush against my left leg as it moved to stand over me, and I sprang into action. Operating entirely on instinct, I shifted my weight, hooked my right leg behind its knee, and kicked its legs out from under it with my left.

I didn’t wait to gauge my success. I scrambled to my feet, my head starting to clear, and ran home screaming through the woods, alive.

My dad was standing on a ladder installing new gutters on the front of the house. As my dogged running slowed to a stop, I heard him shout: “Jesus Christ, Nathan. Are you okay?”

I was no longer screaming by this point. I had long since lost the energy. Instead of answering him, I steadied myself on the porch railing. I sank to a crouch, and vomited. 

“Holy shit. Nathan!?” 

My dad jumped from one of the lower rungs on the ladder and rushed to my side. He touched the back of my head, and I could see from his hand that I was bleeding. I swallowed, and said, “I hit my head.” I gasped a few breaths. “I fell.”

The knock came a few hours later. My dad was grabbing a new ice pack from the kitchen. On his way to answer the door, he stopped at the couch where I was laying. 

“How are you feeling buddy?”

“Like shit.”

“Attaboy.” 

My dad smiled and continued to the entryway. He opened the front door, and I could hear the conversation as it leaked into the living room:

“Good evening!”

“Hello.”

There was an awkward silence.

“My name’s Nevin.”

“Hello, Nevin.”

There was another silence, and Nevin cleared his throat.

“Uh. Well, I’m not sure I’m in the right place, but a young man ran into me this morning, and it looked like he might’ve gotten hurt. I asked around, and it sounds like he might be your son?”

“So that’s what happened.” I could hear my dad shuffle his feet, and I imagined he was looking over his shoulder in my general direction. “Well, I appreciate you checking in on him. He got a solid knock on the head, probably a little concussion, but I think he’ll be alright.”

The visitor drew in a hissing breath at the mention of my injury, but was audibly relieved to hear I was okay. “Oh, thank God. I was horrified when I saw blood on the ground. It looks like he hit his head on a rock.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” my dad sighed. “But I promise he’s doing good.” He paused. “Are you okay? He must’ve hit you pretty hard to go sprawling like that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m totally fine.” The visitor’s tone was almost self-deprecating before he exclaimed “Ah!” and I heard what sounded like the rustling of a plastic grocery bag. “His phone. I think it fell out of his pocket when he ran into me.”

My dad chuckled. “Nathan would’ve missed this, that’s for sure. Thank you, Nevin. It’s nice to know that there are still some good Samaritans out there.”

“Gosh, I can’t imagine not checking in. I’m sure you would’ve done the same.”

A satisfied silence indicated that the expected niceties had been exchanged before my dad bade Nevin a goodnight.

“Welp, Nevin, I’m Jonathan Brooks.” I could hear the commotion of a handshake. “Thanks again for stopping by and bringing the phone back. If you ever need anything, you know where to find us.”

“Of course, Jonathan. Tell Nathan I wish him a fast recovery. Goodnight.”

My dad closed the door and walked back into the living room, smiling and waving my phone back and forth in his hand. He tossed it onto my stomach. “So are you ready to tell me what the heck happened?”

I let out a groan. “To be honest, I’m not totally sure what happened, and now I kinda feel like a jackass.”

My dad sat down at the end of the couch and put his hand on my knee. “Honestly, I’m just glad you’re okay. You must’ve been scared out of your mind to run into somebody that hard.”

I let out a terse laugh. “Yeah. I was pretty freaked out. I was heading up toward the Brecksville reservation—you know where I mean? Well, I was just walking, and I thought I saw something weird out of the corner of my eye. LIke there was this tree, and…” I stopped. “Well, it sounds ridiculous now, but it really freaked me out, man. Anyway, I was on the verge of a panic attack when I heard something, and I just booked it.”

The smile faded from my dad’s face, and I knew I had inadvertently ruined the evening.

“Nathan—”

“Dad, it’s okay,” I interjected. “It wasn’t anything like that. It wasn’t a hallucination or anything. I just got a little spooked out there by myself, and I acted like an idiot. It’s fine.” Without meaning to, the volume of my voice had gotten louder with each word. 

He took in a deep breath and let it out as he patted my knee. “Okay, buddy. Okay. It’s okay.” He leaned over and gave me a light hug before standing up. “Just remember our promise. If you’re feeling weird or sad or anything’s wrong, you gotta—”

“I have to tell you,” I blurted out. Correcting my tone from irritation to understanding, I said “I know.”

“Good.” He stretched his hands overhead and yawned. “It’s been a wild day, bud. Get some sleep.”

As he creaked his way upstairs to bed, I picked up my phone to check for notifications. It was dead. I leaned over the armrest and grabbed my charger. As I was plugging it in, I noticed a slip of paper tucked into the phone cover. Absent-mindedly, I pulled it out and unfolded it.

Written with childlike penmanship were five words:

DID YOU SEE THE TREE

My hand shook and the slip of paper fell from my grip. I slowly got off the couch and opened the front door. I stuck my head out. The city maintenance depot was across the street. Its steel fence looked yellow under the light of their fluorescent lamp post. The street was empty. There was no traffic out here, and the only sound was the chirping of a billion bugs. It was a normal fall night. I pulled my head back inside. As I turned to shut the door, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man standing under the lamp post.

I slammed the door and let out a shocked breath. 

“Nathan! Are you okay?”

My dad thundered to the top of the stairs. I gathered myself.

“Sorry, dad. Yeah, I’m fine. I slipped when I was closing the door.”

“Jesus, what are you doing? You’re hurt buddy. Go lay down and get some sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just getting some fresh air.”

“Gah, jeez. Give me a heart attack,” he mumbled. “Well, cut that out now. It’s time for bed.”

We said goodnight, but I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, at the edge of my vision, the symbols glowed like neon signs.

Hello! As the title suggests, my name is Aziza. I am told it is a Welsh name but, an uncommon Welsh name at that. I found this device I learned was called a laptop recently on my doorstep, I do not know who could have left it here, however it had no malicious aura surrounding it, thus I decided to use it. Apologies if my writing is not good, I cannot remember the last time I wrote for an audience like this. I also managed to get a Wi-Fi signal all the way out here, though I am unsure of its source. I think I am 328 Years old, my mother told me the charm I wear around my neck is what prolongs my life. I am here because I don't want to feel alone in the situation, I find myself in.  

I live alone in a cabin, though the location is unknown to me, I am surrounded by woodlands as far as I can see, I once went on top of my roof to see if I could find anything, but it was woods as far as I could see. Enough about me, let us move to the issue at hand. 

Every night, on a full moon, I see the beast. Most days I can only see its eyes, two beady white orbs that peer at my cabin from the tree line. It speaks to me, no matter where in my home I hide, I can hear it, it speaks with my mother's voice. I would have fallen for it many moons ago, but no, not anymore. She died when I was just 12 years old. It tries to get me to leave my home, to join it in the woods, I know it lies.  

I saw it only once in its entirety. When it nearly tricked me into joining it. Its face had no skin, it was the skull of a deer. Its body looked human, emaciated and gangly, it has some form of cloth around its groin region, its feet and hands extend into claws. Its razor-sharp teeth and clawed appendages are stained with gore, blood and viscera. It says it can take me away from here, make me useful, make me whole. 

I did my research through mother's books, no monsters of mythos match whatever it is, Wendigos copy flesh, and I would not want to meet whoever it once was. No societies mythos matches it, not the Greeks, not the Romans, not even the Celtics. It's a devil. Truly, Completely, and Wholly. It had a name carved into its back I saw, “Perseus”, the name of a Greek Hero but, aside from name they bear no resemblance. I do not know why it cannot come into the clearing where my cabin rests. Or what it means by making me useful. I am not scared, I am simply wanting to know I am not alone, or that I am not crazy for this. Many thanks if you decided to be kind and read this entire thing, apologies for the rambling, it has been many moons since I was able to write something another person would see. 

Thank you again, and to those of you who may have a devil near your domicile, you have my sympathies and my kindness. 

Post removed on r/nosleep due to corroboration/proof rule

He died a little over a year ago when a blood clot made its way from his leg up to his heart. I was working overseas in the military at the time, but I was still able to make it to his funeral. My dad was a very loved man by more than just our family, and I can’t even count the number of times I said “thank you for coming” or “yeah it doesn’t even feel real.” The thing is, it really didn’t. It still doesn’t.

I remember getting the call from my mom when it happened, and even the way she broke the news to me made me feel like she didn’t even think it actually happened. She just spoke to me in the same tone she uses when we call to talk about our days. Having been overseas for about two years at this point, I usually tried to call her or my dad at least once a week if I could, but I found it to be easier to call my mom because she had a more consistent schedule. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to my dad, I just didn’t know when I’d be able to, so I’d usually just settle with a text from time to time. Hell, the last time I spoke to him over the phone was on father’s day, but the conversation slowly went from “happy father’s day” to him complaining about how much he works.

“It just feels like I never have free time anymore”

“Yeah, I feel that”

I really didn’t. Ever since I joined, I had more free time on my hands than I knew what to do with, but up until then I was in the same boat. I’ve been working since I was 13, and played sports in college while also having a job to pay tuition, and even after college I worked 2 jobs just to pay bills. That’s part of the reason why I joined, but now it almost made me feel guilty knowing that I had all this free time while he had to continue working 2 jobs into his mid-50s just to hope for a retirement.

“When are you coming home?”

“I’m hoping in September if things go well on my end.”

“That’ll be nice. I’m proud of you son. I miss you. Gotta go, this order’s finally ready. Love you.”

“Love you too dad.”

Those were the last words we ever said to each other. At least, while he was alive.

The night before he died, I called my mom to check in and see how she was doing and get my weekly update on what’s going on back home.

“Your dad tripped up the stairs on his way in last night. They just got done redoing the porch and one of the steps is a little taller than the other ones, and he isn’t quite used to it yet. He’s been sleeping on the chair in the living room because it hurts too much for him to go upstairs. You should call him, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow, I’m getting ready to go out to a friend’s house for a little get-together.”

“Okay, be safe. Love you.”

“I will. Love you too.”

The next morning I was in the gym when I got a text from my mom saying, “Are you busy?”

This is code for “can I call you” which is normally fine, but it was only 6am where she is, and I usually don’t call her until later at night because of the time difference.

I told her I was busy, but I’d call her in a little bit. I’m not sure if it was divine intervention or what, but after I was done warming up, every machine that I wanted to use was taken, so I gave her a call back to see what was going on. Like I said before, the way she was talking to me made it seem like he took a trip to the hospital and she was on her way to pick him up to go home, but that wasn’t the case at all.

“But I’m coming home in September” I said, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.

“I know, I’m sorry. We were really looking forward to seeing you too.”

The next several minutes were spent by me bawling my eyes out on the floor of the warmup room in the gym. Thankfully, only one other person was there to see it.

After regaining my composure, I made some phone calls and got on a plane to come home 3 months early. Luckily, being in the military allowed me to get a last minute plane ticket for free due to my circumstances, which I’m forever grateful for.

It was weird though. The whole time I was home, I felt like I was playing pretend. Like I was acting the part of a kid who lost his dad way before he expected to. I was sad, yes, but even when I was at his funeral I never actually cried or really showed any emotion. I just stood there while countless people came in and told me they were sorry for my loss or told me their favorite memories of him.

The following week was spent by me going out and catching up with old friends that I hadn’t seen since I left, and they all said the same things I had already heard hundreds of times, which just added to me feeling like I should feel worse about the whole thing.

When my time was up, I flew back to Europe and went back to work and it was almost like it never even happened. A few months went by and I wound up back in the states for a class, and that’s when they started.

Now, I’ve had problems with sleeping my whole life. I dealt with night terrors fairly consistently, with the occasional sleep paralysis episode, but I’d never talk in my sleep or sleepwalk. I wouldn’t even remember most of my dreams after a few hours usually.

The first time I saw him, I was standing in the middle of a store picking up snacks for work when he walked through the front door, walked up to me, hugged me and said “It’ll be alright son. I love you and I miss you.”

The timing on it was insane, because I had just recently gotten ghosted by “the one” and I was starting to spiral. I just woke up in tears but I actually felt like he hugged me and I genuinely felt comforted.

Anyway, the next one I remember was a couple weeks later. I was sitting in my living room, talking to my mom about something she heard on the news and asked if I knew anything about it. I told her no and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to talk about it. Then, out of nowhere, my dad walked in the front door and just sat down in the chair beside me.

“D-dad..?”

“Hey son, how’ve you been?”

“Aren’t you.. Didn’t you.. How are you here?”

“Oh, they found this new procedure that brought me back to life. Pretty cool huh”

“Yeah, but are you actually-”

“Here? Yes.”

He loved finishing my sentences, but I found it annoying.

We ended up talking about how work was going, what I’ve been up to and how I had been feeling for the past few months. I told him work was okay, told him about my new gym routine and that I missed him.

“It’s okay son, I’m still here.” and he got up and hugged me and I once again woke up in tears, this time hugging a pillow.

Like I said, I usually don’t sleep talk, and whenever I do communicate in my dreams, it feels the same as when I try punching someone in a dream - like I’m in a straight jacket and have zero arm strength. I don’t even usually hear what other people say, I just understand them because it’s a dream or whatever. But this conversation I had with my dad felt the exact same as if he and I were actually talking to each other. We both made clear, coherent sentences. I could see the different expressions on his face and he was even wearing the same Cubs hat he always wore to cover up his bald spot. It was by far the most realistic dream I had ever had, which is what made me so confused when I woke up.

A few more weeks passed, and during that time I was hoping he’d appear in my dreams again, but he never did. Eventually I forgot about it ever happening, and that’s when he showed up again.

But this time it was different.

My dad and I used to work at the same restaurant when I was in school and that’s where we were. It was a typical busy night which meant that he was in an irritable mood as the orders just kept coming back one after another, seemingly endlessly. I had just started working as a prep cook, and he was the main cook which meant he needed me to make sure the plates were ready to go by the time the food was ready so he could get it out to the customers, but I was falling behind.

“SkittleSac, hurry the fuck up!”

This caught me off guard because he didn’t ever talk to me like that. Not even when he was really pissed off.

“I’m trying dad”

“Well fuckin try harder. You’re holding up the line.”

and then, when I went to move a plate from one counter to another, we ran into each other and I dropped the plate on his foot.

“AH, WHAT THE FUCK”

And he threw a right hook so hard I woke up jumping out of my bed, followed by tears.

That was probably one of the scariest dreams I’ve ever had. Not because some monster was chasing me with a knife or a demon was squatting in the corner of my room while I couldn’t move, but because everything about that dream felt real. The restaurant was laid out the exact same way as I remembered, even down to the plates and how I arranged the topping bins. My dad was in his typical work attire and even some of my old co-workers were there as well. I could smell the food and hear the sound of fried food gurgling in oil and burgers sizzling on the grill. It was like I was actually there, but I have never had an interaction with my dad like that. Sure, sometimes when it was busy he’d start cussing up a storm “damn this, and fuck that” but it never got violent, let alone against me. I was usually the one to calm him down and he told me several times that if I wasn’t there, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve gotten through the night, even if I was the one holding us up while I learned the new position.

I actually stayed up in bed the next night wondering if I was just digging up some repressed memories or feelings, but I couldn’t think of anything, and when I finally fell asleep, I just had another regular, forgettable dream. Once again, I eventually chalked it up to not being a big deal and moved on from that night.

Then about a month later, I had another dream.

Living in Europe has it’s perks. While I don’t like how far away from home I am, I do understand and appreciate the opportunity I’ve been given to go places and see things that many people only wish they’d be able to see and do.

I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights, and I was planning a trip to be able to see them since this year was supposed to have the perfect solar conditions to do so. I was up in the Arctic Circle, traveling alone since I couldn’t convince any of my friends to go with me. It was absolutely incredible. I grew up in the midwest, so I was fascinated by the vast mountain ranges and the beautiful blue lakes that looked like mirrors reflecting the small villages and boats that were sailing across them.

I was on an overnight excursion with a small group that were mostly couples with a few other solo travelers. We got pulled on sleds by reindeer and spent the night telling stories by a fire while one of our guides taught us how to throw a lasso at a pair of practice antlers. Eventually it got dark enough for us to start seeing the lights and everyone started taking out their phones to take pictures and after a while we all got in our tents to go to bed. As per usual, I didn’t fall asleep right away so I just laid in bed looking at the pictures I took when I started hearing some rustling outside. I figured it was one of the other travelers and continued swiping through my phone when I heard footsteps approaching my tent and then stopping. My heart started racing as I’m usually pretty anxious anyway, but eventually I heard the footsteps walk away and I started to calm down. Our tents had windows on the side that were covered by flaps, so I walked across the tent to see what was going on, thinking maybe the lights came back and people were gathering outside again.

When I opened the flap to my window, my dad was staring right back at me, smiling quite literally from ear to ear. "WHAT THE FUCK," I screamed, and stumbled back, tripping over some logs that were used for the furnace in the middle of the room. When I reached back to catch myself, my hand landed on the lit furnace, scorching my hand and making me scream again. While I was on the ground writhing in pain, my dad walked into my tent and grabbed me by the legs and started dragging me out of the tent.

“You really wanted to see the Northern Lights didn’t you? You didn’t think I’d want to see them too?”

When he got me outside, there was a sled attached to a reindeer and he reached into a bag, took out a rope and began tying my legs to the back of the sled. I tried resisting, but I couldn’t move, and the freezing ground and late winter air kept me paralyzed while he got onto the sled and yelled for the reindeer to start moving. Before I knew it, I was being dragged across a field of snow while my dad was cackling from his perch, occasionally twisting his head around to look at me, screaming, “DO YOU SEE THEM?! DO YOU SEE THE LIGHTS?! AREN’T THEY BEAUTIFUL?!” My back was searing with each rock and stick that passed under it and eventually I blacked out from the pain.

When I woke up, I shot straight out of my bed, my hand burning with the tingling sensation you get when the blood starts rushing back after laying on it for too long, and my back was sore, probably from the lack of support from the hides and wood panels they called a bed, and I was freezing since the furnace that was supposed to keep me warm ran out of wood probably hours ago.

I laid back down for a while, confused about what I just experienced and scared to open the door to join the others for breakfast. Eventually I did, and when I joined them, I must have looked rough because they all looked at me with a concerned expression on their faces.

Needless to say, that shook me up for quite awhile. I found it hard to sleep for the next few nights and even when I got back to my apartment a few days later, I still didn’t feel comfortable with falling asleep. I live by myself and I don’t really know who to talk to about stuff like this because I’ve never really dealt with anything like it before.

I called my mom when I got back to tell her how the trip went, but I completely left out the part about my dad showing up in another dream. I asked her if she had any dreams about him since he died and she said she has, but when I told her about the first couple I had, she said hers weren’t like that, that it was usually just like her other dreams where he’d make an appearance but that was it. She said I was lucky to still be able to connect with him in some way, but she only knew about the good dreams, not the ones I was having lately.

He left me alone for the next couple months. I found out that if I have a couple drinks before I went to bed, I usually wouldn’t have any dreams, let alone any with him in it. I don’t drink by myself because I had some family members that had drinking problems and I didn’t want to end up like them, but I realized that on the nights I went out to the bars with my friends, I was able to fall asleep faster and I wouldn’t have any dreams. Eventually this led to me coming home with a six pack of Bud as a little night cap, and for awhile it worked.

I’m a pretty big dude, over 6’ (180 cm for my metric readers), so eventually sixers weren’t doing it for me anymore. One night I fell asleep and had a dream about work, and when I woke up I was so scared by what used to be a normal dream that I knew I had to up the dosage a bit. I came home from work that night with a 12 pack, but only got through about 8 before I started getting tired. At some point 8 started turning into 10 and 10 to 12 before I decided to switch to 30 packs just to play it safe.

Nobody at work has been able to tell, thankfully. If they could, I probably wouldn’t have my job for much longer. I didn’t talk about it either, because I knew nobody would understand.

But then, one night about a week ago, I had another dream.

It was a Thursday night and I had just gotten done cleaning up my apartment when I decided it was time to start getting ready for bed. I was already tired, but out of fear of falling asleep sober, I cracked open a beer and threw a show up on my TV to pass the time.

It was starting to get late, and the stack of cans was starting to pile up, but I caught myself starting to doze off a little, so I slammed a couple more beers and called it a night. I got done brushing my teeth, flipped off all the lights in the living room and turned on my phone’s flashlight. As soon as I did, I heard a roar come from my kitchen directly behind me which made me jump out of my skin and when I turned around, there he was.

My dad was standing in the kitchen with his head almost touching the ceiling and when I looked at his black eyes all he said was, “Why didn’t you call?”

I immediately ran out of my apartment into the stairwell and when I turned to go down the first flight of stairs, he was already standing at the bottom looking up at me.

“You said you would call.”

“I was!” I screamed, my voice cracking out of fear.

“You weren’t gonna call. You never did.”

“I was supposed to see you when I got home in September” I pleaded.

“LIAR!” He roared as he started chasing me back up the stairs, shaking the ground with each step.

I ran back into my apartment and slammed the door behind me, but he was waiting for me once again in my living room.

“You never called!” He screamed again “NOT EVEN WHEN I WAS DYING!”

“I was asleep, I had no idea” tears and snot falling down my face.

“Asleep?! You were ASLEEP?!!” and he charged at me once again

Not knowing where to go now, I ran out onto my balcony. I live on the third floor of an apartment building, but there were bushes below me so I took my chances and leapt down, just to try and get away from him.

I must have broken something and passed out from the fall because I woke up to the feeling of someone grabbing my leg, which made me kick and scream. When I opened my eyes, two police officers were looking back at me. I was in my front lawn, in my underwear. The sun was out. It was morning.

Apparently, one of my neighbors decided to call the police after “hearing someone scream ‘LIAR’ in the stairwell and feeling the whole building shake, followed by more screaming before it suddenly stopped”. At least, that’s what the police officer told me. I apologized to him and told him that I just had a bad dream. He asked me if I knew what day it was and if I knew my name, and when I gave him the correct answers he offered to escort me back up to my apartment and asked if I needed any medical attention. I told him no and that I appreciated his help, but that I was fine and just needed to get ready for work since my shift started in a few hours. Thankfully the door to my apartment was still open, so I didn’t need to get my landlord involved to give me a spare key, and when I left for work, I was followed by a squad car up until the final turn to get on base.

That day, I put in leave for the next two weeks to try and get my mind right, which luckily got approved before I went home for the day. I made my usual stop at the gas station on the way home and picked up another 30 pack and this time, grabbed a bottle of Jack to go with it.

I’m not sure what’s gonna happen now. It’s been about 36 hours since the last time I slept, I think.

You sit on your mildly comfortable sofa, your eyes glazing over the TV until it becomes just another series of colors and sounds. Your throat feels dry. You were thirsty a half hour ago, but now you’d drink whatever's left of the 4 and ½ Bud Lights you had last night just to quench your thirst. Your eyelids are heavy, and every few seconds, they droop ever so slightly.

You're tired, that’s what feeling is.

It’s been a long day, it’s about time you get to bed. You should lock up for the night.

You get up from the sofa and groan in pain. They say the eyes are the first to go, for you it’s your god-awful back.

You walk towards the front door and push the key into its lock; it slides in with a satisfying series of quiet clunks. You turn the key to the right, locking the door.

It is locked, isn’t it? You go for the handle.

You feel the door’s handle in your palm. The cold metal stings your hand. It’s strangely nice—it reminds you that you’re in control. You push down on the metal handle, and it resists your efforts. The door is locked.

You try the handle again. Yep, locked. 

Is it?

I mean, there are no visible gaps between the door and its frame, and when you lean against it, the door resists. Logic would assume that the door is locked. But you're not exactly a logical man, are you? You're standing in front of a door that is almost certainly locked, debating whether or not it’s open. 

Might as well check it again.

Your grip is far tighter, strangling the handle - it has to be locked. 

You press down hard. It must be locked.

Even harder, it’s locked, it should be locked.

One more time.

You take a deep breath and step back. You can always check again later.

You head towards the back door. A white metal door, the paint ever so slightly stained yellow. 

Your hand is uneasy, uncertain, you hate that you can’t trust your own judgment. 

Yet you still try the handle. Grasping it, you pull down, and the handle follows suit. It’s unlocked! You feel the cold night air splash against your face as it swings open. Doesn’t that make it worth it? If you didn’t check the door Someone could’ve gotten in. You lock the door, now more certain than ever, that what you are doing is logical.

With a slight pride in your step thinking all that worry was worth it. You make your way to the kitchen, past the web of unplugged computer cables in your study, A wet footprint you presume to be yours and tomorrow's schedule you’ve checked countless times already.

You reach the oven and the window sitting above it. You look at what seems to be a closed window then beyond it to your reflection, you should really shave soon. Your eyes fall down to the handle and its position suggests it’s shut.  

You grasp the handle, it’s thinner than the front door’s, clearly not meant to be held this tightly. You jiggle it up and down hard. It won’t budge.

Well, what if jostling the handle actually unlocked it? That makes sense, that’s logical. 

Go for the handle again.

It’s stiff. Probably locked. Try again.

You go for the handle again, it’s still stiff. 

Was it really stiff? Did it really not move? Are you certain you know it isn’t loose? 

You stare at the handle as if trying to move it with your mind. If the back door was open the window must be.

Come on. One last try. 

You push hard on the handle, you aren’t checking if it’s locked anymore but forcing it into submission.

Harder.

Your grip tightens around the handle, its sharp underbelly stings the flesh of your fingers, it's not meant to be held this hard. You pull down as if the window is floating away and you're the only thing keeping it to the ground. 

Harder, you need to check it’s locked, you need to keep whatever's outside, outside.

You push deeper, a realization enters your mind, there are two possibilities either just as likely to become reality. Either you keep pushing and break this handle or the handle's sharp edge will break the skin of your palm.

In A moment of much-needed clarity, you release your grip.

The handle is solid, open windows don’t have solid handles.

“Open windows don’t have solid handles.”

You repeat that phrase in your mind as you walk upstairs, brush your teeth, check your phone, and climb into bed. It brings a blanket of comfort over your mind that maybe you're going to be ok that tonight will be different. It helps settle your mind, it’s a nice thought.

Until another arrives. 

Most intruders; murderers, thieves, or any other flavor of criminal don’t give a shit about locked doors or windows. They break the locks and smash the windows. Take what's theirs and destroy what they can. The idea burns deep in your chest, your breath shortens and your throat closes up. As if the very thought is poisoning you.

Another thought mutates emerging from the previous.

What if they're already inside, what if whatever's trying to get in is already here? Long before you decided it wasn’t safe to have unlocked doors. That footprint, are you certain that was yours? Why was the back door unlocked? You need to do something. Protect yourself. Get a knife from downstairs. 

You get up slowly, placing your feet on the carpeted floor being careful to not make a noise. Every step you take is filled with determination. This is what you need to do. You grasp the bedroom door pulling it open, inch by inch. 

The door creaks. You stop, waiting, listening.

Nothing.

Carrying on, you take a step out to the foyer. It’s dark, still. Is no one there? You take the first step onto the stairs. You can feel your heart beating, practically leaping out of your chest. Your mind begins to race with possibilities; turning a corner and seeing a black figure in the living room, a dirt-covered old man at the bottom of the stairs stuffs your various electronics into a worn rucksack, and a crying woman uncertain as to where she is manically lunges for you in the living room. All just as incoherent, all just as possible.

Then one last thought, it slices through the rest like a cold bead of sweat on a hot day.

What if whatever you're keeping out doesn’t need open windows or unlocked doors to get in? That anywhere can be an open door, anything can be a window.

You feel a cloud of hot wet breath on the back of your neck emerge. You hear the almost non-present moist sound of wet lips separating preparing for speech.

I haven’t needed them before.

Please let me know if this is suitable for NoSleep.

"Content Warning: >!Mentions of animal abuse.!<"

We had not used a tablecloth since my mother passed away and there were ringed stains on the table where I set my mug. Outside the window the naked trees shivered and the grass in the fields struggled beneath the smothering frost. Across the table my father ate silently the dinner I had made for us. As was his way, there was no talk merely for talks sake. Words to him were like money to a banker, easily gathered but painfully shared. And this was the problem – in the eighteen months since we buried my mother the house had quietened. She had been the window between us that was now firmly shut and left me with a silent movie for a father.

I stared down at the last dice of beef in my bowl searching for something to say. Without lifting my head, I broke the silence. 

“I fixed up the fence posts in the lower field.” 

The grandfather clock in the corner of the wall-papered room ticked for seven seconds before he looked across at me. 

“As you should.”

“And I washed down the old byre – the cows had the place destroyed but tis half decent now.” 

He raised the last spoonful of stew to his lips and slurped it in. After washing it down with a drag of water he put his spoon in the bowl, stood up and left the table.

On the wall behind his empty chair was a picture of the three of us together on the church steps after I had made my first holy communion. My mother was angelic in her favourite white dress suit and my father towered behind us smiling down at me, my gaping grin missing a few milk teeth. About a week after the picture was taken I was tempted onto the road near our farm chasing a runaway calf. The tyres of the neighbor’s battered truck shredded on the gravel road before the bumper knocked me clear. My father wouldn’t come to see me in the hospital but the evening I came home he carried me to bed. When he leaned in to kiss my forehead the familiar musk of his aftershave filled my nose and I felt safe again.

In the evening after supper I fed the fire with wooden logs and stood with my back to the flames until my legs could no longer stand the heat. Just as I had replaced the grilled fireguard a shrill whine cut through the air and a flush of anxiety made my heart kick hard in my chest. Out at the back porch, I stepped into my green wellingtons and fastened my heavy coat tight around myself and grabbed the yellow lamp before making out into the crisp twilight air.

Walking heavily across the yard, the gravel crunched loudly underfoot. Leaning into the heavy wooden doors of the barn I pushed hard to open them wide. The heavy scent of the stored cow feed mixed with the cold air as I filled my lungs and a single caged light buzzed high overhead. At the far end of the building were six kennels, two of them empty. The galvanised steel gates of the others housed four trained sheepdogs, one a bitch who now lay with her two-week old litter. As I got closer I slowed my walk. The black and white pups swarmed and yapped as I neared but I ignored them. I walked to the last cage to where the pitiful yelps of a distressed hound burrowed into my head warning me of what I might find. Wrapping my hand in my sleeve I lifted and slid open the dead-bolt. At my feet lay Jess – the most capable animal on the farm and easily the best company. On a normal day she could clear the four-foot gate that led out of the yard but here she lay on her right side and looked at me through a bold left eye, her usual docility coupled with utter fear. The bales of hay stacked six high along the side of the barn leant in for a closer look as I gently stroked the black and white patched hair at the back of her head. Her breathing was heavy and strained and her pink tongue hung loose as she shivered pitifully. The straw beneath her black snout soaked up the blood that ran from her nostrils and her black wasted gums gave her a demented smile.

“Poison. An awful way for an animal to go. For anyone to go for that matter.” On my shoulder I felt a firm hand as the large shadow of my father filled the room. 

“How can you tell what it is? She’s not a pup anymore – sure it could be anything.”

“The blood from her nose – it’s a pure tell-tale. Must have been a bit left in the barn since the last clear-out I did. Bloody careless and now look…”.

“Should I call Gary?”

“No – she’s too far gone for a vet. Just make her comfortable and let her know she’s not alone.”

Jess’s breathing took on a slower rhythm until somewhere late in the night the fight left her and she was still. I looked to him as he knelt next to her cheek and patted her softly with his right hand while with his left he covered his mouth and tightly gripped his face dejected. My father had always been a man of animals and had a connection with them that I never fully grasped. In the days after the funeral I often found him out here talking to the dogs. I struggled to get him to talk to me instead but for every sun that went to bed he laid another course of bricks around him until eventually the wall was too high for me to climb over. Rising to my feet I brushed the gathered straw from my knees and left him to his lament.

The next morning when it was still just dark I knocked on the door of his room and listened closely for any sound. When no answer was had I gently pushed it open but his bed was already empty. The heavy quilt was neat and flat and the bed looked like it had hardly been slept in. I found him outside the back door smoking his carved pipe and searching for something in the sunrise as it burst through the hedgerows of the lower field. He turned to me and nodded at the shovel leaning against the wall of the house.

Like a good soldier I marched with the shovel over my left shoulder. At the oak tree I leaned on its smooth wooden handle while I waited for my father who followed behind, carrying Jess wrapped like a present in a new white sheet. When an animal on our farm died he insisted on burying them here. My mother had come to calling it ‘Dead Cat Tree’ because of the list of strays we had put in this unhallowed earth. Cascarino the grey and black striped tomcat rested five yards from Soapy, an amber kitten my dad had brought home on my fifth birthday.

Dead Cat Tree was a melancholic place but also reassuring and transformative. Only under the shade of its searching branches would my father ever reveal himself, creep out from behind his subterfuge of silence and let himself be known. It was to these animals that he would speak truthfully about his world and when they were no more he was a little more lost and vulnerable. 

After laying Jess on the ground he crouched down to get closer to the graves, left knee in the dirt and right leg out in front with a strong forearm laid across his thigh. The carefully set whitewashed stones marked each one. Watching him I pulled my coat tight around me and when the time felt right I nosed the spade into the hard clay and drove it down with a full boot.

In the youthful light we turned from the old oak and followed the withering chimney smoke back to the house. Strolling shoulder to shoulder he sighed and turned his cap in his hands. 

“Death is a funny and strange thing” he said. 

Coming to a stop he balled his gnarled fist and held it high above his head and stared hard up towards it. 

“It can beat you down, drag you to the cliff edge and peel off your white gripped fingers one by one ‘til right when you think you’re finished, it grabs you by the scruff and hauls you back up to lie with your cheek in the dirt, exhausted and confused”. 

With that proclamation his energy faded and his whole body slouched and his chin fell against his chest. I studied him searchingly but didn’t interrupt. The only time I ever felt that we connected openly and honestly was on these walks back from the Tree. He loved those animals and each time we buried one, a fleeting change would come over him. His stance would soften and his face would ease. And he would talk. To me.

Two years earlier my mother picked her last flowers from her garden.  I think that was his cliff edge. Every morning he would kiss her faded pink lips before heading down the farm to do the work that had given him those brutal and worn palms. When she no longer could he would brush her hair and clean her face.

Once inside the backdoor we kicked off our heavy wellies and I straightened my slipping socks. Making straight for the living room and the remnants of last night’s fire, I rubbed my upper arms and leaned in close, greedily drawing in its fading warmth. From behind I heard a deep sigh, 

“I’m sorry” he said. 

I turned slowly to face my father who had his head bowed and was fiddling with the bottom of his right ear.

 “I’m sorry I haven’t always done the best by you; I could have done better but I just didn’t know how. Should have been more like your mother was. She understood you. I never did. Maybe I was afraid to try. But it was the way I had it with my father and I know… I knew no different. That’s a sorry excuse but…” 

He gave up mid-sentence and with a slow deep breath sloped away to the comfort of his threaded armchair and lowered himself down heavily. In the hearth the drying embers pulsed red beneath the grey ash and a loose window latch tapped to be let in out of the chasing wind. 

“That’s okay Da” was all I could muster as I turned to hide my face, my clenching eyes keeping my soul locked in.

After an hour by the fire he had settled into a steady slumber with his legs laid out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, only disturbed now and then by an exploding knot in the burning logs. Every time that happened he would get up and stare out the window into the blackness, wondering what evil was coming our way next. 

I left him be and walked the two hundred meters or so from the rusting steel gate of the front yard up the hill to the church. I lingered outside but didn’t go in and instead crossed the quiet road to the empty graveyard. As I followed the inside of the head-high limestone perimeter wall I dragged the fingers of my right hand along its rough cold surface. When I found her headstone I knelt before it in the blue crunching gravel and sat back on my heels.

“Hey Ma – how are you this morning? Have you seen Jess above? Look after her for me will you, and tell her I’m sorry? She loves them brown biscuits, but sure you know that already. And Da is good but he misses you.” 

I sat there as if waiting for an answer, my shadow shrinking as the sun climbed above me.

“I’m scared it’s out of my control now. I know I told you I wouldn’t but I did it again – it’s the only way he’ll talk to me. And since they took you I’ve no one.” 

My hand quivered as it searched deep into my coat pocket for the last of the red rat poison pellets. I rubbed two between my thumb and forefinger and they crumbled to dust and stained my hands. In one motion I stood and threw the rest of the pellets as high and far as I could and they spread in the wind and were lost. I studied the air for a long moment then clapped my hands clean, turned and went home.

Years ago when I was a teen I would go visit my relatives during the summer break to spend time with my cousins. It was a rural town surrounded mostly by rice fields and forests. On rainy days, you'd hear the wind and rain rustle both the grains on the field and the leaves of the trees and the cold air would have that pleasant damp smell after the rain ends. It was one of the best places to just sit back and relax.

During one of those rainy days, heavy rain fell around the afternoon. My cousins and I were watching Tom and Jerry on the TV to pass the time in the living room while we waited for my Uncle and Aunt to come home from work. Evening came and both my Uncle and Aunt came home in their car. They honked at the gate signaling anyone to open it for them.

"I'll do it." I said to my cousins as we heard the honk.

"Aight." said my oldest cousin.

"Put a raincoat on and don't slip, the road’s gonna be muddy." she added.

Only the driveway from the garage to the gate was concrete, there was only a dirt trail from the front door to the gate.

I took a red raincoat from the coat hanger and put it on and went on my way to the front door. 

It was already dark out at around 8 PM. There were no streetlights around that part of town so the car's headlights and the outdoor front lights were the only ones lighting the way to the gate.

As I opened the front door, a gust of wind and cold rain splashed my face, as well as the car's headlights shining at me. 

I carefully walked to the front gate making sure not to slip and opened it for the car. After the car passed me and drove into the garage, I looked down the street and it was completely dark. The combination of fog and heavy rain obscured how far I could see.

I was able to faintly see the outdoor lights of distant houses but the long road connecting the house to the main street was pitch black. 

It gave me the chills. I thought it was just the cold weather that made me shiver and quickly closed the gate. But in the back of my head I was hoping that whatever is hiding in that pitch black road wouldn't be able to come inside. 

After coming here so many times, that was the first time that I felt scared. but maybe I was just overly imagining things.

I quickly made my way back inside the house through the garage instead of the front door. I glanced back past the gate one last time before going in, trying to convince myself that I was just imagining things. It felt like I was staring into the void with how dark it was. It sent another shiver down my spine. Nonetheless, I ignored the chills and went inside.

I took off the raincoat and started making my way to the living room to continue watching TV. I could hear my aunt calling my cousins to the kitchen to help prepare dinner. I sat down on the couch and started watching Tom and Jerry again. After a few minutes, I saw my uncle come into the living room and sit on the accent chair next to the couch I was sitting on.

"Pass me the remote. Now it's my turn." he said, as he put his feet up on the small table in front of him and made himself comfortable.

With a slump on my shoulders and a disappointed face, I handed him the remote. He quickly changed the channel to the local news. 

I wasn't interested in news at the time and got up to leave. As I was about to run to the kitchen to see what Aunt was cooking, my Uncle remembered his motorcycle was still outside of the garage.

It was an old Honda TMX125 that he bought way back. Still well maintained, but has problems starting.

"Hey Nephew, can you bring the motorcycle in?" he asked.

"To the garage? Really? Shouldn't you be doing that yourself?" I replied. 

Definitely didn't want to be outside after I opened that front gate and he definitely couldn't convince me.

"I'm too lazy, I'll give you $20 AND I’ll let you drive it around tomorrow" as he holds out two $10 bills in his hand with a smirk on his face

"Deal." I said with a straight face. What can I say? I was short on cash and $20 is $20. The driving offer was unnecessary.

"Thanks Nephew. Bring a flashlight and get the key in the garage and turn the headlight on it so you can see better when you bring it in." as he smiled, sat back, and gazed into the TV. 

With a slight grin on my face, I walked to the garage door and picked up the red raincoat again. Thinking nothing of it, I opened the door and was met by the same cold air and heavy rainfall. as well as the eerie pitch darkness of the driveway. It gave me shivers again. I thought to myself I'm probably just overthinking and started looking for the motorcycle. I barely spotted the motorcycle near the front gate with the help of the outdoor lights from the front door. Due to the fog and heavy rain, I picked up a flashlight nearby and turned it on to see better. as well as the key to the motorcycle.

"$20 is $20" I said to myself under my breath and walked to the motorcycle, carefully shining the flashlight in front of my feet to see where I was walking. 

I wanted to get this over with quickly, The eerily pitch black surrounding me was freaking me out. I put the flashlight on my mouth and put the key in the ignition and quickly started the bike using the quick-start button on the handle.

Didn't work.

"Of course." I said frustratingly.

I tried it again.

Didn't work.

I quickly got on the bike and pulled out the starter pedal.

I kicked the pedal and pulled down on the throttle. 

The bike finally started. 

Feeling a sense of relief I turned on the switch to the headlight. 

Didn't work.

The sense of panic set in.

"God damn it." I sighed.

I tried smacking the headlight itself.

Didn't work.

"fuck." I said.

The rain was not getting lighter, the air felt more colder, and the fog was not getting thinner. 

I turned the switch off and on again.

Didn't. Work.

"son of a-" as I try to utter the last word of that phrase, the flashlight fell off my mouth and into the muddy road with the lens facing on the ground.

The deafening noise of the heavy rain and the howl of the cold wind gets drowned out by my own heavy breathing. 

I tried to look around for the flashlight but I couldn't see clearly.

While I was in a state of panic, suddenly, I heard a faint sound.

"psst." 

The hair on the back of my neck rose up, my whole body shivered. I don't know if it was the loud noise of the heavy rain and my mind playing tricks on me.

I couldn't move for a few seconds. I couldn't take it anymore, I wanted to get the fuck away from there.

“NOPE. Fuck this.” I said, As I tried to get off the bike fast.

With the dim glow of the far outdoor light as my only light source, I stumbled off the motorcycle and tripped due to the mud.

I fell down to my knees, and the motorcycle fell to its side next to me.

Suddenly, the motorcycle's headlight turned on. pointed at the long road that led to the main street.

It was there that I saw the most disturbing thing I've ever seen.

Pale white feet, FLOATING in the air right in front of the motorcycle.

As my brain tried to process what the FUCK I was looking at, my ears started ringing, the noise of the heavy rain and wind became silent. All I could hear were the sound of my breathing and the ringing in my ears.

My eyes were glued to the floating feet in front of me. I couldn’t look away. 

Why is it so pale?

Why isn’t it wet?

Why doesn't it have any nails?

Why is it floating?

These were questions that were firing in my head each millisecond I looked at it. I wanted to close my eyes, look down, look at the complete darkness around me. But I couldn't. I was scared, but my morbid curiosity was consuming me. I wanted to know more, I wanted to process more, I wanted to UNDERSTAND what I was looking at. My brain needed to know what it was dealing with.

I NEEDED. TO LOOK. UP.

I slowly moved my eyes up. A millimeter at a time. Still breathing heavily, still ringing in my ears.

The hood of my raincoat was blocking the view. I couldn't see past the knees. I wondered if this was enough, if it would be better NOT to see whatever the rest of it was.

It didn’t matter. I needed to see what it was.

As I tried to move my head instead to see what the rest of it was, the motorcycle turned off and the headlight along with it. I couldn't see anything. It was pitch black again. 

The dim glow of the outdoor light behind me seemingly disappeared. I was in a state of shock. Shaking, hyperventilating.

Is it over? 

Where did it go? 

Is it still in front of me?

I felt like I was passing out.

Next thing I knew, I woke up in the morning in bed with a new set of clothes and my knees patched up. I had a fever for the next few days. Probably because I was in the rain for too long.

Apparently, my Uncle noticed that it was taking me too long to move the motorcycle into the garage so he went outside to check. Only to find me passed out next to the fallen motorcycle.

I tried telling my Aunt and Uncle what happened and they said they believed me but It felt like they were just worried about me and just agreed to what I was saying. My cousins got freaked out though. My Aunt got mad at my Uncle for sending me outside to do his responsibilities and I was given $40 instead. 

Lucky me I guess.

After I got better, I went back home to the city. It was an experience that always gives me chills every time I remember it even to this very day. I don't know what it was, what it was trying to do, why did it show up. 

The one thing I know is that whatever that was, thank God I never saw the rest of it. There are just things that are better off not known. I still visited there during summer break. But when the heavy rain fell during the night and the outside became pitch black. I never left my room again. 0

Was that really worth $40? No, I don't think it was.

Every night at 2:45, I would wake up to my neighbors making noises. Sometimes it was a tapping on the wall, sometimes a scratch, sometimes the sounds of crunching, screaming, or moaning. The smell was the worst, like someone left out old food and never took their trash out. Night after night, it was like this; I couldn't sleep. I lay on my side, looking at the wall—the barrier between our domiciles—thinking of what was going on to pass the time, making up my own stories. Maybe they were partying or watching movies; I didn't know. I would just lay there, staring at the holes in the wall and the two green lights that shone through, staring back at me. I never knew what they were. I figured it was an alarm clock or a power strip, something that was always on, but at night, bathed in darkness, they were my only hope of salvation.

This continued for a while; some nights, I could rest. Others, none at all. The whispering was the worst. Different voices every night, whispering. I couldn't hear it, but it was always followed by the tapping. 'Tap...Tap...Tap...' every night. After the tapping, the whispering stopped, but every night at 2:45, it was the same. Some nights, I whispered back, acting like I was part of the conversation, sometimes giggling to myself, and I swear some nights I heard the giggling come back. Perfect timing; had to be.

Night after night, the whispering became louder. One particularly bright moonlit night, I heard it again. It sounded... closer. I rolled over to look at my little green friends; they seemed brighter than normal. I rubbed my eyes, trying to get the sleep from them. When I opened them again, they were brighter, the whispering louder. I closed my eyes tight, and the noises grew louder and louder, then 'Tap...Tap...Tap...' inches from the side of my bed.

That's when I heard it for the first time, their voices... its voices:

“I know you are listening…” it said, a chorus of dissonant tones swirling around me, each note a twisted echo of despair. “Open your eyes…” Cold, hard nails glided across my cheek, a chilling trace that goaded me to look. I clenched my eyelids tighter, feeling the weight of my own fear, my heart pounding like a caged animal desperate to escape. The breath of the creature warmed my face, mingling with the stench of decaying meat and dried blood. Its fingers popped and cracked, a sound that set my nerves alight, lifting me closer to the foul scent of viscera. “Open them…” The command was insistent, almost intimate, as if it knew the depths of my dread.

Then, I relented.

When I opened my eyes, it loomed over me—a massive, grotesque shape—human yet entirely alien. Its skin, a sickly gray, stretched taut over a skeletal frame, pulsing with an eerie vitality. Blood-matted tufts of fur crowned its neck and spine, while its elongated fingers ended in jagged claws that scraped against the floor, leaving shallow grooves in the wood. I could see its ribs, stark against the emptiness where its organs should have been. It had no mouth—only a deer skull head, its antlers scraping against the ceiling as it tilted its head, studying me.

“Do not be afraid,” it gurgled, the words emerging like a slow, choking sound from the void of its throat. “I do not want to take your voice yet.” Its eyes—or the absence thereof—captivated me, green orbs swirling in smoky sockets, as if the creature itself were conjured from the depths of a nightmare.

The room was cold; I saw my breath as I let out a weak exhale of air, trying to scream. Panic surged through me like ice water, flooding my veins as I tore myself from the suffocating grip of that monstrous presence. I bolted from my bed, stumbling across the room in a frenzy. The whispers intensified behind me, echoing with a thousand voices, and the walls seemed to breathe, pulsing with the rhythm of my terror.

I flung open the door, my heart racing as I dashed down the narrow hallway. The chill of the night air hit me like a slap as I burst through the front door, slamming it shut behind me. The outside world was cloaked in darkness, an impenetrable shroud that enveloped everything. I took a few frantic steps into the yard, my bare feet sinking into the damp grass.

As I turned, the moonlight cast long shadows, and I froze. Where were the neighbors? The faint sounds of the creature still echoed in my ears, but now they were mingled with the haunting silence of the night. I squinted into the blackness, searching for signs of life, but all I saw was the endless stretch of my yard, bordered by twisted trees and the vast expanse of unyielding darkness.

It hit me like a punch to the gut: I was alone.

The realization crashed over me—I lived in the middle of nowhere. My house stood isolated, swallowed by the woods that encircled it, a solitary sentinel in a sea of shadows. There were no neighbors, no distant laughter or music to mask the terror of that night. Just me and the oppressive stillness.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the creature's words—“I do not want to take your voice yet.” The implications twisted in my mind, dark and sinister. I stumbled back, my feet slipping on the wet grass, and I caught my breath, panting in the stillness.

Suddenly, the air around me shifted, and I felt it—the gaze of something watching. My skin prickled as I turned slowly, scanning the tree line. The wind whispered through the branches, rustling leaves that looked like skeletal fingers against the night sky. Every shadow seemed alive, pulsing with an unseen menace.

Then I heard it again—a tap… tap… tap—this time not from inside the house, but coming from the woods. The sound echoed through the night, a mocking rhythm that sent chills coursing through me. I felt as if the forest itself was alive, breathing, and drawing closer.

My instincts screamed at me to run, to escape whatever nightmare lurked just out of sight. But where could I go? This desolate stretch of land was all I had, the only place I’d ever known. I turned on my heel and sprinted back to the house, desperate to barricade myself inside.

As I fumbled with the door, my heart racing, I heard a rustle behind me. I paused, glancing back at the trees. There was something there—a silhouette, dark and amorphous, shifting just beyond the moonlight's reach.

I slammed the door shut and bolted it, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Leaning against the door, I felt my pulse thundering in my ears. I pressed my back against the cold wood, listening intently. The tapping continued, now joined by that dreadful whispering, seeping through the walls like poison.

“I know you are listening…”

The voices taunted me, intertwining with the sound of claws scratching against the door, each noise a reminder of my solitude. I sank to the floor, clutching my knees to my chest, heart pounding against my ribs. The house felt smaller, the walls closing in as the night deepened.

I was trapped—not just in this house but in a waking nightmare. And out there, just beyond the darkness, the creature waited, biding its time.

I'm writing this on a bus, coming home early from a frustrated trip. I can't stop thinking about what happened, and I feel like I need to share it with someone else. 

This year, a few friends and I decided to take a vacation together and go on a beach trip, planning to stay for about a week. We arranged for everyone to take time off at the same time and rented a house on the coast of a neighboring state.

At first, everything went smoothly, I took the bus around nine PM, and knowing that the trip would take around three hours, I put on my headphones, reclined the seat and enjoyed the view. We agreed to meet at the town’s port.

At a certain point in the journey, the bus stopped, and the driver informed us he’d be making a brief stop in a town near our final destination. I went to a restaurant, grabbed some coffee and a sandwich, which I barely had time to finish before the bus started moving again.

I was dozing off when I felt the bus stop. The driver turned off the engine, the lights came on and the passengers began to get off. I quickly looked out the window to check that I was in the right place, and after seeing some containers, I got off too.

That's when things started to get weird.

As soon as I stepped out, I noticed there were no other passengers around, which felt odd since it had been barely twenty seconds since everyone had disembarked. The place I was standing in was just part of the road; it didn’t even look like a bus stop, much less the port and bus station that my friends had mentioned earlier. The only sign of life nearby was a gate with a guard booth and, inside, a collection of containers and cranes that looked like a shipping company.

When I tried to get back on the bus, to ask the driver if I hadn't gotten off at the wrong stop, he had already left.

I looked at my phone, paused the music, and checked the time: midnight sharp. I called one of my friends to let them know I had “arrived,” hoping that this was the right place. No answer. I only managed to send a quick message – “I think I’m at the port” – before my battery died. Apparently, listening to music for three hours straight was just too much for my old phone. With no idea what else to do, I approached the guard booth to ask for information.

Inside was a woman, who smiled when she saw me approaching. I asked her if I was in the right place and explained a little bit of the situation. 

"Ah, the port? Oh, no, you’re far away, about five miles I believe, my dear." She replied, with a big smile and a voice a little... strange.

I can't explain it, but the woman seemed off. Her skin looked different, in a way that I couldn't tell whether she was 26 or 62, and her voice didn't sound natural. At the time I didn't pay much attention to any of this, but in retrospect, it seemed as if she wasn't human, but something trying to be human.

"But if you want, you can go through here, James and I will take you to the port, everything will be fine!" She said while gesturing to a colleague who was near the gate.

I hadn't noticed the colleague before. In fact, it's is as if he appeared out of nowhere as soon as she called him. He came towards me, with the same huge smile and strange skin.

For some reason, that gave me chills. Those two looking at me, piercing me with their eyes, and with that sinister smile, almost drooling, as if I were a dish from a five-star restaurant. Something told me not to wait for this “James” guy to approach, so I walked away, muttering a goodbye.

I couldn't see much ahead, just the road and the silhouette of vegetation on both sides of the asphalt. There were no streetlights except one in front of the “company,” and likely none for the next five miles. I started walking, but I soon realized that it would be a long trek, so I raised my thumb in hope that someone passing by would give me a ride.

And it didn't take long for a truck driver to pull up next to me. I got close to his window, and to my surprise, he didn't look right either. He was an older man, or at least I think it was because of his white hair, but he had the same strange skin as the woman and “James“ I just met. He invited me into the truck, saying he would take me to the port in no time. Strange, because I hadn't even told him where I wanted to go.

"Come on, kid, I'll take you there, you won't even notice! You can sleep if you're tired. Everything will be fine!" The old man insisted. He spoke in the same strange, weirdly broken way as the other two.

The chill I had felt before now intensified, and it went up my spine like an electric shock. I didn't even bother to say something to the truck driver, I just moved on, quickening my pace. He just stood there.

From then on, I started to walk faster. I had a weird feeling, as if things weren’t right, and what scared me the most: that something was watching me.

I rounded a bend in the road and saw a broken guardrail and a crashed car beyond it. It looked like the accident had happened some time ago, but obviously, the scene didn’t help with my anxiety at all.

The further I got, the more unsettling the place became. The air grew heavy, and I started to hear noises in the vegetation, twigs snapping, leaves rustling. I was getting exhausted from the walk, and my eyes were strained from trying to see in the pitch-dark.

After about two hours of walking, just past another curve, this time forming a big "S" along with the previous one, a car stopped next to me. It was an old hatchback, probably from the '90s. I couldn’t see much, but the car looked run-down. At this point, I was obviously no longer hitchhiking, and my paranoia made me completely suspicious of whoever the driver was.

And with good reason.

"Get in, Alex, I'll take you to the port." He said, calmly.

"HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?" I shouted, desperate.

"What do you mean, Alex? We all know your name. We just want to help you! Trust us, everything will be fine!" He replied, lifting his head and looking directly at me, with the same massive, twisted smile as the others.

Taking a good look at his face, he looked almost identical to the truck driver, like twins, both equally disfigured and weird.

This time, I ran.

I ran like I’d never run before, without even looking back to see if anything was following me.

I must have run for another two hours until exhaustion took over, and I sat down on the roadside. Everything seemed quiet and safe. Too safe. I opened my backpack to take the last sip from my water bottle when I began to hear them.

Voices, coming from the bushes next to me. At first, I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but slowly I began to recognize my name being called.

"Alex... Alex... come this way, Alex... it's a shortcut, Alex... everything will be fine, Alex."

The feeling of safety soon turned to horror, and I went back running.

The voices grew louder, more distorted, and when I inevitably looked back, my fears were confirmed.

There was a man – no, a creature – chasing me. It was humanoid, but with disproportionate limbs and a bizarre skin, as if it were imitating human skin, which writhed and twisted. And it was smiling at me.

That thing came closer, initially walking slowly, but picking up it's pace towards me.

I ran awkwardly, totally consumed by fear, crying and screaming, the creature chasing, obviously faster than me, at one point getting close enough to touche me. And it did. It put it's hand, boney and cold, on my shoulder.

As I fumbled to get away from its grasp, I tripped and went rolling. The thing came after me, opening it's mouth, revealing rotten and missing teeth, kneeling down in my direction.

I've never been a fighter, but at that time some kind of instinct came over me. Somehow I felt this would be my last seconds alive if I didn't try to fight it. So I kicked, punch, did everything I could to get away.

After a few blows to its head, the creature seemed to recoil for a second, looking at me with a twisted and broken smile, mixed with an expression of confusion, as if it didn't believe that I could defend myself like that. To be honest, I didn't believe it either.

But that single moment was enough for me to get up on my feet and start running again.

I soon encountered the first streetlight in what felt like years.

As I got closer, I saw the sea, containers, docked ships, a lighthouse in the distance, and a small group of people. It was the port. I stopped running but was still paranoid and anxious, so I avoided contact with anyone. Looking behind me, at first I saw nothing besides the darkness of that godforsaken road, but squinting my eyes, I could barely see that pale figure, standing still, staring directly at me. For some reason, it had given up on chasing me after I've entered the light.

Then I saw the bus arrive, and exactly the same passengers who were with me got off. Soon I also saw my friends approaching. They were drinking and laughing, and when they saw me, they ran over, shouting and cheering to celebrate my arrival. One of them tried to talk to me, asking me why I was looking terrible, sweating, dirty, and shaking.

I just lit a cigarette, walked with them to the house, a few blocks away, and told them that I was extremely tired and needed some sleep.

When I got there, I left my things in my room, plugged in my phone to charge and went to take a shower. There was a clock in the hallway, and, giving me one last moment of terror, it showed twelve-oh-five.

The next day, my friends woke me up asking about what had happened the night before and why I seemed so scared.

I tried to tell the story, but obviously no one believed it.

Some said I was lying, or that I was smoking some really good stuff. I even opened Google Maps to show where that company was, where everything had supposedly happened, but, to my surprise, I couldn’t find it.

There was no "S" curve on the road. In fact, the road between the town where I stopped to eat and the port of the town we were in was completely straight, well-lit, and without companies, gates or containers. There was even a gas station halfway through, which I sure as shit didn't see last night.

Amid all the jokes and questions, one of the people in the room, who I didn't really know, approached me and said:

"Relax, Alex, I think you just had a weird dream. You're with us now, everything will be fine." He broke into a giant smile as he said those last words in a distorted way.

At that moment I ran up the stairs, grabbed my backpack and went straight to the port to wait for the next bus, without saying anything to anyone.

In the small mountain town of Whispering Pines, the wind carried secrets through the trees, and the pines seemed to whisper warnings, though few listened. The town was quiet, almost idyllic, but every family in town had a story—though most didn’t dare share theirs.

One such family was the Brookes, who had moved to Whispering Pines in the early ’80s after an inheritance from a long-lost uncle gave them just enough money to start fresh. Life was peaceful for a while. Laura and Mark Brookes kept to themselves, raising their only child, Sam, with modest ambitions. But as Sam grew, he noticed odd things that no one else seemed to find strange.

There was the abandoned mill on the edge of town, where people warned children not to play. “The pines will take you away,” they’d say with knowing looks. Sam didn’t understand what it meant, but curiosity got the best of him one summer when he was thirteen. Together with his friends Jake and Lila, they snuck out one night to see the mill for themselves. What they found inside still haunted Sam, even years later.

The mill was filled with strange carvings—runes and symbols scratched into every beam. And then there was the smell, an overwhelming scent of iron that they couldn’t ignore. In the center of the room, a rusty, bloodstained knife lay abandoned. The kids ran out, frightened but not understanding the horror they’d just encountered.

That year, the first disappearance happened. Lila’s older sister, Emily, vanished on her way home from school. Days passed, and search parties combed the forest, but there was no trace. The sheriff’s department blamed it on an animal attack, but no one was convinced. Whispers of an old legend spread quietly—stories of “The Watcher,” a shadowy figure said to guard the forest and demand offerings from the townsfolk.

Despite the sheriff’s insistence that Emily had simply run off, the townspeople spoke in hushed tones about a darker truth. They said that every generation, someone from the town had to “go missing” to keep the peace, a dark deal struck generations ago to protect the town from a worse fate. But if that were true, who decided who would be sacrificed?

The years passed, and more teens vanished without a trace. By the time Sam was seventeen, the list of the missing had grown long. Each time, the town was shaken but returned to a strained sense of normalcy—one tinged with dread. Sam had tried moving on, telling himself that he’d leave Whispering Pines the moment he could, but the memory of the mill—and of Emily’s disappearance—haunted him.

One foggy night, he received a note slipped under his door. It was from Lila. It read: “Meet me at the mill. Tonight. Midnight. We need to end this.”

When he arrived, the mill was silent, the air heavy. Lila waited, her face pale and determined. She told him what she’d discovered: an old ledger hidden in the town’s records, detailing something called The Binding. It was an agreement made by the town’s founders with a being they called “The Watcher,” an entity that supposedly resided in the forest, an entity that required a sacrifice. The binding was an unbreakable pact; only by offering lives could Whispering Pines be protected from The Watcher’s wrath.

With trembling hands, Lila revealed a page in the ledger—one covered in names. Their names. Every one of their friends, every one of the disappeared, had been marked by someone in town. The realization hit them: these were chosen sacrifices, selected by the very people they trusted.

They tried to leave that night, to run away and take the ledger with them. But as they reached the edge of the forest, they heard the pines whispering, louder and louder, a strange chanting that filled their heads. They couldn’t move, paralyzed by an invisible force. And then, out of the fog, The Watcher appeared.

No one ever heard from Sam or Lila again. The town covered it up, as it always did. And Whispering Pines returned to its usual quiet, the pines whispering secrets that no one would ever dare to listen to.

A crashing sound that reverberated from outside startled me awake. I groaned to myself as I rolled over and reached out my hand, searching for my phone. I felt the cold surface of my phone and pulled it up to eye level. After double-tapping the screen, the time popped up. 3:47 am. I shook my head and threw the blankets off of me, slowly crawling out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, making me shudder slightly as I made my way to the bathroom. As I was coming back to my room, another loud sound came from outside, causing me to jump. I entered my room and walked over to the window peeking out. I scanned the neighborhood, seeing nothing unusual. My heart stopped as  I noticed an uncanny figure standing at the top of my street. One thing I should mention is that I lived in a rather rural area, with only five houses on my street with quite a distance between each house. The area is slightly wooded, taking about fifteen minutes to reach the closest civilized area. I watched the figure carefully, and the panic sank in as it made its way down the street. Something was terribly wrong. The way it walked and held itself was off, almost inhuman. It walked slowly, its body contorting slightly as it did so and he was so tall, much taller than the average man. As he approached my house, a pit grew in my stomach. He paused between my house and my neighbors, then walked between the houses and disappeared. I crossed the room back to my bed where I picked up my phone. I unlocked it and called Remi, my fiance, who was staying at his friend’s for the night. After, the third ring he answered.

“Is everything okay, baby?” his voice was low and raspy and I knew I had woken him up.

“Can you come home? There’s someone walking around the neighborhood and I'm getting scared.”

I could hear shuffling over the phone and I immediately knew he was going to come home.

“Yes, I’m getting my stuff and I’m headed home in less than a minute. Can you still see him?” 

“No. He disappeared between the neighbors and our house.”

“Okay, I need you to check all doors and windows, take the Glock with you.”

“Okay, please hurry.”

“I’ll be home in 10 minutes. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said before I hung up.

I walked over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, pulled out the Glock, and made sure that it was loaded. I went back to the window and looked out again but there was nothing there. I let out a shaky breath as I checked all the upstairs windows to make sure I locked them before slowly going downstairs. I went to every door and window, doing the same thing with them, then going back upstairs and to the bedroom window. I knew Remi would be home in the next minute or so and felt the panic subside. I looked down at my phone briefly and then back to the window. My body froze, almost screaming as the figure was now standing in front of my house, facing me. It didn't move as it stood there and I wasn’t sure if it was even breathing. It was hard to make out any details as the street was almost completely dark. There were no street lights in front of my house, only a few were scattered across the neighborhood. I wasn’t sure what to do, what was I supposed to do in a situation like this?  I watched and watched, praying that Remi would get home before anything happened. I quickly pulled out my phone and texted him.

‘He’s standing outside the house.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute, keep the gun on you at all times,’

I put my phone back down and returned my eyes to the window. What the fuck? The figure was now gone, no trace that it had ever been there. I scanned the neighborhood, hoping to see him. It would make me feel a hell of a lot better if I knew where he was. Nothing could possibly go wrong if I knew where he was. I kept looking outside until I saw headlights coming down the street and into the driveway. I ran down the stairs, almost tripping to meet Remi at the door. I placed my phone on the little table that sat by our front door and unlocked it as soon as his foot touched the porch and he quickly came inside, locking the door behind him. He pulled me into a hug and I let out a breath as I melted into him. He kissed the top of my head before lifting mine to meet his gaze. He looked tired, dark bags under his eyes nonetheless he still looked happy to see me. He had a dark red t-shirt on and a pair of black sweatpants that fit him perfectly. His blonde hair was pushed back off his face and you could tell he had rushed to get home. He looked gorgeous in every sense of the word. I wanted to go upstairs and lie down with him. He was my safe space and when I was with him, I felt like nothing could go wrong. He placed his phone and keys next to mine on the table.

“I saw nothing when I pulled into the neighborhood.”

“He disappeared when I was texting you. I have no clue where he is.”

“Let's go back upstairs. I’m sure everything is okay now.”

“I’m sorry for calling you so late, I know you were at Adam’s house and were excited to spend some time with him during the off-season.”

“Why are you sorry? Your safety comes first.”

I smiled at his response. With the gun in one hand, I placed my free hand on his chest and got on my tiptoes to kiss him. He kissed me back, his fingers tangled in my hair. He took the gun from my hand and placed it into his waistband, before wrapping his arms around my waist and hoisting me up. I wrapped myself around him, laying my head on his shoulder. He moved his arm and his hand lifted my head. I smiled at him brightly as I leaned forward and kissed him again. The kiss lasted for maybe a minute before we pulled apart for air. I let out a giggle as I looked into his eyes, his eyes filled with love. He spun in a circle, causing the both of us to laugh. I loved the little moments like this.

“Alright baby, let’s go get some sleep.” He whispered in my ear before placing a kiss on it.

“Sounds good to me, gorgeous. I’m tired as hell.”

He chuckled softly, as I placed my head back on his shoulder, kissing it gently while taking me upstairs. The relief I had felt when Remi arrived quickly vanished. The sound of breaking glass pierced the silence as we made it to the top of the stairs. It came from the back of the house which told us he had broken our glass back door. He placed me down on my feet; I froze and looked up at Remi who was reaching for the gun in his waistband. In a sudden movement, he was pushing me to the room closest to us and locking the door. We stood in silence, listening for any sound that would give us any clue as to what was going on. There was a crunching sound as the intruder stepped into the house. The house was quiet before we heard it started moving around the first floor of the house. I looked over to Remi who was deep in thought before he glanced over at me. He placed a finger over his mouth indicating that I needed to remain silent. He grabbed my hand, walked towards the door, and opened the door slowly. He led me out of the room, moving so that he was behind me and now pushing me forward. We silently but quickly moved towards the back of the house to get as far away as possible from the intruder. We made it into our bedroom, Remi locked the door behind him and then turned to face me. I didn’t know what to say to him at the moment, nothing but fear on my mind. He kept me close to him, pressing me into his side, while I stared blankly at the door with my head leaning onto his arms. My hands were shaking uncontrollably and my body felt like it was on fire. Something about this felt extremely off and I guess it would considering what was going on. My throat was dry and my heart was racing in my chest, so much so that it hurt. 

“Remi, I left my phone downstairs.”

Remi stopped and stared at me for a moment before patting his own pockets, his face contorting to shock.

“So did I.” 

“Remi? What the fuck is going on?” I whispered.

“I don’t know.” 

It was only a matter of time before my mind would shut down from the panic. It was unfortunate, but it's how I've always responded in traumatic situations. Remi was more levelheaded and logical, He could stay strong and take control in situations like these. Before I could say anything else, Remi was already at the window, tugging it upwards but it didn’t move. He tried repeatedly until he gave up in frustration, reeling back to punch the window but stopping himself before his fist hit the window. We had never been able to open that window, the paint had sealed it shut.  If he was getting nervous, it wasn’t showing. His face remained stoic which comforted me, I knew that as long as he was by my side I would be okay. We could hear the intruder making its way up the stairs, its footsteps heavy as he came to the top of the stairs. The sound of a door opening was heard, and we knew it was looking for us. It became very clear that whoever was in our house was not here to rob us. We were under attack. The intruder went from door to door and as he got closer; we needed to think of a plan. Remi gripped the gun tighter and held it so that if he needed to shoot, he could.

“Honey, I want you to stay with me as much as possible.”

“Remi, I’m scared.” I whimpered as I shuffled closer to him, latching onto him.

He ran his hand through my hair and leaned down to kiss my head which gave me some comfort. It was the little moments like this that Reminded me of why I loved him so much.

“I know baby, but I need you to be strong for me.”

“I will but what if something happens to you?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

I didn’t really like that answer but I wasn’t about to argue with him. As the last remaining doors continued to be slammed open, I could hear my heart beating in my chest. Remi perked up, thinking of something. He pointed at the dresser and motioned for me to follow him hiding ourselves between the dresser and the wall. He understood we were cornering ourselves but it was the best idea that he could come up with at the moment. My back was pushed up against the wall, Remi’s body covered me from being seen. The back of Remi’s body was touching my mine and, I felt comfort from the warmth that radiated from him. He glanced back at me, offering me a soft smile which I managed to return. Guilt flooded over me as I felt like I had dragged him into this mess. It made me wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t call him to come home.

“we’ll be okay, Darling,” Remi whispered warmly, as he reached for my hand. The only thing I could do was nod.

The conversation was cut short, as the doorknob twisted. He had reached our room, and I fully began to panic. We could see the shadow of his feet slipping under the door. He stood there, waiting and we could hear his heavy breathing. There was a whistling sound whenever he inhaled, followed by a groan occasionally when he breathed out. I could feel sweat form on my forehead, as my hands began to shake again. My legs felt weak and leaned onto Remi. Remi jumped as the door splintered as it came off its hinges, pushing me further into the wall behind me. He quickly regained his composure, giving me a quick glance before turning his attention back to the door. I didn’t know Remi could see and I was too scared to look myself. The silence was deafening before a voice rang out.

“I can smell you.” The intruder growled, his voice guttural.

I had never heard anything like that before and it took everything in me to not run. Remi’s grip on my hand tightened as we stayed hidden beside the dresser. I pressed my face into Remi’s back as I braced for the worst. I could feel the muscles in his back tense as he raised his arms. The horror set in as I realized what he was about to do. He was going to shoot. I lifted my head to see what was folding in front of me. My breath hitched in my throat as I finally saw the intruder. Now Remi was tall, standing at 6’3 but the man who stood in front of us was much taller. He had straggly, shoulder-length hair that looked like it hadn't washed in years. He stood hunched over, his arms disproportionately long. He was dirty and the smell that came off of him made me gag. Remi had the gun raised, and he began pulling the trigger, ready to do whatever he needed to protect us.

“Don’t come any closer,” Remi demanded.

“Or what?” The man taunted.

“Find out.” Remi hissed.

The man let out a rasp of a laugh that sent chills down my spine. I could feel Remi tense even more as the man took a step closer. Remi took a deep breath and changed his stance into something more defensive. It happened in a matter of seconds; the man took a large step forward, nearly closing the distance between us. Remi fired a shot, hitting the man successfully in the chest. Everything went silent, before a sharp pain shot through my ears. Remi was yelling something but it was muffled, the ringing in my ears triumphing causing me to clamp my hands over my ears, my eyes stuck on the scene in front of me. Tears poured freely down my face, sobbing as I buried my face back into Remi’s back.  The man froze looking down at his chest before laughing again. He continued his advances towards us, causing Remi to fire off two more rounds. The man stumbled backward, clutching his chest. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, Remi used this opportunity to grab my arm, pushing past the man. We ran out of the room and into the hallway. The man gave chase, cornering and pushing us into the guest bedroom. Remi slammed the door shut behind us, turning around to face me. The look on his was pure horror.

“What the fuck is that?” I cried.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Remi quickly released the magazine to check how much ammo we had left.

“We have seven shots left.”

I walked to a corner of the room and slid down the wall. I pulled my knees into my chest and I cried into them. I was shaking like a leaf, Remi moved closer to me. He kneeled in front of me and pried my head from my hands, holding my face in my hands.

“Honey, I know this is difficult but I need you to calm down.”

“I.. I” I tried to speak but I couldn’t get it out.

“Breathe with me.” He whispered, taking in a deep breath.

I tried to take a deep breath in but I couldn’t, shaking my head and sobbing louder. The world felt like it was ending, I couldn’t breathe, there was a psychopath in our house that had been shot three times and was still alive and kicking.

“I know you can do it, baby, just take it slow. Let’s try again, okay?” His voice was warm and sweet and it had a soothing effect over me.

He took another deep breath and this time I took one in as well. My tears dried with every breath we took together. Remi smiled and pulled me into a hug, working effectively to calm me down more. After a minute, he pulled away, kissing me quickly before holding out his hand to me. I reached out my hand, interlacing our fingers together as I pulled myself up with his help.

“I’m proud of you, love. You did such a good job.”

“Thank you, Remi.”

“Anything for my woman.”

 I wish I had just gone to a friend’s house or to Adam’s house, where Remi had been staying. None of this would be happening. The guilt crushed me even harder. Guilt for bringing Remi into this mess. If hadn’t called him, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have shot someone, worried about protecting me, about dying. The man was pacing back and forth down the hallway. We couldn’t leave the room unless we wanted to come face-to-face with the intruder. He was banging on the walls and doors, laughing now and then. Nothing about this made sense. Remi had shot the man THREE times, and it only slowed him down for maybe a minute. It was dawning on us we would need to act quickly. Without being able to leave the room, there wasn’t much for us to do. It was a waiting game. Remi walked over to the window, looking out briefly before, trying to open it. Nothing. It wouldn’t even budge. He let out a frustrated yell, punching the window. His chest heaved as his hand reared back, blood dripping from his knuckles. 

“Remi, stop!”

“I can’t stand this! You’re in danger and there’s nothing I can do about it!” He yelled.

“Remi, please.” My voice shook as I spoke.

“NO.” He yelled, taking a step closer to me. “I…I FUCK.” He yelled again.

He took a few steps back again, his body snapping to the side as he punched the wall. I just stared at him, It was rare for Remi to act like this. The few times I’d seen him this mad was after hockey games that didn’t go too well, which again was very rare. I wasn’t sure what to do, honestly, there wasn’t much for me to do. This could play one of two ways, his anger would either fuck us over or it would get us through this hell.  I walked behind Remi, slipping my hand under his shirt and resting on his bare back. I could feel his muscles relax slightly at my touch.

“Remi, baby. I’m just as scared as you are but we need to slow down and think.”

“Slow down? We don’t have time to slow down.” His voice was still filled with frustration.

“If you keep lashing out like that, you are going to get both of us killed.”

He let out a sigh before, looking down at me. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

He turned around, facing me and I moved my hand on his bicep, giving it a soft squeeze. He placed a hand on my lower back as he let out another sigh, resting his forehead against mine. Our heads jerked to the door as a scratching sound, came from the hallway.  He was running his nails along them. It was a deep sound like he had claws.

“Remi, I don’t think he’s a human”, the statement sounded stupid as it came out of my mouth but it was the only plausible thing I could come up with.

“That’s not possible, Juile.”

“No, but think about it. You shot him three times and it barely slowed him down. He’s faster than normal people and he’s fucking tall. And by the way, he looks, it's not human. For fucks sake Remington, he’s taunting us right now.” 

Remi ran a hand through his hair and began pacing back and forth as he stared down at the floor. He stopped in front of me, grabbing my arm and pulling me into him. His arms wrapped around me in a warm embrace. I melted into him, my head resting on his chest. His heart was beating fast and hard, almost like it would burst out of his chest. We stood there for a while, hugging each other, hoping this nightmare would end soon. My heart dropped as Remi let out a sob, his body shaking against mine. I looked up at him; he looked so sad, so broken. In the years, that we had been together I had never once seen him cry. I could feel tears well up in my own eyes as we looked at each other. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. The look in his eyes gave everything away. He moved us to the bed, both of us sitting on the edge, facing the door. He held both of my hands in his, looking deep into my eyes.

“I need you to promise me something,” Remi whispered somberly.

“Yes?”

“If I die…”

“Stop,” I demanded, I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “We aren’t doing this right now.”

He blinked at me before nodding his head.

“I love you, Julie, so much.” 

“I love you too honey”

There was a shattering sound from the hallway, causing me to jump onto Remi. He grabbed me, holding me close to him. It sounded like the man had knocked a picture off the wall. I jumped again as the man pounded on the door repeatedly.

“Just come out, I’m not going to hurt you.” He screamed through the door.

Remi’s hand clamped over my mouth, knowing that I was most likely wanting to scream. The banging didn’t stop, it went on for a few minutes before Remi placed me down on the bed and stood up. He pulled out the gun and aimed at the door.

“Remi, what the fuck are you doing?” I hissed.

He didn’t answer, shooting twice. through the door. The man yelled out in anger and pain. Well, at least Remi hit the thing.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” The man roared, his banging intensifying.

I wasn’t sure how much longer the door was going to hold the man back; he was far stronger than anyone else I had ever met. I ran to the bathroom, that was connected to the guest room, turning on the light and shutting the door. I motioned for him to move and hide behind a desk, that was placed to the side of the bedroom door. We stayed hidden there, as quiet as possible as we waited for the man to break through. It took him longer than I expected it to. It seemed like the bullets did cause some harm. The door opened, well more like kicked down, and began searching the room, he laughed as he saw the bathroom light on. 

“So stupid,” It muttered under its breath. 

 Once the man made it to the bathroom door and began to kick the door in, I grabbed Remi’s and ran out of the room. We ran down the hall, trying, to get closer to the stairs when the man ran back out of the room.

“There you are!” He exclaimed as he sprinted towards us.

Remi fired two more shots, but the gun jammed at the third shot.

“Fuck” Remi muttered as he cleared the jam and fired the last two remaining bullets in the chamber.

The man slowed briefly before charging us with a yell. We were so close to the stairs but at the rate he was running, he would catch us before we could make it out the door. With no other choice, we were pushed into the last guest bedroom we had. Again for the third time tonight, we locked ourselves in this room. We waited and waited but nothing ever came. It was silent. Too silent. There was a sudden running sound, that went through the hallway and down the stairs. Was he leaving? We could hear the man start fumbling around downstairs. He was yelling and laughing as he destroyed everything he could. Glass shattered, furniture was thrown, drawers opened and slammed shut, as the contents were being thrown around. He was toying with us. Everything Remi and I had built was being destroyed. I moved over to him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I stood in front of him, between his legs. Placing my hands on his face on each side of his face and lifted it gently. He was crying again. I leaned down forward and kissed his lips, he kissed me back, putting his hands on my waist and pulled me closer. I hugged him, his head resting on my chest as I played with his hair. If we were going to die tonight, I wanted this to be the last thing I remembered.  The night trailed on for what felt like forever. We were exhausted and running out of ideas on what to do next.

“What if we try to make a break for it?” I whispered.

“I… I don’t know Julie.”

“I know it's not the smartest idea, but what else can we do? He broke the back door, all we’d have to do is get there and we’d be out of this hell.”

“if anything were to happen to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Remi, this might be the only chance we have.”

“Okay, but stay close to me.”

“I promise.”

We left the room silently and trudged closer to the top of the stairs. We stayed close to the wall for cover. My arm wrapped around his arm as moved, careful not to make any noise. The house was silent again as we edged the top of the stairs. I bit back a scream as we peered around the corner to see the man appear at the bottom of the stairs, a sickening smile on his face. He crept up the stairs as we moved back in response. He had something in his hand but I couldn’t tell what it was. Whatever it was, he threw it straight at us as he reached the midway point. Remi was prepared for it, somehow knowing that it was going to hit me. Remi’s hand flew over my mouth to as I felt something pierce my side. Whatever it was tore straight through my skin and landed on the floor behind us. At first, all I felt was a wet, hot, sticky feeling. Blood. After a few seconds, it felt like a sharp, burning pain causing my side to be on fire. I let out a muffled scream as Remi’s other arm came behind me and pressed onto the wound as hard as he could to stop the bleeding. My vision blurred and my breathing came in as gasp as the pain riddled my body. I cried as he pulled me into the nearest room, my back against his chest, my feet dragging. I had no clue how he had done it but he somehow did it; he placed me down on the bed as he pulled his hand from my mouth. He kept his left hand on the wound as he spoke to me in a low whisper. 

“I need you to stay as quiet as possible for me. This is really going to hurt but I need to do this.”

All I could do was nod my head weakly in response as he pulled his hand from my side. I felt dizzy and like I was going to pass out and throw up all at the same time as he reached down and grabbed a t-shirt. In one swift movement, he tore the shirt into one long strip. He walked back to the bed and placed the torn shirt on the bed next to me before sitting down next to me.

“Hold on to my thigh.” He whispered in my ear.

He lifted my shirt and started stuffing the wound with the torn shirt. My eyes squeezed shut and my fingers dug into his thigh and I screamed again. The pain was blinding and my breath caught in my throat.

 After a minute I looked back up at Remi who was grimacing. I could tell that Remi was struggling with causing me further pain and damn, he looked like hell. His hair was disheveled, falling over his forehead and coated in sweat. He had a somber look on his face and the bags under his eyes looked even darker. His clothing had small tears in them and he had scratches and cuts on him, dried blood coating them. My blood covered his left hand up to his forearm, it was even under his fingernails.  Regardless of the fact, that the magazine was empty, Remi kept the gun tucked into his waistband. We were at a standstill, neither one of us knew what to do. The night felt never-ending, and I just wanted it to end. There was a loud thud in the hallway bringing us back to reality, a raging psychopath who couldn’t die had somehow trapped us in our own home. There was a shuffling sound outside the door, he was right in front of the door. My eyes stayed locked on Remi, waiting to see what he was going to do. Remi looked defeated like he was out of ideas on what to do. Who knows how long we stood there, just waiting for something to happen? Remi walked over to the dresser and began pulling it to the door, barricading it. He pulled the nightstand after and as he was pulling the bed towards the door; the doorknob jiggled. Remi stopped dead in his tracks and my eyes snapped to the door but Remi quickly returned to moving the bed. It only took a few seconds for the banging to start.  

Remi moved back to grab something else when the intruder began to kick the door down. I jumped back, stumbling some when Remi grabbed me, stopping me from falling. He pulled me behind him in a protective stance before he spoke in a heartbreaking tone.

“I love you, Julie.” He whispered, turning back to face me. 

“I love you too, Remi,” I whispered with tears running down my face at the realization that if not both then one of us was about to die.

He leaned down and placed his hand on my face, and kissed me. I kissed him back, my hand wrapping around his wrist. After a few seconds, we pulled away, Remi gave me a soft smile, that gorgeous smile that I loved dearly. I gave him a weak smile as the banging grew louder and louder, shifting the furniture that was against the door.

“Fight to the death,” Remi whispered.

I nodded in response and prepared myself as much as I could. With one last kick, the man sent the furniture flying, causing both of us to move in opposite directions. I groaned as a sharp pain radiated throughout my side from my quick movement. The man stood in the doorway, an evil smile on his face. His eyes were wide and wild, just staring at us before making his first move, laughing as he did so. I watched in horror as Remi charged the man, their bodies colliding violently. They both stumbled back before regaining their stances. Remi threw a punch, but the intruder was quicker, a sickening crunch echoing as his fist slammed into Remi’s face. The impact sent Remi back a few steps, anger written all over his face. He stood up straight, throwing his arms out slightly and his hands turned to fists. He was going to fight for the both of us and I knew he wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead. Blood dripped from Remi’s face and he looked feral, the man also followed suit and got ready to go again. Remi waited for the intruder to make the first move. The intruder lunged forward, arms outstretched, trying to tackle Remi. Remi dodged, digging his elbow into the man’s back and pushing him to the ground. The man wrapped his hand around Remi’s ankle and with a quick tug; they were both on the floor. The intruder was quickly on top of Remi, his hands placed around Remi’s neck. Remi started to fight back, his hands clawing at the man’s wrist. Remi was failing, the man was far too strong for him. Remi’s face was red, and his movements were slowing. Without thinking, I jumped onto the man, who was strangling my fiance. My body flew into his with an audible thud. My breath was knocked from me and I took a deep gasp in. I pushed myself off the ground and stood tall. With my newfound confidence, I was prepared for whatever came my way. 

I could hear Remi shuffling then felt him standing behind me. His breathing was heavy and labored but ready to fight. The man laughed as he pushed himself off the floor, shaking invisible dust off of him, like he was a dog. The man charged us again, something glinting in his hand as he did. I moved out of the way but Remi was too slow. He let out a yell as I turned around to see the man stabbing him. I screamed in horror as a squelching sound came when the man pulled out the knife and plunged it back into Remi. Another yell escaped Remi as he tried to fight the man off. Remi grabbed the man's wrist, in hopes of getting the man’s hands off of the handle. Remi kicked his leg out, his foot colliding with the man's knee. The man fell to one knee but before he could back up, Remi’s knee was slamming under the man's chin. The man groaned and pushed back a few feet. Remi moved back, creating as much distance between him as he could.

“What do you want from us?” Remi roared.

“Nothing.” The man responded. His answer was so cruel and evil.

“Then, why are you doing this?” Remi questioned, his voice weak.

“Because I can.” The man said matter of factly.

It was a horrifying realization that we had been going through all of this for no reason. All because the intruder could. This angered me and I could tell from the growl that came from Remi that it had the same effect. I inched backward, moving away from Remi and the intruder. A blur blew past me and I knew the man was going after Remi again. Remi let the man attack but before the man hit Remi, he reached down and grabbed a piece of wood from the floor and plunged into the base of the intruder’s neck. It hit them closer to the shoulder but still affected him. He let out a howl, grabbing his neck and falling to his knees. Remi was on the man in a matter of seconds, his fist hitting every part of the man’s body that he could. The man hardly moved, letting it happen. I have no idea how long Remi’s assault on the man lasted, it felt like forever. Remi got off the man, now covered in blood. Mine, his, the intruders, his breathing was heavy as he stood over the man. he crawled away from Remi, slowly but eventually, he stood up.

“Fucking Bitch.” The intruder mumbled as he walked through the door of the room.

We watched as the man limped out of the room, and heard him walk downstairs and out the front door. We made our way to the window, Remi had me tucked under his arm and my arm was around the back of his waist. The sun was starting to rise and as we peered out the window, a wolf was limping down the street. I looked up to Remi. He looked like shit. Bruises, blood, and sweat covered his face. There were deep purple hand marks around his neck from where he was almost strangled to death. He leaned down and kissed me. I kissed him back and wrapped my arms around him.

“I love you, Julie.”

“I love you too, Remi.”

He smiled at me. We had survived.

We still have no idea what we encountered that day. We were just happy to be alive. The police never found the guy and I’m not sure they ever will. The whole ordeal lasted a little over two hours but it felt like it was never going to end, it was the most horrifying night of my life.  The following months were rough, we had to deal with the trauma and heal from the wounds. Remi was lucky that the man hadn’t stabbed him anywhere vital. He was stabbed once, in the chest and once in the shoulder, and had a few broken ribs, and of course cuts and bruises. I had a couple of broken ribs, and luckily the wound in my side wasn’t too bad. Turns out the man had thrown a large shard of glass and missed any organs. Recovery was a bitch.  We only returned to the house three more times after that, to get anything that we wanted to take with us. We stayed with a friend for about a month before we moved about an hour away. We were both haunted by nightmares and we still do occasionally. We were both diagnosed with PTSD but are going through therapy to help cope. This happened almost two years ago and we are now happily married.

The Unnamed (Part 1)

It's dark outside and I'm hearing strange noises. I think something followed me home. My dad is passed out in the other room. He'll just be angry if I wake him and say it's all my imagination, but I think the journal I discovered is real and something evil came with it.

Last week I found something. After a particularly bad storm, I went exploring through the isolated land my father owns. I've explored the wind swept cliffs on previous visits, but this time I found a cave behind a rock slide and some fallen trees. Not just an empty, damp cave, but a dry cave with a boat stuck between rocks toward the back. What I found inside the boat is why I am writing this down and putting it out there for others to read.

Safely packed inside the boat was a journal. I can tell by the worn pages that the journal must be old, either very old or very abused, but the years listed don't make sense. Maybe I should have checked the tunnels further back in the cave for a clue, but I could have sworn I saw some red eyes reflecting my light back at me from deeper in the cave. Must have been some sort of animal, but the eyes were too high to be a cat or other small animal, unless they had climbed up on some rocks. Plus, there was a horrible smell that got worse the further back I went. My skin still crawls every time I think about going back there.

I've taken photos of the first few pages for you to read for yourself. I've never been happier that dad kept the satellite internet my mom made him install before the divorce.

Date: 13^(th) day, 7^(th) month, year 213

A wall. It encloses and divides.

In days long gone, walls were pretty. They were meant to give privacy and protection.

 Now the bollards and steel rebars continue to strengthen the concrete and metal that is the compound wall. Spidery cracks threaten, or offer hope, that it will someday crumble.

 This wall was not constructed for privacy, or for beauty, or protection; though it does protect. In fact, we would all perish if it were not for the wall. Once intended to keep out death, it now serves to keep death in. Not the death that destroys the body, but rather the death that destroys the spirit. The wall serves to keep us all trapped in a life without choice. We live a type of death, dead in life.

 I deal with this unliving by writing. My grandmother gave me a little journal when I was six and that pile of paper turned into a life saver for me. Writing helps me deal with the heavy oppression and fear that surrounds me, and keeps us all imprisoned here. I hope one day someone will discover my words. Perhaps my story will help others.

 Let me start by saying that I know I am one of the wicked, because only the wicked, the disobedient, the unworthy, want to leave the confinement of the wall. At least, that is what we are told by our leaders. It seems the number of wicked is growing. There have been many wicked recently that have ventured outside the wall at night toward another wall surrounding another compound. They travel toward another confinement in the hope of finding more freedom than can be found here. Their stories are told in hushed whispers around dinner tables and sewing circles. Will my story be added to theirs one day? I hope it will.

 During the day, the island is so very pretty. Majestic trees stand proudly in thick forests further inland while pebbled beaches run along long stretches of coastline covered with hard shells painted in creams and whites.

 But at night, it is very different.

 Demons own the night. Shadows of our deepest fears and doubts roam the land beyond the safety of the compound. Many think these phantoms are conjured up by our leaders and by the righteous to scare us into behaving and following the rules.

 When I asked my grandmother about it one day, Gram just said, "That is just how it is and how it always has been."

 But I think these ghosts are made up to keep us in our place, to keep us obedient and conforming so those deemed worthy, the righteous, can live well in the inner rims of our compound while we toil in squalor in the outer rims. At least here, in this compound that is the way it is. But there are other compounds beyond our wall and I wish to see if they are any better than ours. The leaders would say that only the wicked want to leave. That only the unworthy disobey. No one in the outer rims of this compound may question or disobey the leaders openly for fear they will be put out into the night where evil roams. And here I am wishing to do just that. I must be crazy.

 Perhaps my questions will all be answered tonight when we leave. I'm tired of not knowing why we are here and where here is? All I know is that I was born here fifteen years ago, and now finally, after all this time we are leaving, my mother, my grandmother, and me.

 The only drawback is that we must escape our compound at night, when it is dark and none of the guards are out to protect us. My skin begins to crawl with the fear that is ever present. Fear that waits patiently for a break in my armor so that it can wrap itself tightly around me and strangle my desire to leave.

 When it was finally time to go, we stepped out into the darkness beyond our wall. It closed in quickly to swallow us up, refusing to let us go.

 Our little group has others from our compound, but none that I recognize other than Mya and her baby. Our steps are slow and labored. Fear and thick undergrowth slow our progress through the dense woods beyond our compound. Gnarled roots and jagged rocks conspire with the dark to impede progress. Sounds fly by without warning, making my heart jump. I am trying to remember all that I see and hear so that I can write it down later in my journal.

 The night seems darker under the canopy of the trees. I can understand why no one comes out at night. Not if they can help it. The old stories of the forest crowd into my mind. At night, the forest comes alive with things no person ever wants to see. Things that will tear you apart and drag you to the deepest darkest parts where no one ever ventures. Things that used to be human, live in the forest now, they are called the Unnamed.

 I hold on tighter to Gram's hand. Hands that have always held me with love. Hands with twisted fingers and large joints that once taught me to knit. Fun hands that play with me.

 I see Mya trudging through the trees ahead. She is a darker shadow moving through the darkness, the only light comes from the full moon above. Mya is moving quietly while holding her little one to her chest. I am trying to move quietly too. We all are because the forest has ears. My steps are taken with apprehension and fear. Though dangerous, night time is the only time to make this journey.

 During the day, bands of patrols roam the forest to prevent anyone from leaving or from trying to breach the safety of our compound, though I don't know why anyone would want to live in our compound. We are the first and oldest compound. With that honor comes old buildings and outdated tools. We are not a thriving compound. When leaders from other compounds come, they have an air of prosperity about them, their clothes and their looks outshine the gray shabbiness of our own leaders.

 Our first night in the forest, we lost two. They were the older couple I had seen back at the room we had gathered in before leaving. I thought they looked sweet sitting close together and even holding hands. The old man had taken out an apple and sliced it carefully, giving his white haired wife the first slice. They seemed happy and I had wondered why they chose to leave so late in life.

 "Our granddaughter had a baby." The wife told Gram while we were on our long trek away from our compound. She smiled and all her wrinkles came alive. Her eyes were a faded shade of blue and they sparkled with joy at the news she was sharing. Sometimes, we got news from the other compounds. Notes smuggled in by guides, and others that were part of the righteous in title but not in spirit.

 Not long afterwards, a fetid stench permeated the air. Something shuffling through the ground debris could be heard closing in on us. The guide and apprentice became anxious. They told everyone to hide behind some decaying logs on the ground. We hid perfectly still. Unfortunately, the old couple had not been able to hide in time. Knowing they would not make it, the old man positioned his wife with her back to a large tree, then he placed himself in front of her. Between her and the shuffling steps that were almost upon us. As the steps grew closer, a high pitched wheezing could also be heard. At first, I thought it came from the old couple, but soon I realized it came from the veined monsters that dragged themselves out from the trees into our little clearing. Wheezing, shuffling, and reeking of decay, they zeroed in on the old couple's cries. The last thing I saw were red eyes shining through the night, reflecting what light there was. After that, Mother shoved my head back down and I could only hear the terrible sounds that followed. From the screams, I could tell that both husband and wife died a painful death. Bones breaking and flesh squishing could be heard up until the time that the lumbering feet shuffled away from us. Gram would not let me look, but I could tell from the gasps and vomiting of some in our group, that the old couple's fate must have been sickening.

 We’ve been traveling for about seven days now. I count the nights and note them in my journal so I won’t forget. At night, we travel from compound to compound, stopping only at those compounds where we can gain entry. Our guide has made this journey many times before and he knows the compounds that will welcome us and those that will not. Some places let us in for a price that the guide pays from what our group has given him. Sometimes, we sneak into compounds where the guards cannot be bribed. We sneak in through forgotten passages; our entries are made possible by people our guide pays well to let us in. Our guide does not guide us for selfless reasons, he too gets paid well.

 We do not stop at every compound and we only stop for one day. That's when I write. Once night returns, we are on our way again. When we left our compound, we were twenty-two strong, including our guide and his apprentice. Now, only fifteen remain of the original group, but we did gain others along the way. With the new additions we picked up, we are now twenty-five strong, making it difficult for our guide to keep us safely together.

 We lost some of our original group when they chose to stay behind in the compounds that we had taken refuge in; others were lost when the Unnamed tore them savagely from this life. We lost two people the first night. On the second and third nights, we had good luck and were able to avoid any encounters with the Unnamed. On the fifth night, our luck ran out.

 Our group had fallen into a type of complacent routine. A couple of scouts would venture ahead and report back on Unnamed they came across. We would then take a circuitous route to avoid them. Always keeping track of possible hiding places along the way in case we were taken by surprise.

 The fifth night traveling, we ran into trouble. Bad trouble. That night, we lost five.

 We had just left Compound 12, a compound I wouldn't have minded staying at. Though we never ventured out into the compounds we visited, we could sometimes see and hear activities through small openings in the rooms we hid in. The night we arrived in Compound 12, there was a festival going on. Lots of bright lights lit up the sky and sounds of people having fun reached my ears. I wished I could go out to join them, but knew that would put us all in danger of being discovered. So, I settled for eating our simple meal while watching the activities through a sliver of an opening. The wondrous aroma of food wafted in, making me hungrier than ever. The next night, we resumed our nightly trek deeper into the woods. It had become so much of a routine that I hardly felt apprehension anymore. Well, maybe just a little.

 Our guide had called for a break because a lady had stepped between two logs and twisted her ankle. The sleazy man named Hammer was very upset that we had to stop so soon after leaving. He even suggested we leave her behind.

 "She can just go back!" He had yelled out in anger.

 Her companion stood up to confront Hammer. I thought he was going to punch Hammer, but before he could, a sound gurgled through the trees toward us. Along with it, a noxious odor burned down my nose and throat. I knew immediately what it was. The high pitched wheezing confirmed it-the Unnamed were here! Our guide tried to herd us away from the shuffling mob making their way toward us. Mother and Gram grabbed my hands and pulled me after the guide. As we crossed to the side of the forest away from the Unnamed, I saw our group scrambling to get away from the putrid figures stepping out from behind trees. There were so many of them! And behind them, I could see many more pairs of red eyes following.

 Hammer ran past us, almost pushing us down. The man trying to lift the girl with the twisted ankle wasn't so lucky. Hammer rammed him in his hurry to get away. The man fell backwards and hit his head on the ground. I didn't see what he struck, but I know he didn't get up. His friend was calling his name loudly. Her panicked cries turned into shrill screams that were drowned out by other screams rising around me. My breath came in gasps. I thought my throat was going to close off so completely that I would not be able to breathe. Stars started to dot my vision. If it hadn't been for Mother and Gram pulling me along, I don't think I would have made it behind the slope where the group was already hiding among the thick ferns and woody bushes that scratched and pulled at our skin.

 I'm safe now, and writing this down before my eyes close completely from exhaustion. It might be gruesome to relive what happened, but it helps me somehow. Tomorrow, we travel to the last compound. The one we all want to reach-Compound 15.

[Please let me know if this will fit the NoSleep guidelines, I read through them but need a final check. Please feel free to comment about the story content as well, let me know if it needs edits and if it’s NoSleep worthy.]

My Grandfather passed away about 9 months ago. He left his house to my dad, his only child. My grandfather kept almost everything, basically a hoarder but without the trash. Most things he delegated to cluttered storage in the attic, pole barn and basement. We spent many weekends digging through all of his stuff.

Recently, while searching through the attic, we came across some things dating back to the civil war and just after, all things that belonged to my great great grandfather. I never knew he was in any wars, but my dad told me he remembered my grandpa talking about it once or twice.

Looking through his gear and wartime nicknacks we found his leather bound journal. He had written about many of his days as a Private in the United States Army. Honestly some of the passagages in his journal described some pretty unsavory things to say the least. Especially in his time under Cpl. Karrigan during the Indian Wars. So much of his life, that I know of was spent helping and hanging around on the nearby reservation with his best friend Atsa. I could not believe he once was at war with Native American tribes.

The most bizarre entry was the last one in the journal. It's been a few weeks and I can’t stop thinking about it. I decided I had to transcribe it for others to read and to hear if any others had similar stories. Here it is below:

July 1869

We heard of a small Native encampment from a farmer in a town a week back. He said that he thought they might be readying an attack against the town. He sounded mostly unsure but it was all the Corporal needed to hear before giving us the order to march off and find them.

Private Tudor found the encampment last night, they seemed to be having a celebration. We left our supply carts just over the hill to avoid detection and waited until the sun peeked through the cracks of the tall grass. There was no hint of our presence, they were unaware of our incoming ambush.

Corporal Karrigan smiled at us as we lay in a line behind a fallen tree. He raised arm, the orange sunrise glinting off the metal hook that adorned his nub. Dropping his hand we let loose the first volley shredding the quiet tranquility of the land.

I reached into my pouch and tore through a packet, that familiar metallic taste of black powder saturated the tip of my tongue. Ram rod already in hand I slipped it smoothly down the barrel before returning it to its home directly under. I placed the firing cap on.

We readied the next volley. Smile, raise, drop, and fire. It was the only time we really saw true joy from the Cpl. We initiated our reload again. Two distinct war cries remained and approached our position. The Cpl. reached his hand out for his repeating rifle. A private placed one in his outstretched palm.

He brought the stock to his shoulder and rested his cheek upon it, he took aim. Silencing the first warrior then the second. He continued to push the lever forward and bring it back, silencing the screams of the fleeing crowd of Indians.

He tossed the rifle down to Pvt. Tudor, arms already extended to receive it. The Cpl. chuckled, “Fix Bayonets.” We followed. “Don’t leave any animals alive.”

The troops walked in step towards the village. Bayonets plunged into those unlucky enough to survive the ambush. I searched the huts for any valuables. I always tried to avoid executions, I hated the noise people made, when they sucked in for that last bit of air but found none.

A group of us laughed from outside my hut, I exited to meet them. The Cpl. and a group of the less kind stood over an older Indian. Blood pooled in the crook of his hip, bullet hole sitting right above his waistline. Eyes closed, he spoke in his native tongue, stringing his words together, long, slow and rhythmic. His head turned, closed eyes staring through lids directly at me. His arm raised loosely, finger extended. His chant grew louder and stopped, “Fate comes,” the Indian said. He removed his pointed finger from me and raised his hands towards the sky palms open, the clouds shifted in front of the sun and wind swept through the village. A chill found its way from the base of my neck through my spine, my hairs to stood upright. I clutched my hat to my head for the gust grew stronger.

The Cpl. did not share in my concern. His attention focused on the man before him. With a disgusted scowl and fired a shot into the man’s temple. His arms flopped to the ground and his body came to rest, slouched into an awkward position.

“Corporal! Looks to be a big storm approaching!” The sky had turned dark as dusk. A faded threatening red hue weaved its way through the clouds as they suppressed all remaining sunlight.

Then the rain came, thick globs sunk into our woolen clothes weighing us down and pooling in our boots.

“We can use one of their huts until this blows over.” said Pvt. Lee.

The Cpl. scoffed at the idea but he knew the decision would be best. “Ready your guns and enter that hut there. We don’t want a repeat of what happened to Private Jacobson.” The Cpl. gestured to the Private being held up by two of his fellow soldiers, blood letting from his shoulder.

We entered the largest hut. It was a dome like structure made of hardened mud and reinforced with logs. Smoldering Embers in the central fire stretched dim light through the room, pushing uncanny shadows along the curved hut walls. The interior was mostly empty of furniture save for one chair opposite the only entrance and a large chest surrounded by miscellaneous wears and instruments. Blankets and various padding circled the floor around the fire. Woven sticks, twine, and colorful beads dangled from the ceiling. Behind the chair hung a large tapestry, filled with colors. The center of it looked to be a depiction of a bird, wings spread wide and noble.

“Rip that rug down. Lay our injured on it, least we know the filth haven’t been sitting on that one.” the Cpl. ordered.

The hut was relit as the fire was remade, slowly smoke wove its way up through a small chimney. Men hung their soaked overcoats on the decorations strung to the ceiling. Rain slapped hard onto the exterior of the hut, echoing throughout the dome. Wind whipped the ajar door fully open and rain streamed into the hut. It took two men to push the door back closed and latch it shut. Thunder rumbled low and consistent in the sky.

The men grew bored and the storm grew stronger. Many expressed discontentment with the lack of food as we hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Most had already eaten their emergency rations. Pvt. Jacobson groaned softly from the blood damp tapestry.

The Cpl. became tired of the complaining and while snacking on his own rations he said, “If all you’re going to do is whine, go out to the cart and get some food. While you’re at it, bring some for everyone and grab the medical supplies.”

Pvt. Tudor, ever the pleaser, was immediately up to the task. He slithered into the sleeves of his damp overcoat and unlatched the door. It flung open allowing the wind to flood into the room and rain to further fill the puddle formed on the floor. He paused for a moment staring into the gray fog. He held his cap to his head taking a low stance and marched out into the monsoon.

Squelching steps drew off into the distance. Rain blended the outline of his body until he disappeared into the storm. With considerable effort the door was shut again.

The men returned to talking and laughing. Pvt. Lee paced around the room observing the hanging decorations and rugs laden about the floor. Inevitably he found his way to the chest on the far wall and picked up a headdress on the ground beside it. He placed it on his head. He made a mock war cry, mustering some laughs from the group. The Cpl. jokingly aimed his revolver at him. The laughs stifled a bit. The Cpl. held it for a while until the corners of Pvt. Lee's mouth dropped below a smile, skin whitened with apprehension.

Pvt. Lee removed the headdress quickly and refocused his attention on the chest. He opened it and let out a sharp gasp stumbling back, nerves finally taking hold. I hurriedly reached back for my gun as I felt mine do the same.

The Cpl. took aim at the chest, “What’s wrong?”

“Indian!” The private responded.

The Cpl. ran over and sighed, “You pansy it’s just a cub.” He reached into the chest and pulled out a small Native boy, no more than six or seven. He tossed him a few feet onto the ground.

“Any more of yas hiding about,” the Cpl. said. The kid looked confused. Karrigan grew angrier. “Are there more!” he said louder.

The kid cowered down and pointed to the roof of the hut. He spoke in quick frightened bursts, “I nee, I nee.”

“What the hell does that mean? I nee?” He felt the letters in his mouth. “You need? Boy, you are in no such position to make demands.” He raised his revolver.

“Corporal!” a soldier called, worry coating his throat. “Private Tudor’s been gone awful long, it’s only about a hundred feet to the cart. Should be back by now.”

“Reckon there’s more out there?” I said. My voice shook as my mind rifled through the implication, an army of vengeful warriors waiting quietly, deep in the storm. The Cpl. didn’t answer, his face twisted with anger and he forced his teeth together hard.

A tap on the shoulder jolted me from my thoughts. The kid had crawled over while the Corporals attention was momentarily diverted.

“Are there more of you?” I whispered. I signaled with my hand pointing at him then at the door.

The child shook his head back and forth, loseley raising his hand, finger meekly outstretched and said, “I nee.”

My tension laxxed. It took me a moment to think of what the child needed. “Food?” I took some of my rations and slipped it over to the child. His brows raised inquisitively. He paused a moment before taking the food and slowly tearing a bite from the dried meat.

The troop sat for a while eyes on the door waiting for the Privates return. Cpl. Karrigan broke the silence, “Send the cub out, tie a rope to him so he dont run off. Maybe he’ll find Tudor or at least get us some of the supplies we sent him out for in the first place.” He stepped heavily over to the kid and grabbed his arm hard. He pulled out an empty medical kit and pointed at it. “This! Ya go out and grab this.” He tapped it over and over until the kid nodded.

“Tie ‘em up and open the door.” The troops followed and tightly winched the rope around his waist.

The kid could barely approach the door; the wind kept him still. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled out the door muttering some prayer in his native language.

Once again the heavy rain obscured his visage until the rope seemed to simply end in a wall of water and wind. The hut was silent watching the rope shift slowly back and forth in the doorframe.

We sat watching for hours rope moving far to the right then far to the left until the rope stopped moving for many minutes.

Then the rope went slack.

“Ready!” the Cpl. ordered. The hut clamored, aiming our rifles at the open door. My mind brought visions of many tall shadows returning in the child’s stead, roaring with anger and our ruin.

The Private on the rope pulled and it became taut again, then slowly drooped down sinking into the mud puddle at the open door. The Pvt. pulled again. Taut then slack. “He’s coming back,” the private said.

Fifteen minutes passed by when a small shadow appeared in the rain. We hesitated to lower our guns. The child’s details became clearer and he approached the door frame. In one hand he held a med kit and the other a food tin. I let my hammer rest and placed my rifle against the wall.

The Cpl. grabbed the rope and tugged the kid inside, the med kit skittered on the floor and stopped abruptly in the mud. Pvt. Jacobson was flowing in and out of consciousness making very little noise besides uneven, labored breaths. The troops grabbed the kit and quickly went to work on Jacobson.

The kid crawled deeper into the hut and curled up against the nearest wall, cold, wet and exhausted. He looked at me and weakly pointed up. I walked over, removing my knife to cut the rope that had tightened around his waist. Light bits of blood seeping through his waterlogged shirt. He struggled to keep his eyes open until he slipped into sleep.

Men went to close the door again. “Wait,” the Cpl. said, “If the kid made it and no Indians came to save him, it must be pretty safe out there.”

I interrupted, “Corporal. should we fire a flare, it might give Private Tudor the direction to head to get back to us. Maybe let nearby forces know our position if things get too bad.”

“Storms too thick, no one would see it. Someone needs to go out and get him.” He responded. “Private Lee, you seem to be adept at finding people today. Tie up and go out and find Tudor.”

Pvt. Lee parted his mouth but couldn’t summon a protest. It slowly drifted shut and he went to cinch the rope about his waist. He grabbed the laces of his boots and pulled them tight to keep the water out. One step and the boot was submerged in the now deep puddle at the door. He turned towards the Private on the rope, “If I pull three times, start pulling me back.”

He knew it wouldn’t help him if he was attacked, but it must have made him feel better. He turned back to the door and sucked in the humid air, lightning cracked turning the rain into sparkling glass. Followed closely by thunder that rattled the ramrods in our rifles. One final breath he pushed off into the torrent, disappearing into the unknown.

Just as last, the rope shifted back and forth staying taut. Soldiers softly talked to each other all while maintaining constant gaze on the door, noting even the slightest out of place movement in the line.

The rope stopped and the whispers ceased. The cord was still, only bobbing from the wind and water.Then a quick three tugs came. A moment of pause and the tugs on the rope became frantic. The rope began to shift again moving fast towards the right becoming taut and slack intermittently. The men on the rope started pulling back bringing more and more into the hut.

The rope halted, unable to be moved by the soldiers. A tug sent some of the men falling forward, hands burnt as they lost progress on the rope, more men joined but it was of no consequence. It ripped faster and faster through the door frame, shifting higher up in the door darting left and right with great speed.

I ran to help, positioning myself at the front of the rope by the door. I planted my feet and pulled with as much might as musterable. The rope shot to the very top of the frame bending and tearing about it. Past the door the line directed itself straight up into the sky continuing its motion upwards. Rain began to soak my face and coated the abrasions forming in my palms. The rope snaked its way through the soldiers hands until it tore itself from mine and hastily vanished into the great sea above us.

With resistance ripped from my hands I fell to the floor. The door frame stood towering in front of me, giving the nebulous storm beyond it shape. As if an executioner looming. The wind pushed and pulled me, showers drenched my clothes. I felt the storm may take me then.

I stumbled my way across the hut to the furthest corner from the door and plastered myself against the wall.

The men were quiet, all eyes shifted towards the Cpl. He stood in almost perfect stillness, hook trembling, stare held upon the door. He said nothing.

The child was awake, face gripped with fear, “I nee. I nee. I nee.”

The Corporals hate snapped him out of his trance. His eyes were widened and bloodshot, lips parted, a predator showing its teeth. He removed his revolver from the holster and closed in on the frightened child. He wanted to speak but rage kept his words incoherent and growling. He jammed the gun up and under the child’s chin tipping it up, redirecting the flow of the boy’s tears. Karrigans fingers fumbled on the hammer until the found grip and shifted it to full cock.

The child's eyes made their way to mine a penultimate search for mercy. Thunder rumbled deep through my bones, a bystander to the child’s fate. Terror gripped my mind, but my body moved towards action. I shoved my hand outwards breaking the Corporals line of fire, and threw my body into his. The hammer struck the firing cap and the bullet tore through the cemented dirt. The sky matched the Corporals anger bursting forth in a flash of power, opening the roof of the hut and leaving the interior subject to the cyclone.

Hand outstretched I fought the rain to gaze into the sky. The clouds shifted awkwardly, as if a great mass swam through them. It had come to claim us.

Hands trembling from adrenaline and dread I fumbled inside my leather pouch and raised my flare. Pulling the trigger, light shot through the rain up into the clouds, hovering within. The clouds glew orange exposing an immense silhouette. Wings stretched nobly across the sky. It struck them downwards sending wind and thunder with its movement.

It descended from its home above the clouds, lightning flashed in its stead. My eyes closed to accept the end.

Karrigan yelped beside me and a tremendous gust pushed me fully into the ground. On my back I glared into the sky. The shadow moved away and the Corporals screams followed.

The flare had burnt out, the beast slipped into the darkened clouds where the screams stopped. Globs of rain turned warm and thick, it smelled of iron. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene of viscera. We sat on the ground, soaked in blood as the rain continued and washed Karrigan away.

The child took my hand and beckoned me to rise from the mud. He lurched me towards the door confidently and muttered native words in a rhythmic, repeating pattern. Though he was young and meager I felt protected.

We moved through the raging cascade, thunder cracked and lightning provided sporadic illumination. Gunfire rang out from behind us, flashes of powder and hot metal directed up towards the sky. The silhouette descended once more and I looked away. Screams saturating the land behind us.

The child walked steadfast forward, his words cutting through the showers ahead. We passed by the supply wagons, the wind tore wood from nails and scattered all that was inside. The stored cannons ripped from the cart and flew in short bursts through the air. In contrast the thin trees nearby stood as if monoliths. Leaves shifting like the wind were nothing but a spring breeze. The grass bellowed lightly in small ripples.

I pushed with difficulty against the whirlwind and the child moved me along. Water simply streamed down his face as we walked a few miles.

Then it stopped, suddenly and without warning. The calm after the storm.

We continued walking for a while, sun and breeze drying our soaked clothing. Over a hill crest we spotted a large group in formation contrasting heavily against the tall grass fields and sparse trees. They were marching towards us.

I called out to them and they answered back, “Did you fire the flare?”

I told them I had.

“Where’s the rest of your troop?”

“In the storm. We were part of an ambush. I’m the only one left” I said back. Almost fully back to the platoon.

He looked with solemn understanding, although misplaced. He glanced down to the child, “Who’s this you have with you?”

“A kid from a village we passed through.” I said. I tried to keep my answers vague in case the inclinations of this commander were similar to that of my old Corporal.

The child excitedly pointed to the sky and said, “I nee, I nee.”

“Chayton” the commander called out. A uniformed Native stepped forward. “He keeps saying he needs something. Could you figure it out?”

The kid and Chayton exchanged some words. The kid shaking his head back and forth at the end of Chaytons sentences. Again he pointed to the sky and said “I nee.” Chayton laughed and said, “He doesn’t need anything. He’s saying Ii’ni. It’s a Navajo word. The constellation of the Thunderbird said to protect the land and its people from destructive forces. If you saw a storm, it’s common for some to associate them with the Thunderbird. He’s probably just excited about the big storm, thinking the Thunderbird brought it and he got to see it.”

I looked at the kid with his finger still pointing at the sky. I brought my finger up and pointed with him, “Ii’ni” I said. A smile took over his face.

Chayton interrupted, “The Navajo have a truce with us, we can help you take him back to his people.”

The statement snapped me back to before the storm and I fully understood the severity of my actions. We not only attacked a village of a tribe who held a truce with us. We slaughtered a village of innocent people trying, like most everyone else, to live a good, peaceful existence.

Maybe cowardly I was not ready to face judgment, perhaps I already had back in the storm. “Please, you take him back to his people. I still have some things I should do.” I leaned down to the child, “I hope to meet you again, one day.”

I deserved punishment, but I would not receive it just yet. I was spared, for now, and I am left wondering what to do with this second chance. With any hope I’ll know for sure, in time.

TRIGGER WARNING:Mention of Sexual abuse,Mentions of drugs

Transcript of the Interrogation of Tyler Walker(Part 1)

Police:Hello,Tyler,you know why you’re here, right?

Tyler:Because of the disappearance of Mindy Grace?

Police:Yes.We are going to ask you certain question about his disappearance,you don’t have to answer all of them due to the new law

Tyler:I’ll try to answer all of them

Police:Well,(name censored due to the law 143 of our policy and privacy),he saw you talking with Mindy,she gave you something. What was it? What did you talk about?

Tyler:Sorry….but..that’s my privacy sir..

Police:But it could be the key to the disappearance of Mindy…

Tyler:I also want her to come back,she was my friend

Police:Friend?Several witnesses claim that you were in a relationship with her

Tyler:Oh…it was just a cover

Police:Cover? What do you mean?

Tyler:The truth is that Mindy was with(name censored due to the law 143 of our policy and privacy)

Police:(Name censored due to the law 143 of our policy and privacy)?! She was imprisoned because she was caught selling and buying drugs in parties,but she got out,at the moment no one knows where she is

Tyler:(Silence)

Police:Probably Mindy sold the drugs she gave her

(Tyler gets defensive) Tyler:She would never sell drugs!

Police:Why so defensive? Were you a buyer?

Police:Everything makes sense,a witness affirmed have been raped at the party

Tyler:Nobody was raped! I won’t let you lie like that

Police:It’s a hypothesis,relax…

Tyler(Sigh):Are we done?

Police:No.We think you are Mindy Grace’s murderer

Tyler(Shouting):Why me?! Furthermore,they didn’t found her body,possibly she fled as always

Police:In her room we found several puzzles and letters with a strange symbol.It was threatening her in some way,we have not been able to solve the puzzles,but apparently it affected her a lot.You may know this like Blackmail,is the most used term to refer to it

Tyler:See! Another clue that she ran away,it was a very good reason,because she had a stalker

Police:The last message Mindy received it was “You will regret it,stop investigating” That message had the same symbol written with blood and after that message she disappeared,the police found a friendship bracelet that according to her parents she never took off.

Police:We are not looking for Mindy Grace,I think we are actually looking for Mindy Grace’s corpse and you are guilty! You are the only one without and alibi and who knew Mindy Grace very well

Tyler(his voice begins to shake):I’m not the murder..-please sir

(In the last minutes Tyler tried to escape,but is cornered by some guards) ————————————— Observations Hello,I’m Nya and I have been investigating the case of Mindy Grace.Thanks to this transcript many paths are opened,but at the moment I have discovered several things,as you all know Tyler was accused of the homicide of Mindy Grace,although in the reality he is just a fucking rapist,he raped Jack and because of that Jack killed her accidentally due to the anger after he discovered that Mindy sold the drug which he was abused.Now there’s only one unknown.Who was the one sending puzzles and messages to Mindy? What did he want? Maybe he is the real killer of Mindy…. Today I received a package on it was one symbol written in blood the same symbol that it was on the threatening letters that Mindy received.There was something written it said “You will end up like them” Have there been more victims,What does this mean? Whatever it is,I will discover the whole truth even if it is the last thing I do

TW: Self harm (will add flair instead for the nosleep post)

Me and my friend Joseph have been best buddies for years. After a while we stopped counting and would just say 15 years to anyone who asked how long we’ve known each other. He was a new immigrant, shy, small and almost looked malnourished but I approached him nonetheless and quickly realized he wasn’t so different after all.

Over the years we slowly became family, it became the norm for him to rush into my house make a PB&J and rush back out whilst mumbling something about how he forgot to pack lunch, of course his “lunch” was at the same time as my dinner since he started taking the night shift at work but nonetheless I didn’t mind and even my girlfriend became used to it after the fifth or sixth time. Joe and Allison ended up becoming good friends and I still owe him for being my wingman by helping me meet her but enough chit chat, I came here to write down everything in the hopes that it makes it more explainable. Maybe some of you can somehow explain the unexplained.

Since he started the night shift we’ve not had enough time to hang out so we decided to compromise and hold a weekly d&d campaign online between twelve to two AM on every Friday, a mutual friend hosts and on this specific Friday, Joe short for Joseph couldn’t make it so he sent a message. From now on I will use quotes for our texts since that’s where most of this happened.

11:16 AM Joe - “Yo Eli I ended leaving last and my car won’t start, since all of my coworkers have left already imma wait on the security guard, he should be here in like 15 so I’m gonna be late”

Me - “That’s alright I’ll tell Mark” 

Mark is our DM

11:45 Joe -  “Security still not here, doubt I’ll make it in time sorry.”

Me - “Damn that sucks no need to apologize tho we’ll just delay it to tomorrow if everyone has time”

Joe - “ No no don’t do that, this is the perfect opportunity for Allison to hop in the campaign as like a side character or something, it’s about time you let your girlfriend play”

Me - ”Fine fine you’re right I’ll help her with the character sheet now” message failed to send - try again?

Weird but not out of the ordinary I simply clicked try again and when that failed I tried sending the same message to no avail, after a couple of attempts I decided to give up and try later.

12:15 AM Joe -  “Hey man sorry to interrupt you guys but could one of you come pick me up? I would walk to the train station but not only is it snowing but I don’t think I’d even get there in time before the last train”

Me - “Yeah I’ll be there, just send me the address I only have your old warehouse saved on here not the new one” message failed to send - try again?

This is when I started to really get confused, how come I could get his messages but he can’t get mine. I called him but my call went straight to voicemail, he didn’t even have a recording of himself telling me to talk after the beep, after all I was one of his few friends and he practically never left a call unanswered or didn’t call back in less than an hour but this? This was out of the ordinary and it made me uneasy thinking of all the possibilities. ‘’His phone must’ve died I kept telling myself’’ but either-way I put on some clothes and just sat on my couch leaving my friend's d&d campaign, awaiting his next message.

12:16 AM  Joe -  “Yoooo? Why won’t you pick up? Nobody else is answering me either, that’s what I get for taking up the night shift but hey at-least the forklifts are now fully charged so I’m just gonna head inside and kill some time by cleaning the shelves and who knows maybe I’ll even accidentally trip the alarm and wake that security guards ass up”

At this point I was panicking, thoughts rushing through my head, none of which made the slightest bit of sense, I swear it felt like putting on my clothes and typing that message to him took way longer than a minute and yet I received the message 12:16 , I had to do something so I called his dad who answered grumbling and clearly on the verge of falling asleep, I didn’t want to worry him so I told him that Joe’s phone was dead and that he asked me to pick him up but I didn’t know where he worked. Fortunately his dad knew the address and gave it to me, god I was so panicked and shaken that I nearly let the address slip out of my mind before I even started the car, thoughts were rushing in and out of my brain and I felt scattered. I hadn’t even noticed the twenty something messages sent by him in the past 5 minutes.

12:18 AM Joe -  “ dude this warehouse is terrifying without all the whirring and grinding of the machinery, I would put on my headphones but I’m scared I’m gonna miss the guard getting in and in turn miss my ride. The alarm didn’t trip after all so he must still be on his way to turn on the security system. “

12:18 AM Joe - “ I just tried calling everyone on my contact list and literally no one answered, my service is fine and I still have minutes, oddly enough you seem to be the only person my messages get through to and you’re probably just in a drunk stupor. Damn it Eli pick up the damn phone”

12:18 AM Joe - “hey man, I’m tripping or something, maybe it’s just sleep deprivation? Honestly I’ve been in here for hours past my shift now and I was already sleep deprived going into the shift, at least the sun should come up soon and the day shift can let me out”

12:18 AM Joe - “I can’t get out, the doors are locked, IM LOCKED IN. Fuck it I’m breaking a window, what type of dumbass security locks the doors and doesn’t turn on the alarm system. Shouldn’t it be bright outside by now? These fluorescent lights are getting on my nerves”

12:18 AM Joe -  “windows won’t break but I think my hand did, I really want to sleep but I can’t seem to even though the sleep deprivation is getting bad like real bad like I keep hallucinating figures in my peripheral but every time I look at them they duck and weave out of my vision in the blink of an eye, sometimes I swear that they get closer if they stay in the corner of my eye for long enough.”

12:18 AM Joe -  “the figures are not figures, it’s Allison. I think she’s smiling at me.”

12:18 AM Joe -  “Have you ever thought about how you guys got together? I do. Almost everyday I ask myself why in the hell I let you have her, I clearly hit it off with her, we had a lot in common and she was having a great time with me when I and only I approached her. YOU weren’t man enough to talk to her. Hell you were still mourning your shitty toxic relationship with your Highschool sweetheart and I got to pay for it. I’ll be honest. It's also my bad for not telling you just how much I loved talking to her but what was I supposed to do when you wouldn’t shut the hell up about your ex. I thought I’d tell you this because it’s been days and clearly no one is coming for me. I've been keeping Allison away by looking at her every time she tries to approach me in my peripheral but I’ve decided to let her get close now. I can tell it’s not really her but it’s as close as I’ll ever get to her. Tell her I said hi.”

I didn’t read these messages at the time, I was too busy keeping my eye on the dark and icy road. I slammed my foot on the gas when I got to the highway and I was there in 15 minutes, the digital clock in my car reading 12:33 AM. Just like he said his car was the only one in the parking lot, oddly enough it was snowed in by now so either a blizzard hit this lone parking space or the car’s been here longer than a just a day. I walked up to the warehouse and clicked the big red emergency call button and explained my situation to the guard on the other line who was already inside the building but he got outside the warmth and comfort of the break room to assure me that he would know if someone was inside since the alarm would be tripped by any movement on the warehouse floor. 

I think the guard saw my fear and worry, he looked at me like I was deluded but let me inside nonetheless. I checked every corner, nook and cranny to no avail and on my way back to the car is when I did read the messages. I did what any sensible person would do and I called the cops who unlike the guard were of no use whatsoever, they kept telling me that his messages were probably some weird prank or a way for him to avoid our “game” they kept telling me that since his messages were proof that he was alive they wouldn’t even be able to legally initiate a welfare check and so I decided to do it myself and drove over to his apartment.

When I got there I started with knocking first then forcefully pulling and pushing with all my might and before I knew it I was slamming my full body weight into his apartment door, it wouldn’t give. His neighbors came out and the gentleman was yelling at me, asking if I knew what time it was but when his wife came out she looked at me with pity, I didn’t understand why at first but I guess I was too focused on imagining Joe opening the door and telling me this was all some sick joke to notice the tears running down my cheeks. The lady asked me what was wrong and I simply said that I was worried for my friend, she asked if I checked under the doormat and I hadn’t, so I did and low and behold there was his key. I knew the second the door opened that something was horribly wrong, the stench hit me before I’d even noticed the shadow on the wall of his legs dangling lifelessly next to the turned on tv. 

The cops told me he must’ve been dead for at least two days and I was shattered. I told Allison about what happened but didn’t mention his text messages out of fear that I would somehow disparage his suicide by making him look insane. She took it worse than me, way worse. They were always such good friends, I guess some part of both of them had at some point wished that they were more than just that.

Allison and I broke up months ago when this occurred and I had nearly forgotten about the horrors of what happened until I got this text message from Allison.

2:38 PM - Allison “Hey, how you holding up? Thought I’d check in on you because honestly it’s been really tough on me and so it must be tough for you too. I miss him, sometimes late at night when I’m right at the edge of sleep I can nearly see him in the corner of my eye watching me.”

I decided to get into genealogy when the rest of my family did.

It started with my mother. She had always been curious about her origins, being adopted and never knowing much about her biological parents. One day, she bought herself a DNA test kit, hoping to find family ties we didn’t know existed. I remember watching her as she carefully packed away the sample, excitement bubbling under her usual calm exterior. For her, this was more than just a hobby—it was about answering questions she’d carried with her all her life.

When the results came back, they gave her something she hadn’t known she was missing—a sense of comfort, of belonging. She’d always been grateful for her adoptive parents. They gave her a comfortable, happy childhood, and she’d never felt unloved. But there was something about connecting the dots of your lineage that had its own kind of satisfaction. Knowing who you came from, what they were like, it anchored her in a way I hadn’t expected.

My life wasn’t quite the same mystery. I knew both of my biological parents, and we had a pretty clear understanding of our family tree, or so I thought. But something about the way my mother lit up, piecing together fragments of her past, made me wonder if there was more to uncover. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to give it a shot as well.

I managed to convince my brother to join me in the genealogy deep dive, though he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. He had this weird thing about sending his DNA to a lab, muttering about how it was going to end up in some database, sold to the highest bidder. I remember him going on about giant companies selling his genetic information for “God knows what.” He joked about waking up one day to find some creepy clone of him wandering around.

I, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. I mean, sure, privacy is important, but I figured we had bigger problems in the world than worrying about some lab tech messing with my DNA. It’s not like it’s tied to my Social Security number or anything... right?

Months passed without much thought. My mother continued to obsess over her family tree, filling out branches that had been blank for decades. It became a project for her—a way to honor the past she hadn’t been able to touch before. Meanwhile, my brother and I let the whole thing fade into the background. 

Then, one morning, an email from the genealogy site hit my inbox. My results were ready. I logged in, not really expecting anything out of the ordinary, but curiosity pushed me through the sign-in process. 

As expected, the usual suspects showed up. My brother, of course, despite all his paranoia. My parents, my aunts, uncles, grandparents—a handful of cousins I barely kept in touch with. Some of the profiles had been filled in by other users on the site. My mother, naturally, seemed to have gotten everyone roped into her genealogy obsession. 

There were also a few distant relatives I didn’t recognize. Some names had a faint, familiar ring to them, but most were complete strangers. Still, nothing shocking. What caught my eye, though, were the names under my mother's biological family—the ones we had never known about before. My biological grandparents were listed there, confirmed by the DNA match, but both had passed away several years ago. 

I wasn’t sure why, but seeing their names, people I’d never met yet shared a connection with, felt strange. Like suddenly there was a gap in my life that I hadn’t known existed.

While scrolling through the matches, one name caught my eye—a second cousin on my mother’s side named Roger. I didn’t recognize it, but that wasn’t surprising since this whole branch of the family was still a mystery to us. For anyone unfamiliar with genealogy, a second cousin is the grandchild of a grand uncle or aunt, so Roger would have been connected to my mother’s biological family—people we had never known about until recently.

His profile wasn’t fully filled out, which was odd considering most people on the site at least had basic information like birth years or locations. But one thing stood out clearly: Roger was alone. His side of the family tree had no other surviving members, just a series of names that faded into the past, marked with dates of death. All the other relatives on my mother’s biological side were deceased.

It was unsettling to see that out of an entire branch of the family, this one person was all that was left. My mother had gone into this journey hoping to connect with relatives she had never known, and now it seemed that there wasn’t much family left to meet. So much for her dream of reuniting with long-lost relatives. 

But at least she was happy, knowing where she came from, even if the connections she had hoped for were more distant than she imagined. Roger, though—a lone name among the dead—lingered in my mind. Something about it stuck with me.

Roger and I were on the same level of descendants, meaning he was probably around my age. It felt strange to think that I might have a second cousin out there who I’d never met, someone who shared a bloodline with me but was, in every other sense, a stranger. 

Curiosity got the better of me, and I figured I’d reach out. According to his profile, Roger hadn’t logged in for a few years, but I thought it was worth a shot anyway. Maybe he didn’t know about the new matches, or maybe he’d just lost interest in genealogy over time.

I spent a while crafting a message. I didn’t want to come off as too pushy or make it weird. I explained my mother’s situation—that she had been adopted and, after finding her biological family, had convinced the rest of us to join her on this website. I mentioned that we were probably second cousins, and though we’d never met, it might be fun to chat about shared interests, work, and other small talk. You know, family stuff. Even if we had never crossed paths before, we were connected by blood, and that had to count for something.

To make things easier, I included my personal email in case he didn’t want to bother logging back into the site. Maybe he didn’t even use it anymore, I thought, so this might give him a simpler way to respond. 

After one last read-through, I hit send and felt a little spark of excitement. Maybe this was the beginning of something interesting, a chance to connect with someone who shared a part of the family history I didn’t even know existed until recently. I wasn’t expecting too much, but still, it felt like a step forward.

Then… silence. 

Months passed, and I never heard anything back from Roger. At first, I figured he was just busy or didn’t check the site anymore. After all, his profile had been inactive for years when I found it. Over time, I paid it little mind, brushing it off as just another dead end in the process. I had done my part, and if he wanted to get in touch, he would.

Just like Roger, our family’s interest in the genealogy website faded over time. What had started as a fun dive into the unknown slowly fizzled out once we’d learned what could be gleaned from it. It had its moment, but like most fads, it didn’t last, and eventually, we all stopped logging in. The family tree was built, the questions were answered, and that was that.

By the time April came around, spring was in full swing. My mother, always the social butterfly, decided it was time for a big family get-together. Not just our immediate family either—she convinced my father to host a gathering for our aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole extended clan. It had been a while since we’d all come together, and she was determined to make it happen.

My parents still lived on the same 10-acre plot of land in the country, the house my brother and I had grown up in. Nothing much had changed over the years. My father still had his barn, which was more of a storage space for his collection of tools and machinery than anything else. The tractor he hadn’t touched in years still sat there, gathering dust but somehow still a point of pride for him.

My mother kept herself busy with her garden, which was in full bloom by spring, and a small pen of three chickens that she used for eggs. It wasn’t a farm, exactly, but it kept her occupied and content. Every time I visited, she made sure to give me a tour of her plants and the chickens, like it was the first time I’d seen them.

I lived about 40 minutes away, closer to civilization and closer to work. The drive was easy enough, and I made it regularly, but the place always felt like a snapshot of my childhood—a place where everything stayed the same, even though life had moved on. Going back for family gatherings always stirred up a mix of nostalgia and distance, but this time, with the whole family expected to be there, it promised to be a bigger affair than usual.

I arrived a little later than planned, pulling up to my parents' house to find dozens of cars already lined up along the gravel driveway and the grass on the side of the road. It looked like I was one of the last to show up, but that wasn’t too surprising—I had hit some traffic on the way over. The house felt just as familiar as ever, but with all the cars and people milling about, it seemed more alive than usual.

Out back, my dad had set up tables and chairs near my mom’s garden and the chicken pen. He’d even dragged out a couple of old fold-out tables, their legs wobbling slightly on the uneven ground. People were already seated, chatting in little groups, their voices carrying across the yard in a constant hum of conversation. The smell of grilled meat wafted through the air, and for a moment, I was reminded of summer cookouts from my childhood.

My mom spotted me almost as soon as I stepped out of the car. She made a beeline toward me, a wide smile on her face, and pulled me into one of her trademark hugs—the kind that was warm and a little too tight but always made you feel like you were home. She kissed me on the cheek, patting my arm like she hadn’t seen me in years. 

“I’m so glad you made it!” she said, her voice filled with excitement. “Everyone’s here!”

My dad followed behind her, more reserved but just as happy to see me. He extended his hand for a handshake, his grip firm as always, but before I could pull away, he pulled me into a quick hug, clapping me on the back. “Good to see you, son,” he said, his voice steady, as if he hadn’t been waiting all day for me to show up. But I knew he had.

I made my way through the backyard, mingling with family as I went. My aunts and uncles were scattered around, laughing and catching up like it hadn’t been months since the last time we all got together. They welcomed me into their conversations, asking about work, life, and when I was going to “settle down.” The usual stuff.

Then there were my cousins, people I used to hang out with all the time as a kid but barely saw anymore. Back then, we spent our summers running wild on this very property, playing tag in the fields and building makeshift forts out of old wood my dad had stored in the barn. But now, with work and life taking over, we rarely had the chance to connect. Still, seeing them brought back those memories, and for a while, it felt like old times as we shared stories and laughed about things that seemed so far away from the present.

The truth was, these big family gatherings felt a little distant to me now. The only people I really kept in touch with were my parents and my brother. Life had gotten busy, and the ties that used to feel strong had loosened over time. I wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point, I’d just drifted from everyone else. The big cousin group I used to hang out with? We’d barely exchanged more than pleasantries at these events anymore. 

Not long after I arrived, my brother showed up with his family in tow. His two boys, my nephews, spotted me as soon as they hopped out of the car. They ran over with the kind of boundless energy only kids seem to have, giving me quick, enthusiastic hugs before darting off to join the other kids running around in the yard.

“Good to see you, man,” my brother said, walking up with his wife by his side. We hugged briefly, and then fell into the usual conversation. 

We found a spot by the grill, where the scent of sizzling burgers filled the air. With our drinks in hand, we started catching up. I told him about my job—how I’d been stuck in spreadsheets all day long, losing myself in numbers and data. It wasn’t the most exciting gig, but it paid the bills. He gave me a sympathetic nod but didn’t seem too surprised. He knew my work had taken over most of my time.

He told me about his sales job, how the company was doing well and how he’d been hitting his targets consistently. “Pays the bills, keeps the kids fed,” he said with a grin. “Not much more you can ask for these days, right?”

Our conversation drifted toward nostalgia, as it often did when we had a rare moment to talk without distractions. We reminisced about the days when we used to play Dungeons and Dragons together—late nights rolling dice around the kitchen table, getting lost in imaginary worlds. And, of course, we talked about the time we spent in our old World of Warcraft guild, raiding dungeons and staying up way too late on school nights. For a moment, we both wished we could go back to those simpler times, when the biggest worries we had were gear drops and dungeon bosses. 

“Man, those were the days,” he said, shaking his head with a smile. “No real responsibilities. Just games and good times.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, staring out at the field where the kids were playing. “Sometimes I wish we could hit pause and go back, even just for a little while.”

He smiled at that, but then he glanced over at his wife, who was chatting with our mom, and at his kids, who were laughing with the others. “Yeah, but… I wouldn’t trade this for the world,” he said softly, nodding toward them. “As much as I miss those days, I’m thankful for what I’ve got now.”

I smiled, understanding. Life had changed, and while things were more complicated now, there was beauty in it too. Maybe I didn’t have kids of my own, but I could see the fulfillment my brother had in his. It made me wonder if there was a part of my life I was missing.

A little while later, my mother pulled me aside, her face lit up with the same excitement she always had when she wanted to show me something new. "Come on, I have to show you the apiary!" she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. I couldn’t help but smile—my mom never did anything halfway.

We walked across the yard, past her blooming garden, to a small corner of the property where she had set up a few beehives. "Italian honey bees," she announced proudly. "They’re the best for pollinating gardens. Did you know they can visit up to 5,000 flowers in a single day?" She was on a roll, rattling off facts about how these bees were more docile than other types and how fast they were producing honey. She even started embellishing a little, as she often did when she was really into something. "You know, bees communicate by dancing. It’s called the waggle dance! They can tell each other exactly where to find flowers with that."

I nodded along, throwing in the occasional, "That’s great, Mom," or "Wow, really?" But honestly, I was only halfway paying attention. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and instinctively, I pulled it out to check. I saw an email notification pop up on the screen.

"Sorry, Mom, just a second," I said, holding up a hand. "I just need to make sure it’s not something important for work."

She gave me a quick, understanding nod, though I could tell she was eager to keep talking about her bees. As she continued discussing how the bees were already working her garden, I glanced down at my phone and opened the email, apologizing quietly again for the interruption.

It wasn’t a work email. The sender’s address was just a string of random numbers and letters, almost like someone had smashed their hands on a keyboard. The domain it came from was just as nonsensical. No subject line, nothing to give away what it was about—just the cold, empty blank of an anonymous message. 

What really caught my attention, though, were the attachments. Against my better judgment, I tapped on the first one.

It was a picture of me, taken just moments earlier. I was standing by my car, the same car that was now parked in my parents’ driveway. My heart skipped a beat. I quickly swiped to the next image—another picture of me, this time greeting my parents in the backyard. The next one was of me crouching down to hug my nephews, their faces blurred as they darted away to play with the other kids. Then, another. This one showed me standing by the grill, talking with my brother, our drinks in hand, mid-conversation.

Every photo was taken from a distance, but it was clear that whoever had snapped them had been watching. I kept scrolling, my fingers shaking slightly as each new image brought a fresh wave of dread. How long had someone been out there? How had they known I was here today?

I felt the blood drain from my face, and my stomach churned as I flipped through the pictures. A part of me wanted to believe it was some sick joke, but the pit in my gut told me otherwise. This wasn’t a prank. Someone had been watching me, and they wanted me to know it.

"Hey, is everything okay?" my mother asked, her voice snapping me back to the present. I must have looked pale as a ghost because her eyes were filled with concern. I tried to respond, but I couldn’t find the words. I just stood there, staring at the screen, dumbstruck.

Was this a joke?

A sudden, piercing scream cut through the chatter, freezing everyone in place. It came from near the chicken coop. My aunt. Her voice was shrill, full of panic, and within seconds, all heads turned in that direction.

I followed the others, my legs moving on instinct as I shoved my phone into my pocket. People were already gathering around the small pen, my mom pushing through the crowd, her face contorted with worry.

Then I saw it.

All three of the chickens were sprawled in the straw, their bodies still, their feathers matted with blood. Each of their throats had been cleanly slit, their bodies limp, blood soaking into the straw below them. The air seemed to hang heavy with the coppery scent of death. My mother gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. She had loved those chickens—fussed over them like they were her pets. Now, they lay butchered in their pen, their tiny lives snuffed out in the most violent way.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I could hear my aunts and cousins murmuring in confusion, some of them crying, others backing away from the grim sight. My father was already inspecting the coop, looking for signs of what could’ve done this. But no fox or raccoon would’ve left them like this—this was deliberate. Someone had done this.

I felt a sinking weight settle in my stomach. It wasn’t just the dead chickens that disturbed me—it was the timing. I had just received those photos, moments before this happened.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers clumsy as I pulled it back out, praying that what I had seen wasn’t real. But as I looked down, my heart skipped a beat.

The email was still there, staring back at me. Below the string of random numbers and letters, in the body of the message, were five simple words:

"It’s nice to see family."

I stood there, feeling the world tilt around me, trying to piece everything together.

The yard erupted into chaos. My aunts and uncles scrambled to usher the children inside, doing their best to shield them from the grisly sight. Some of the kids were confused, asking questions in nervous tones, while others started crying once they realized something was wrong. The adults tried to keep it together, voices hushed but frantic as they worked to keep the panic from spreading. 

My mother was beside herself, tears streaming down her face as she stood frozen, staring at the covered chicken pen in disbelief. "Who would do this?" she kept asking, her voice shaky and broken. "Why would anyone do this?"

I put an arm around her, trying to calm her down, but her hands were trembling too much to even hold onto me. "Mom, it’s okay," I whispered, though I wasn’t even sure I believed that myself. "We’ll figure it out. Dad’s handling it."

Meanwhile, my father had grabbed a tarp from his garage and draped it over the chicken pen, hiding the grisly scene. He worked quickly, his face grim and determined. I could tell he was upset, but he wasn’t letting it show—not yet, not in front of everyone. For now, the goal was to keep the peace and let people get back to the gathering without worrying about what had just happened. At least until they left.

But I couldn’t let it go. I had to tell them what I knew. 

Once most of the kids were inside and the commotion had died down a bit, I pulled my parents and my brother aside, away from the others. I hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. Then, without saying anything, I showed them my phone, flipping it open to the email with the photos. The pictures of me arriving. The pictures of me greeting my parents. The pictures of me playing with my nephews, laughing with my brother. I watched as their faces turned pale, the realization sinking in.

“I think whoever sent these took the pictures from over there.” I pointed off the property, toward the treeline that lined the back of my parents’ land. There was something dark and ominous about it now. “I didn’t notice anything at first, but the angle… it has to be from that direction.”

They were silent, eyes flicking between me and the treeline. 

“There’s something else,” I continued, my voice lower, almost hesitant to say it out loud. “You remember Roger, the second cousin I found on the genealogy website? I reached out to him months ago... but I never heard back. He’s the only living relative on Mom’s biological side. It could be a coincidence, but I don’t think so.”

My mother wiped her tears, confused. "What are you saying?"

I took a deep breath. “I’m saying... unless someone in our family decided to play a sick joke, which doesn’t make sense—none of us would do something like this—then... it might be Roger. He’s the only one we don’t know.” 

My brother shook his head slowly, the disbelief clear on his face. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would he do something like this? I mean, he didn’t even respond to you.”

“I don’t know,” I said, swallowing hard, the words catching in my throat. “But whoever sent this knows us. They’ve been watching.” 

We all stood there in heavy silence, the weight of the situation settling over us like a dark cloud.

My mother looked like she might collapse, her face pale and her hands trembling as she stared at the email on my phone. She had gone quiet, processing what I had just said about Roger, about the photos, about everything. My father, seeing the state she was in, didn’t waste any time. He immediately pulled out his phone and started dialing the police, his jaw clenched tight. He walked a few steps away as he spoke to the dispatcher, explaining that something strange was going on, that someone had been watching us.

I turned to my brother, but before I could say anything, he was already shaking his head. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “I told you I didn’t trust that genealogy site. Putting our DNA, our family out there... it’s like handing over your entire life to strangers.”

His words hit me like a slap, and I could feel the frustration bubbling up inside me. “You think I wanted this?” I snapped, trying to keep my voice down but failing. “How was I supposed to predict this? I was just trying to help Mom find her family—none of us thought it would lead to this.”

He was angry, and so was I, but before we could say anything else, he turned away from me and started gathering his family. “I’m taking them home,” he said, his voice colder than I’d heard in a long time. “This is too much for my kids. They didn’t see the chickens, and I’m not letting them get dragged into this mess or questioned by the police. Call us if you need anything, but we’re leaving.”

My mother looked at him, panic flickering in her eyes. “Please, don’t go,” she said, her voice shaky. “We’re all scared, but we need to stick together.”

“I get that, Mom,” he said, softening for a moment as he put a hand on her shoulder. “But I’ve got to think about them,” he added, nodding toward his wife and kids, who were already heading to the car. “This is just... it’s too much.”

My father had finished his call with the police, and he walked over just in time to hear my brother say he was leaving. “You don’t have to go,” he said, his voice firm but pleading. “We can handle this together.”

But my brother was already set. “No, Dad. I’m sorry, but I can’t risk this with my family.”

I stood there, watching helplessly as my brother ushered his wife and kids into the car. He gave me a quick, curt nod before sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. Without another word, they pulled away, the car kicking up dust as they disappeared down the long driveway. 

The silence after they left was deafening. My parents stood there, looking smaller somehow, like the weight of everything was finally sinking in. We were left to face whatever this was, and I wasn’t sure how to make sense of any of it.

The police arrived about twenty minutes later, their flashing lights cutting through the fading daylight as they pulled up to the house. Two officers stepped out of their car, their expressions serious as they made their way over to us. My father met them first, shaking their hands and leading them toward the chicken coop. The rest of us hovered nearby, waiting for some sort of direction, but it was clear that none of us knew what to expect.

They moved methodically, walking around the coop and the perimeter of the yard, looking for any sign of an intruder. They checked the treeline where I thought the photos had been taken, but after a while, they came back empty-handed. “No footprints, no sign of anyone,” one of the officers said, glancing at his partner. “If someone was out here, they didn’t leave much behind.”

Frustration welled up inside me. Whoever did this had to have been watching us—they had taken photos, they had killed the chickens, but there was nothing to go on. It felt like a dead end.

I pulled out my phone again, showing the officers the email I had received. “This is what I got,” I said, handing it over. “The sender’s address is just a random string of letters and numbers, and it came with these photos. They were taken right here, today, while we were all outside.” I scrolled through the pictures, one by one, letting the officers see each one.

The officers exchanged a look before turning back to me. “And you said this started after you reached out to a relative on a genealogy website?” one of them asked.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Months ago. His name is Roger—he’s the only living relative on my mom’s biological side. I never heard back from him, though, and now... this.” I gestured to the phone and then the coop, feeling helpless.

The officers took down everything I told them, writing notes and asking follow-up questions about the email and the website. “We’ll try to trace the email and see where it leads,” one of them said. “It might take some time, but we’ll do what we can.”

They moved on to questioning the rest of my family, going through each relative, asking if anyone had seen anything unusual that day. But it was the same story from everyone—no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. The only thing that had drawn attention was the scream from my aunt when she discovered the chickens.

I could see the officers getting frustrated too. It was like the intruder had left no trace, no sign they had even been there, apart from the pictures and the blood-soaked straw beneath the tarp-covered coop.

As they wrapped up their questioning, I felt a gnawing sense of unease settle deeper in my gut. Whoever did this had been watching us—watching me. And now, we had no idea who it was or when they might come back.

The aunt who had screamed was my mother’s sister, the same one who had helped her incubate and hatch those chickens just a few months earlier. They’d worked together to raise them, nurturing them like pets. For my mom, losing them like this wasn’t just an act of cruelty—it was personal. She stood by the coop, still visibly shaken, leaning on my dad for support as the police finished up.

Most of the family had already left by the time the sun started dipping below the horizon. My brother had been gone for a while, and now my aunts, uncles, and cousins were beginning to trickle out one by one, all of them casting nervous glances toward the treeline as they made their way to their cars. I lingered, wanting to stay behind to help and make sure everything was in order before I left.

After the police had taken their final notes and left the scene, it was just me, my parents, and the empty yard. My father and I set about cleaning up the mess. We wrapped the remains of the chickens carefully, trying to be as respectful as possible, though it felt like a grim task. My mother watched from a distance, still in shock, her eyes hollow as she stared at the pen that now stood lifeless.

Once the chickens were taken care of, I spent the next hour or so trying to reassure her, telling her over and over again that everything would be alright. “The police are on it, Mom,” I said, rubbing her back as we sat on the porch. “They’ll find whoever did this. It’ll be okay.”

She nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced. And truth be told, neither was I. The words I was saying felt empty, hollow. How could I reassure her when I was terrified myself? My stomach was twisted in knots, my mind racing with every worst-case scenario. Whoever had done this had been close—watching us, taking pictures, waiting for the right moment. And the police hadn’t found anything, no sign of them. It felt like we were just waiting for the next move, blind to where it might come from.

But I couldn’t let my mom see how scared I was. So, I stayed as long as I could, sticking close to her and doing my best to offer comfort, even if it was only surface-level. When it was finally time to go, I hugged her tight, promising to check in tomorrow and reminding her to lock the doors. I got into my car and drove away, glancing nervously in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. 

The entire drive home, my heart pounded in my chest, and the email’s words echoed in my head: It’s nice to see family.

Even though I had tried to reassure her, I was scared to my core. Every word of comfort I’d offered my mom felt like a lie, a desperate attempt to mask the growing dread that was gnawing at me. As I drove home, the familiar winding country road seemed darker than usual, the trees on either side casting long shadows across the pavement. My mind kept replaying the events of the day—the dead chickens, the photos, that chilling email. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was still watching, lurking just out of sight.

About halfway home, my phone buzzed again, jolting me from my thoughts. I instinctively reached for it, my hand trembling as I unlocked the screen. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the notification.

Another email.

Like the first one, the sender was a string of random characters, impossible to trace. My pulse quickened, and my stomach churned as I stared at the message.

Drive safe.

That was all it said. Two words, but they were enough to send a cold wave of terror washing over me. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked up from the screen, scanning the empty road ahead. My headlights cut through the darkness, but everything beyond that was shrouded in shadow.

Whoever had sent the email—whoever had killed those chickens, taken those pictures—they were still watching. They knew where I was, what I was doing, and now, they were reaching out again, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. 

I swallowed hard, my hands tightening on the steering wheel as I glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no cars trailing behind me, no figures hiding in the trees. But it didn’t matter. The feeling of being watched clung to me, suffocating in its intensity.

My mind raced. Had they followed me from my parents’ house? Were they out there now, just beyond the reach of my headlights, waiting for the next moment to strike? My stomach twisted with fear, and I found myself driving faster, desperate to reach the safety of home.

I wanted to pull over, to stop and catch my breath, but the thought of being stranded out here, alone on the dark road, was worse. I kept driving, every sense on high alert, my heart thudding in my ears. I needed to get home. I needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere with locked doors and walls between me and whoever this was.

As I neared the edge of town, the lights of civilization finally flickered on the horizon, but the fear didn’t ease. Not really. The message haunted me. Drive safe. It wasn’t a threat, but it was worse somehow—it was a reminder that they were always there, always watching, and that no matter where I went, I wasn’t beyond their reach.

I pulled into my driveway, parking quickly and rushing inside, locking the door behind me the second I stepped through. I leaned against it, breathing hard, my mind still reeling. I checked the windows, turned on every light, but no amount of reassurance could stop the cold knot of fear tightening in my chest.

I glanced at my phone one last time, the screen still glowing with the words that had shaken me to my core. Drive safe.

For the first time, I realized that safety was no longer something I could take for granted. Not anymore. Whoever this was—they weren’t done. And I had no idea what they were planning next.

Hi, I just posted last night my first ever post. It was removed due to the "no incomplete stories" rule on nosleep. The rule makes sense, and my post, as far as I can tell, conforms to the rule. If anyone could help suggest what changes I can make for it to better suit this rule and maybe make it more concise, I would really appreciate it. Of course any other critique is welcome too. Thanks!

"My mom has always been great. My father died when I was little, and ever since then, it always felt like my mom was constantly doing something at home, always cleaning or cooking or dusting or decorating, like she was practically in two places at once. So when she called to ask me to come home and take care of the dogs for a week while she was away, I was obliged to say yes. I was excited to come home, eager to see my old pets. 

Unfortunately, due to my work schedule and the timing of her flights, I wasn’t able to see her when I arrived home. She just left a key under the doormat and a usual note typical of a mom making lunch for her small kid. Walking inside, I felt a warmth wash over my mind and body, both literally and emotionally with the weight of being home after a long time away. The first day being home was fun. Wandering around the halls and rooms of our large home reminiscing of time well spent, and playing with my two dogs, Steely and Dan.

Once night had fallen, I did a final walk around the house, making sure all the doors were locked. At my mother’s request, I put both Steely and Dan in their respective cages in the living room, and I turned out all the lights. I walked down the long hallway of family photos to the two doors at the end that split into my room and my brother’s room, separated by just a thin wall. My bedroom is painted with bright green walls and covered in old posters for movies I liked as a kid, with all my old clothes and toys still in my closet, with its two swinging doors hanging open. 

When I was a child, I had a very active imagination. I would see and hear things that weren’t really there. I was often terrified to walk through my house or my backyard at night, fearing what may rest just beyond my vision. If you had asked my mom, she would have attributed my temperament to the ghost shows I’d watch on TV when I was little. 

There are a couple memories that stand out to me in particular. One night when I was seven or eight, I had a vivid nightmare. In the dream, I woke up in my bed in the middle of the night, and I got up and crept into the hallway, trying to be quiet, sneaking on my tippy-toes, hoping that my mom wouldn’t catch me up past bedtime. I wandered into the living room, the floorboards creaking and groaning under my weight. The only light came from a lamp sitting in the corner of the room, casting long shadows that spread across the room like dark fingers. The house opens into a large dining room and kitchen area from there, and I wandered to the dining table. The door to the backyard is along the back wall of the dining area, and it was completely gone, opening a wide hole in the wall that displayed the large, dark expanse of the backyard.

My house is built on a hill in which the front of the house is level with the ground and the back of the house is elevated off the ground, creating a large crawl space underneath, and a wooden deck right at the entrance of the backyard. I walked to where the door should be and took a step outside onto the wooden deck. At that moment, I felt the cold night air hit me like a truck and a large groan from under my feet expelled from the wood as I put my weight on it. I looked down at the deck, unsure as to where the groaning sound originated. My eyes focused on the cracks between the slats that exposed the crawl space underneath, and my mind imagined what may lie down there, watching me with hungry eyes.

I looked back up, immediately spotting a completely black human figure with only a visible silhouette, standing at the far end of the yard. The spotlight on the corner of the house faintly illuminated this part of the yard, making the sight of this figure clear to me. A paralyzing wave of fear washed over me, and I could hardly move. The figure began to run at full speed towards me. I stepped shakily back into the house, and grasped at the air hopelessly, failing to recognize the lack of a door to close, to separate me from the entity. By the time it got up the stairs of the deck, I was trying to scream for help, no sound seeming to pass through my lips no matter how hard I tried. Just as it reached me, I woke up from the dream. I sat in bed, drenched in sweat and shaking. I looked towards my closed closet door, and felt an overpowering presence, like someone stood just behind it, waiting for me to open the door and let it in. I hid under my covers for the rest of the night, unable to sleep at all, my mind straining in fear for hours until daylight.

As I grew older, I had less and less of the nightmares and night terrors I used to experience. I would still at times see things in the dark, but they didn’t scare me like they used to. I guess age gave me the confidence to trust the safety of my own home. After graduating high school, I got a job and was able to make enough money to move out and live on my own. By then, the old nightmares and all the things that used to creep me out were completely gone. At the same time, it was the first time in my life I truly felt alone. And it wasn’t just that I wasn’t with my family anymore; there was this strange sense that some looming power was no longer watching me. After a while, I forgot what it had been like growing up. These old feelings and memories faded away. 

But then, sitting there in my old bed as a grown man, these feelings slowly crept back. I suddenly remembered all the times I sat in bed scared, thinking I had heard creeping through the hallway to my room. I shrugged it off, attributing it to the excitement of being home again. Soon, I turned out the lights and the only light left came from the faded street lamps that poured through the cracks in between my window blinds. I slowly faded to sleep, childlike comfort washing over me.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of both of the dogs barking. Sighing, I got out of my bed and walked out of the room. As soon as I opened the door, a cool wave of air hit me, my spine tingling at the sensation. Ignoring it, I walked through the hall directly into the living room, where both of the cages were. Steely and Dan were barking at the top of their lungs, and both were scratching at the metal frames. I knelt down in front of the cages to see them better. Both of the dogs ignored my presence, instead staring directly past me down the next hallway that led to my mother’s bedroom. 

At that moment, I suddenly felt a strong sensation of being watched, and I turned around to see what the dogs were barking at. I stared directly down the hall they faced, which was pitch black. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I got off the ground and inched towards the light switch at the close end of the hall. I couldn’t help but imagine something staring at me in the dark, some person or ghost watching me, just barely out of my sight. Like ripping off a bandaid, I sheepishly braced as I flipped the switch. With the light on, I saw nothing. Just another hall of picture frames with a couple shut doors along the sides and end. After that, the dogs started to settle down. I figured they had just scared each other into thinking there was an intruder or something, and I calmed down myself. I walked back to bed and fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning in the flowerbed in the backyard. I was sweaty and covered in dirt. I got up, confused and with a pounding headache. What the hell happened? I hadn’t sleepwalked in years, not since I was a kid. Walking back to the deck, I noticed a kid-sized hole in the side of the deck leading into the crawl space that had always been there since I was small enough to fit in it. The door to the dining room opened with no issue, and I figured I had unlocked it while I had been sleepwalking. I let the dogs out of their cages and took them to the back door, sending them out to do their business.

Out of curiosity, I walked to the front door. Strangely enough, it was unlocked. I took a quick run around the house, checking every door.They were all unlocked. Every. Single. One. Had I really done all of that in my sleep? That seemed to make sense, until I checked the door along one of the back walls that has always had furniture sitting in front of it. That door has always been locked and has always been inaccessible. Did I move all the furniture, unlock it, and then put it all back? I’m not sure.

It's now noon and I’m sitting here writing this in my bedroom. I always thought that what I experienced as a kid was really just due to an active imagination and all the horror movies I’d seen. But after this morning, I’m kind of wondering if maybe there was something to it, beyond just me being crazy. I’ll update later if anything else weird happens."

It has been a few hours since it happened. My horror, pain and grief  have turned to anger, at myself mostly for not going in after her when I still had the chance. All I can hear now is the incessant scratching in my head over and over again, screams that will haunt me until my dying breath.

I am writing this and leaving it as a warning for all of you, that scratching you hear isn't rats.

. . . Julie, I love you. .

***

Almost everyone has that irrational fear of the closet in the middle of the night at one stage of their life but some never truly grow out of it. The chill I get down the back of my neck as a grown ass man from imagining someone or something lurking, watching, waiting is great motivation for me to close my closet every night. 

In the first few days this all started happening, there was something off in our bedroom. I had been coming home from work to find the closet open; a crack one day, fully ajar the next but never closed like I had left it. This went on for a week or two, at first, I didn’t think much of it because my wife may have been in and out after I had left for the day but I always closed it at night, like a some ritual of protection from childhood like tucking your thumbs in your palm before falling asleep so they didn’t get bitten off by that thing under the bed.  

“Honey, did you eat in bed again?” called my wife Julie from upstairs.

Confused, I walked up to the bedroom to find her on her hands and knees under my side of the bed pulling out a handful of candy and jerky wrappers. “I don’t remember, maybe it was a late-night sleep-snacking incident?” I playfully asked my wife, before pulling her up into a kiss and helping her clean up the mess.

“Next time make sure you don’t eat in the closet, that’s just weird.” She said with a slight frown of disgust walking away to the bathroom to shower before turning in for the night.

My eyes narrowed and I turned cold looking to the closet as I said, “that was definitely not me.”

The eyebrow raise that occurred could be felt a mile away, “Sure, just like you didn’t leave your dishes in the sink for four days in a row, or didn’t eat the last of my Birthday cake last week!.” She made that noise like she always did when I knew it was going to end in a fight, so I just let it go. 

Julie continued, “Paul, this is the reason we have been hearing those rats in the walls, I don’t want to hear it. All I have been hearing is scratching behind the wall in the bathroom every night this week.”

I took a hard look at the closet and saw the crawl space “door” to our bathroom plumbing was slightly out of place. It wasn’t unusual, it was a bit of painted plywood that hangs from a few nails tending to fall off whenever someone turns the water on. I waited for my wife to start her shower before I put it back, but the nail was bent out of place like it got pulled down. 

“Some big fucking rats.” I muttered. 

As I pushed the door back in place. I was hit with a stale, meaty odor that made me retch. God Dammit, we have mold I thought as I looked into the crawl space but didn’t see any obvious signs like water damage. I am going to have to go in and check it tomorrow, I thought and closed the crawl space door. On my way out, I heard a slight huff, huff, huff sound coming from farther down the wall in the crawl space but thought the plumbing must really be getting old. 

Smiling to myself hearing Julie hum away in the shower, I walked downstairs to work on a few things and settle in for the night. 

I really wish I had noticed these things and put them together then. Things had started going missing around the house or would show back up in odd places. The weekly grocery bill was getting bigger, and our leftovers were gone in the morning. We had actually fought about this a few times Julie blaming it on me stress eating at night and we had stopped buying so much food as a result. 

I really wish I didn't have to say this but it was the last time I saw my wife alive and I was thinking about the fights we had in the weeks leading up to this. 

I was asleep on the couch with the series of the week playing in the background. Julie had come in to put a blanket on me, kiss my forehead turning the TV off as she went off to bed, our usual routine. I woke up from the kind of sleep induced fog you get when you don’t know what day or time it was. Groaning as I got up and looking at my watch, 3:00 am, the house was still and the only sound I heard was scratching from the ceiling.

“Damn, I will need to get some traps” I grunted as I stumbled up the stairs into the dark bedroom and crawled into bed. Julie wasn’t there, just a few jerky wrappers. “I fucking knew it, blaming this on me.” I muttered and turned over.

The closet door was open, lights off like staring into a void.

“Yeah. . . nope.” I said as I got up to close the door and found the crawl space was wide open. An acrid stench hit me and I could smell the musty meaty odor underneath from outside the closet door as I moved closer. 

“Julie?” I called back to the empty house.

“Ju. .lie.” I heard a grating hoarse voice answer back from behind the closet wall. 

In shock I turned on the closet light and saw movement from the inside of the crawl space, a dirty face appeared out of the top corner of the small opening peering at me with a dead expression as it slowly crawled out towards me. Creeping closer on all fours with greasy matted hair over its face. It paused and looked up at me opening its mouth with sallow teeth, putrid bits of meat stuck in them, its eyes wide and dark staring back boring into me that will never leave my mind as long as I live.

“Fuck that, holy shit” I screamed and turned to run slamming the door closed behind me hitting whatever just crawled at me. Hearing it stumble backwards, I Looked for something to block the door. I ran around the corner of the bed and started pushing it against the door, hearing a Huff, Huff, Huff coming from behind the closet door with insistent scratching.

“JULIE WHERE ARE YOU, GET OUT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“Hun..gry.” I heard it moan as shuffling feet retreated from behind the door and a loud popping sound of glass breaking as the shadows behind the door disappeared into darkness. 

My heart dropped when I heard the strangled gurgling cry of my wife cut off and muffled deep from the closet which was followed closely by loud crunching pop and slurping like someone was breaking open Oysters and going to town. I can’t unhear the sound of what I think is my wife being torn apart.

There was silence after that, just my labored breathing, as I threw the bed back to open the closet. To my horror, hanging on the nail on the crawl space door was Julie’s wedding ring along with a third of her finger, ragged like it was gnawed off. In shock I looked into the crawl space, about to dive in after her when a mocking huff, huff, huff came from deeper in the bowels of the house stopped me. In a cold sweat I saw the blood trail, god so much blood and more than just blood I can’t describe the horror I felt as I saw it move off past the crawl space into a small human sized rat hole in the far wall dragging Julie’s limp body along with it. 

Sobbing, I backed away from the crawl space with the image of what used to be my wife burned into my skull and barred the closet door turning to run out of the house. As I was at the bottom of the stairs I heard a wail pierce through me like a glacial shelf snapping into the ocean. 

“PAUL!”  Julie Cried, sounding like she was choking out a breath, lighting hope in me again that I can save her.

Julie’s scream was accompanied by a loud scratching sound coming from behind the kitchen wall, moving down. I heard the movement settle in the basement where it finally stopped. The house was still, almost in quiet anticipation, then a loud Thack from the depths of the basement rattled me making me jump. Slowly I heard something creeping up the stairs towards me. The door to the basement, eternally rusty, croaked as it opened a crack and I saw it staring at me with its blank expression. It was waiting for me to make the next move, almost taunting me to come save her. 

“P…au…L.” It rasped, grinning from the darkness of the basement steps. 

The door opened wider and what used to be my wife’s perfect head rolled towards me on the dining room floor, torn mouth wide open, deep furrowed sockets stared at me, missing those startling blue eyes I loved.  

“No. .. No , No! WHY?” I yelled looking to It for an answer I would never get.

I fell back as I turned and scrambled to run for the front door. I heard the basement door open wide behind me and the lights went off cascading darkness around me as I hit the front door swinging it open. I felt something grab my ankle, tearing the skin. I slammed the door behind me pinning its arm with ragged nails coated in bits of my flesh and slammed it over and over again. It let out a hissing screech in pain and anger pushing the door rolling me back, disappearing into the house. 

I sat up screaming at the house, the pain of what just happened washed into my bones turning into sobbing misery. Some time later, cold and spent,  I found myself limping down the five mile road towards the closest house for help, that’s if anyone would actually believe what I was going to say. 

I posted this and was told it does not meet the guidelines for a complete scary story. I plan on doing a few parts to this and would like to know what could be changed thank you in advance.

I don’t know where else to post this, I’ve been thinking about what to do for weeks now and I can’t seem to shake this eerie feeling I’m being watched.

I like looking at old barns and sometimes if they look decent enough I will look inside too. I find some cool stuff here and there and sometimes I can sell what I find. I found a milk bottle one time and an antique mall paid me $120 for it.

I saw a barn 2 months ago driving my side by side on a trail my buddy told me about and it stuck with me. It looked almost new but you could tell it had been there over a century, the wood just felt old. It looked like every plank was cut from a tree planted when the world formed.

After some probing I made a plan to do a deep dive into it and see if I could find anything inside worth bringing to the mall. Half a week later I was back at the barn door trying to loosen up the sliding rail enough so I could get in. Eventually after some trial and error I got in and found a huge amount of tires. I wasn’t that surprised because a lot of times in older barns people would just dump crap there they couldn’t figure out how to get rid of.

The loft is usually where I find the goods as most people aren’t willing to climb on wood that might fall apart if you look at it the wrong way. I made a small step of tires and got up the small hay chute only to be greeted by a smell of rot. It was so nasty I gagged so hard I choked on my own breath.

After settling and choking my face with my own arm I found that the loft was much bigger on the inside that it looked like on the outside. It was almost cavernous, kinda felt like the tardis from Dr. Who to be honest. After standing in shock for a bit I turned my headlamp on high and looked around.

There was nothing in this huge space, just loose hay on the ground and that god awful smell. I started walking around trying to remember which way the chute was and found a silo with steps into it.

Older barns had a small silo within it sometimes just to have extra grain or corn storage for winter. Sometimes you could find some cool stuff in it as well but I had never seen one with steps before.

After thinking about it I decided to abandon any thought of going and climbing those steps so I continued onwards. After walking for at least 10 minutes I noticed that the smell never left this place but I was getting used to it by now. I also found that as big as this barn was there was nothing here at all. Nor had it looked like there was anything other than hay up here.

I walked back and even though I knew it was stupid, I did not want to leave without at least looking in the silo.

The first step creaked so loud I jumped off it immediately. I had never been one to be afraid of specters and such but this place had already spooked me by its nature so I was reacting a little more than normal.

After regaining my composure I climbed the steps one by one, cussing myself silently on every step and suddenly got to the top of the silo. I inched my way to look down into it and saw a set of steps that winded to the bottom, a rocking chair with a lantern sitting next to it within.

Of course I had to get down there and look at it, by no means could I let such an odd thing go. I once again cussed myself at every step down praying my battery was still good enough on my headlamp to get back out and just as quickly as I reached the top I reached the bottom.

The smell of rot at the bottom of the silo reached a pinnacle here. It was permanently ingrained into my nose at that point but here it made my eyes water and my nose drip. I quickly looked around and found the chair to be almost dust free but the lantern was thick with it.

I grabbed the lantern handle happily but upon moving it I found it was sitting on top of a small box cut into the floor perfectly. I hooked the lantern handle to my side and opened the box to find an older looking fountain pen and a leather bound journal. I shoved the journal in my bag and put the pen in my pocket.

No later than the pen was put into my pocket did I hear a small noise. Now all of my nightmares could not have come true so quickly and I shut off my light and listened intently to hear the noise be made again. Sitting still at the bottom of that rotten silo was horrible, sitting in the dark made it awful, hearing the noise again right next to me was worse.

I knew I had to leave right then and there so without turning my light back on I started a mad dash up the stairs. I was making so much noise I couldn’t tell if my mind was making up a crawl making chase behind me or not but I was not about to find out.

The steps seemed to be much longer to climb in the dark but eventually I made it to the top and jumped off the silo. Only to fall directly into the hay chute and on top of my step stool of tires. Now the hay chute had been at least a 6 minute walk from the silo but I wasn’t questioning that at the time. I turned on my light and ran to the barn door and out to my side by side.

I booked it out of there and made it back to my truck and trailer without even thinking. I loaded up my side by side and without much celebration threw my stuff in the bed and sped back home. After pulling into my driveway I said a small prayer and maybe cried a hair. I got unloaded and began to look at my loot.

The pen was empty but that wasn’t a surprise since it looked like it was from the 20s. The journal was filled with notes but I couldn’t understand anything written in them as it had really bad handwriting in another language, I recognized the language as Pennsylvania Dutch so I tried an online translator and it gave me this out of a passage I could decipher:

“I grew up in a place that had no name and no station. The mail was delivered weekly, and pa had to ride to go get the mail. Mama had fresh baked goods on the table every day, and my dog liked to lie in the sun. I liked to lie with him sometimes.

I went to school until the sixth grade, “that’s all you need to know,” is what pa said when I came home on my last day. I didn’t understand it, but today it makes clear sense, he wanted to keep me away from society and its understanding of good works so I could make my own conclusions. I know what is good, and I know what good works are. I am writing this now to tell you about my good works so you can follow in my footsteps and finally end me.

Seven summers ago, strange people came to my woods and drove their loud machines through my dry creek. They ran over one of my ducks. I dressed the duck and preserved the fat, then I brought the fat to their campsite after they had laid themselves down and smeared it on their belongings.

I poured gasoline into an opening near their tent and lit it with a smoldering log. As they came out, I watched them run in circles, trying to put out their tent. They screamed at each other, trying to fix the problem.

The first one was easy, she was small and ran away as soon as they left the tent. I caught her and let her bleed. I caught the second one as he was rubbing fat off a flask. I ended him quickly because he was stronger. They realized something was wrong when the second one fell, so I came in and asked what the problem was.

They screamed at me and started running. I caught one after a short chase when she slipped in the woods. The next one tried to get into a machine but couldn’t get the key in. I had jammed fat into the keyhole and over the wheel.

We had a short conversation after I had disabled him. He asked me why I had done it, and I told him to ask himself the same question. All of them were dealt with and brought to the pig when I had time and when it was hungry. I buried the site and took the machine deep into the woods and set it ablaze. When I got home that morning, mama still had a warm pie on the table, and I ate some with ice cream. I knew I deserved it after a good work like mine”

Ive taken some liberties trying to make it understandable and I’m still working on the rest but there are hundreds of pages with terrible penmanship but so far they all seem to talk about this guys “good works”. I keep seeming to run into Amish around town now who I think are looking at me. I am almost for sure I heard a horse and buggy go down my road two nights ago and I feel like I hear animal calls at night that sound off.

I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking of just leaving town for a bit and giving the journal and pen to the next Amish person I see but I don’t know how that would go. I’m just confused and upset about this. A few things that are making me think something is definitely off is how warm that lamp was when I put it in the bed of my truck and how my house is starting to look bigger and smell a bit worse every day. Any advice is appreciated greatly.

A quiet seaside town in northwest Wales, bustling with tourists during the summer months. The rest of the year, it’s as quiet as any rural village. Residents often know their neighbors as if they were family, but for first-time buyers like Rose and myself, moving in can still feel quite overwhelming.

Our 2-story house wasn’t much to look at, definitely past its time, however that wasn’t what drew us to the area. Sat atop a small hill with a picturesque view of the sea, our new property was quaint. Fir trees lined the perimeter walls, with the garden ending at a waist high fence, which backed onto a large field and a patch of wild woods.

The only real semblance of people was a tall, lonely scarecrow, stood at the border of the tree line. For all intents and purposes this could have been our dream home, with a little bit of work. That was until we received a very strange letter.

It must have been a Sunday as I'd just got back around 11:30 am, after testing out some new golf clubs that I got as a moving in present. I was a novice still, the handful of times I'd gone to the driving range with my father nominally enhancing my skill. Fumbling with the house keys as I tried remembering which circular key was for the front door, I saw a red envelope sticking halfway out of our letterbox. It read 'Number 3'.

I was certain it hadn't been there when I'd left earlier in the morning, but I chalked it up to being from one of our neighbours and stepped inside. Throwing my keys in the general direction of the small ceramic bowl that sat atop the shoe rack to my left, I swung the door closed.

"Oi, you know it's got a handle right", Rose bellowed from the lounge as the door crashed into place.

Chuckling quietly to myself, I swiftly stepped into the living room and parked myself next to her while she stared, immersed in whatever TV show was on. Carefully opening the envelope, I read its contents in my head. 'Welcome number 3, I'm overjoyed to have seen you today. Looking forward to being even closer'.

That's certainly not what I’d expected. Due to the now puzzled look which stained my face, Rose lent over and started reading.

"Well then, sounds like you didn’t play much golf" in a sarcastic tone.

"It’s not what you’re thinking, I was on my own. It’s probably a kid, playing a prank.”

"That or you’ve got your own personal stalker" she sniggered.

 "Yeah yeah whatever, I'm going for a shower" I retorted dismissively as I dragged myself up the stairs.

Standing in the shower as the pressure beat a soothing tune on my back, I pondered that morning. At the time I must have just pushed it out of my mind, but I felt strange while on the course, kind of like I was being evaluated.

Strange letter aside, something felt off. Walking through the village and the local secondary school (I'm an English teacher), I was on edge. I'd not felt this way last week when we'd first moved, but it was almost like I was under a microscope. My every action being recorded. The paths I took to the school, what time I left work and where I nonchalantly threw my house keys.

Rose didn't buy it, regurgitated what I’d said yesterday. “That letter was just a prank. You’re over thinking the situation.”

Obviously, I agreed, though I'm not one to be freaked out by something so mundane, without a good reason. I know Rose would disagree, though this time something didn't settle right and the pit in my stomach wasn't going away.

On the Wednesday morning, 2 days after we first received the letter, I swear I saw a man standing at the woods edge. He must have been around 40 meters away. At first, I thought it was the scarecrow, but no, that was definitely a man. Tall and motionless. I had to double take, but by the time I'd turned around, he was gone ... and so was the scarecrow. I know I'd felt his eyes on me, it was the same feeling I’d been having recently.

"Rose, what did you do with that old scarecrow?" I beckoned through the half-opened door.”

"I won't go near that spider box you call a shed. What makes you think I’d even touch that creepy thing" she dismissed.

Definitely a prank I thought, if it were Rose she'd just have owned up to it, wouldn’t she?

That night I woke to what I thought was a faint tapping on our bedroom window and an unusually cold breeze. Assuming I’d left the window open, I lumbered out of bed, making sure the covers didn't expose Rose to the chill. Slowly and delicately pulling back the blind I saw nothing but a bright moonlit sky illuminating our property. Searching the ground and seeing nothing of note I pondered what was causing the tapping and cold whisp. Catching it just for a moment in my periphery, my eyes darted, hyper fixating through the kitchen window and on to the front door. It was wide open. Swaying tentatively back onto its hinges making a faint creaky banging noise. In that moment I froze, colder than I'd already been, with every hair on my body standing to attention. I locked it ... I was sure ... certain. Just as I was rationalizing why, a whisper broke the crisp morning air. It's presents permeated through me and the breath on my ear cut through like a knife, piercing. In a low male voice ...

"There's a man in the house".

The dream felt so vivid that in a panic, I shot up out of bed, startling Rose and flinging myself to my feet as I stumbled wildly over to the window. That image burned into my mind, as my eyes locked in on the door. It was locked ... no breeze ... no banging.

"Wha … what is it" Rose pleaded.

"I ... I don't ... 'sigh' it's nothing, just a nightmare."

I wasn't going to tell her that I was losing it over a stupid letter and a supposed 'sinister' man stalking me. However, as I hung my head and she wrapped an arm round to comfort me, that feeling washed over me again and the pit in my stomach grew once more.

"Oh, looks like you found the scarecrow".

I was defiantly on edge. Whoever was moving that thing, maybe the man, I didn’t know. The image of him played on repeat in my mind. I know it could have just been my mind playing tricks on me, forcing me to dream about a horrific situation, but I hated it. I had no hard evidence that someone was stalking me, well apart from the stupid note but like Rose said at the time, it could have been nothing. Either way, I needed to take my mind off it, especially with our actual problems.

With the age of the house there were obviously things that needed relaying, one of which were the old wooden hall floorboards. That Friday morning, overlayed by the sound of the local news, detailing multiple disappearances, I welcomed the floorers. There were two men, a stout, but muscular, receding grey haired man with a very gruff voice and a tall, somewhat slender young man. He was pale and almost looked to have no muscle mass, with greasy black hair. Rose joked later on that he looked like a shut in, forced to work by a growingly impatient parent. Oddly, he stared for longer than was socially acceptable. I remember the bigger man saying he was new, learning the trade. He was evidently the nervous type but seeing as though he’d be round for a while, I felt the need to at least chat.

Surprisingly over the next couple of days I got a little closer to the young lad.

Rose even joked, "wow your first friend in Wales, you go Dan. At least you both like to golf".

She wasn't wrong. With us moving, my job and the house I'd not had time to meet many people, so when I ended up confiding in him it didn't feel so strange. Whilst they were pulling up our old, decrepit floorboards, they found a small hole. A thin rectangular shape dug into the foundations. It couldn't have been bigger than an average person laying down and just shallow enough to cover you fully.

"Thats probably where they kept the bodies" the older man joked.

With the recent events I wasn't inclined to find the humour. Just to the side of the hole, was a circular opening which led to a small water cover on the side wall of the house. I’m no architect, but I remember one of them saying it was probably an old drainage system. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything major to note at the time.

There were no incidents over the last couple of days, I was almost ready to compartmentalize those previous events and erase it from my memory. I wish I'd never got my hopes up. That Sunday night as I was closing the blinds and looking down towards the woods, I thought I spotted a flash. As I rubbed my eyes, blinking franticly and searched the treeline, I spotted the scarecrow. Funny how you don't pick up on the details until you've revisited the situation, but I could swear it wasn’t standing in the centre of the field when we’d first moved in.

Before work, whilst Noah (the young floorer) was on a short break I detailed the past week’s events. He seemed paler that day, maybe it was because he was new to this type of work, but he seemed worn out. Listening intently, though it probably sounded crazy, he reassured me.

"It sounds serious, maybe you should set up a camera to get proof" he stated in a quite tone.

A loud and sarcastic bellow came from behind us as he did, "I’d be checking my shoulder lad. Don't know what strange people lurk round these parts, haha. Oi newbie come on".

Nodding in his direction I stepped aside to let Noah proceed. I knew he was joking, but he wasn’t wrong, I didn't know the people in this town. Noah had made a good point too; it hadn't even crossed my mind to record the incidents. Quietly scheming as I reached out for the bowl, my hand grasped only air. Somehow, I’d misplaced my keys. Maybe in my lethargy I'd missed the bowl, or they were in my other coat.

"Rose! You seen my keys?" I shouted frantically upstairs.

"No! They're your keys, I've not touched them". She yelled, evidently annoyed as this wasn’t the first time.

Sighing, I set off down the drive as I was already late due to all the chatter. In hindsight though, I couldn’t blame myself.  

That afternoon as the men finished up and I was bidding farewell to my new mate, I wasn't thinking about the man. Admiring our freshly laid hall, I was just happy that we'd finished a major part of the renovations. As they pack up to leave, I caught Noah staring down the garden in an almost trance like state, mumbling quietly to himself.

Rose sarcastically, “Dan, what are doing with that scarecrow. I don’t want it on our side of the fence".

"I didn't ... it was you, wasn't it?". That question hung in the air for a moment as the realisation hit me in full force.

"Dan, we've been over this, I wouldn't touch that thing. It creeps me out".

On a swivel my head swung round to face the scarecrow. It was stood at the fence line, almost overhanging onto our garden. As I stared analyzing its slumped posture, I noticed something. Jutting out of the top pocket of its thatched jacket, only barely visible was a small red square. I could tell what it was from back there, but I didn’t want to get any closer. However, the fear and intrigue pushed me. Every step was heavy as I reluctantly strode down the garden, the pit in my stomach growing into a cavern with no end. Meeting it at the terminus of my property, its lifeless expression looming over me as its cold empty eyes stared at the floor. The small fence just barely separating us, as  I reach out and took the red envelope from its pocket.

'Number 3, your house is lovely. Do be careful when moving those boards, that’s a nasty cut'. The weight of that statement crushed me. How did he know. Earlier that day I’d cut the palm of my right hand whilst helping the floorers move the old boards to the skip on our drive. How could he have seen, when did he see, where was he. My mind flooded by a cacophony of horrific thoughts as my hands trembled. Whether this was his plan or just a sick twisted game, he had me strung up like a puppet. Dancing to his tune.

I didn't sleep that night, didn't even go to work on Monday. I can't remember what excuse I gave, but it wasn't believable. I needed to catch him, this phantom stalking my every move. Internally I was overthinking, which is why I don't think I even processed what Rose was saying.

Thinks like: "Dan, you're not looking great, didn't you sleep?", "I’m going out to meet a client, you sure you'll be alright?" and "I’ve got the house keys, remember I’m just leaving the latch on".

Dismissively I grunted a "Yeah I'm good, see you later babe".

I wasn’t listening and she knew. I guess she was just waiting for me to tell her myself, but all I could think about was the camera I ordered the day before was due today. Waiting was agony, sitting in an empty house, staring at the door waiting for the camera to arrive, with the slow drum of the clock ticking in my periphery. My eyelids felt like boulders, and I was Sisyphus. My punishment for skipping sleep. The toll was too high, and I couldn't physically keep them open anymore as I drifted.

What time is it? I questioned to myself as I rose from the kitchen table, saliva extending from my lip and its surface. And what am I doing? Checking the clock and seeing that it was 12:49. The immediate recollection of the morning’s events had me frantically searching the front steps. In my haste I hadn't even noticed that the latch was off, and the door wasn't fully closed. Finding nothing, I resigned myself to the kitchen chair again. It hadn't arrived yet, but as the panic subsided a feeling of dread rose to take its place. The growing cavern in my stomach threatening to consume me. My elbow was resting on a small red square of paper, which simply read. ‘I wish I could have stayed longer’.

How he'd got the keys I don't know but he'd been here. If he wanted to hurt me, he could have. All the sounds of the old house settling, were him, looming just out of sight. That was the final straw. While Rose was out, I phoned my parents who lived 2 towns over. We needed to leave at least for a while. The moment she opened the door I bombarded her with the last 2 weeks events. I could tell she was overwhelmed and didn't really believe me fully, but she conceded. Rose nipped over to our neighbors, letting them know we were out and to keep an eye on the place. As I fitted the recently delivered camera with a line of sight of the front door. With everything ready, we pulled away down the drive. It didn't really hit me until later but there was no doubt that he'd used my keys. How had he even had the chance to get them. Another thing too, something Rose said that I questioned myself, even now.

"I know this is just adding fuel to the fire, but that scarecrow is on our side of the fence".

Once we arrived, I spilled the events to my parents. I knew they'd question everything and would end up giving some snarky remarks.

"That's just like you Dan, getting worked up over a couple of letters", my father was a skeptic.

Our works weren't going to be happy with our sudden absences, but they'd never give us time off for a situation like this. I let Noah know what was going on too, he sounded groggy, but he said he'd pop round the next day and check the garden. After speaking to him, it reminded me of something he'd said.

"Nothing strange has happened here for a while, well apart from those two".

Not for the first time, I was lost in thought, caught up in my hysteria. However, I did recall seeing those missing posters in town and hearing it on the news. Something about a man, who lived alone, going missing. The only leads were a couple of odd notes on red envelopes.

Those words stuck with me, and I was gaining (in my own mind) a stronger connection between myself and the circumstances. Blankly staring at the TV, hypnotized by my findings and caught in a noose of fear. The strangle hold was getting tighter. Obviously, I wanted to catch the stalker on the camera, but to know he’d be there again. I wasn't sure what he’d do. Snapping me out of my trance, my phone started to vibrate. The shock jolted me into an upright position as I answered reflexively.

"Dan, hi it's Caroline from next door".

"Everything okay?" I questioned.

Tentatively, "You said you were leaving tonight, right? Definitely tonight?".

Feeling a lump welling up in my throat as I responded, "Yeah we're at my parents now. Why, what's the matter?".

The moment I heard the tension in her voice I knew something was up, but I think I always expected this to happen tonight.

In a quiet tone, "Dan ... your lights are on. Theres a man in the house".

That familiar feeling hit me again. The ice-cold touch of dread. Frantically I ended the call and dialled 999.

Rose looked questioning my erraticness, "What is it?".

Sharply just before the line operator answered, "he's in our home".

The fear clinging to me like a wet shirt as we nervously waited for the officers to arrive and hopefully catch him. According to the officer, there were no signs of forced entry, no lights on and discernibly no intruder. He also stated that the bracket, holding my camera was disconnected, with nothing there. Yet again I felt the sting of failure. He was doing this to provoke a reaction from me and well, it worked. The officer came over to get a statement and we ended up having a chat. His name was Owen and he wasn’t a bad guy.

"This type of call has been coming in pretty frequently lately, you're not the first". "Never seems to be anyone when we arrive though, not calling you paranoid or anything".

He wasn't wrong, I was more than paranoid. I asked about the previous disappearances, not really expecting a response.

“I’m not supposed to talk about that lad. Let’s just say those boys weren’t missing, there just wasn’t much left to ID.” It was evident by the look in his eyes that whatever he had borne witness to, really struck a chord.  

“That all?”, I questioned. If I could squeeze out even a slight bit more information, it might give me a new perspective.

Owen shook his head as he spoke. “Lad, you really don’t want to know. I’ve been cleaning that black gunk out of my work boots all week.”

“Thanks for watching the place anyway. Would you be able to pop round the next couple, just to keep an eye out.” I questioned, as his presence could at least alleviate some of my doubt.

"Look I'm kinda busy most nights, so…"

Interjecting "No offence, but this is more important than whatever paperwork you’ve got on?" I barked. I couldn't stop myself from blurting it out.

"Look lad, I'll see what I can do. No promises. Oh, and I found this on the kitchen table.”

In his hand was another, slightly bulging red envelope. Peeling back the flap and releasing both a piece of paper and a memory stick. The latter read, ‘wow number 3, you’re smart, but I have a better recording, Friend.’ I couldn't have cared less if it was going to give me a virus, the allure of "a better recording" stung my brain as I raced upstairs to my laptop and plugged it in. The only folder on the USB, 'Number 3'. I had to open it.

A flood of photos, videos and audio recordings cover my screen, each meticulously dated, and time stamped. It was a log, a log of me. Images of me dating back to the second week, starting at the golf course. Photos and videos of me going to and from work, standing in the crowd and even a photo of me, asleep on the kitchen table. He'd been inches from me and that pit in my stomach consumed me as I fell deeper into the abyss he was feeding. One thing stood out, though all the day to day activities, one perspective was always shown. An image from the base of our garden. Each time just ever so slightly closer to our house, instilling a fear I'd not since experienced. It was his eyes. That figure standing in my garden, watching my every move. With the last photo, a picture of my home from the top of my garden. Written across it, 'I'll be waiting ... Daniel'.

Fear rose inside and contorted itself into anger. I was no longer fearful of his machinations, I wanted this to end, for good. Calling Noah, I enlisted his help once more as I planned to get rid of this 'man' for good.

Noah wasn't a fan. "I don't like this, Dan; we should talk to the police again".

I dismissed that notion with an assertive and all together pissed tone, "they're not coming."

Surprisingly though, Noah’s opinion changed after hearing that.

"I don’t want to go back without a proper plan, what are we doing?", his voice was serious and I was taken a back. This wasn’t like him, especially with that info. However, I was thankful I wouldn't be alone. Afterwards, we detailed everything we needed to set up our fateful meeting.

Sleeping that night was agony. The anger welling up in me opposed my days long venture without sleep. The thought of finally closing this chapter kept my mind ticking. I know my need for sleep won over eventually as I awoke in a cold sweat. The evenings revelations spurring on my nightmare.

Waking, back in our house I quickly scanned the room. Everything seemed normal at first, though as I surveyed my surroundings, I noticed Rose wasn't in the bed besides me. Nervously rising and stepping towards the blinds. Once again, I felt a bitter cold draft on my skin, forming goosebumps across my arms and legs as my body hair stood on end. Drawing back the curtains in a dramatic fashion, expecting to see another depraved sight. Another moonlit night, glistening as it lit up our property, with an absent figure making it seem even longer. My searching gaze fell on the front door once more, which this time was closed. The pit in my stomach lingering, I thought I'd set my worries at ease and double check it just in case. It was locked, as I'd expected, but the pit had grown again. With a feeling of looming confrontation hanging over me I had the impulse to check all the windows and large cabinets, anywhere someone could get in or hide downstairs. Happy with my lack of findings I strode towards the staircase, stopping stone still as I heard the click of a doorknob twisting and the creek of it opening.

"Rose", I beckoned up the staircase.

It was a false attempt at getting a form of identification that could steel my nerves. I knew she wasn't here and what was now stepping down the angled staircase. 'No ... he's not ... he can't be' rushed through my head as I stood, glued to the floor, gazing up at what I wanted so badly to be Rose. He'd infected my mind, I wouldn't ever have naturally formed a scenario like this before he'd burrowed his way into my life. As the figure rounded the crest of the staircase, a manifestation of all my internal hysteria revealed itself. Even my mind was on his side, twisting and contorting my fears into a tangible entity that still to this day haunts me, both for its projection and it's physical presence. A scarecrow.

In the shape of the shadow he'd been casting on my life, it lurched down another step. It's movements rigid, like the wooden stakes still held up it's form. As its body no longer limp and without autonomy, focused on me as it stood, piloted by my stalker. The last thing I witnessed were it's human eyes, peaking from behind the hooded mask it wore. Not harboring any distain for me, but excitement and pleasure that I was in fact truly seeing it for the first time. Its overwhelming presence, crushed me like an ant underfoot.

A bang startling me and snapped me out of my trance as I turned to my left. A figure stood in the bedroom doorway.

"Sorry Dan, the draft pulled it", Rose spoke sheepishly as she slowly stepped to the a jar window to close it.

Evidently, she'd got up to use the bathroom, but as the panic subsided, I was glad she had. Who knows what horrors my own mind would have conjured up for it to enact. As I lay there furrowing my brow, staring a hole in the ceiling, I prepared myself for the next day. Tomorrow this would end.

Walking out to my car that morning, I was imbued with a sense of purpose. Much more than I had been throughout this experience, however standing there at the car was Rose. She looked questioning as she tilted her head to one side.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?”

My determined stare was all she needed to confirm her question.

In a softer but forgiving tone, “please. Just don’t do anything stupid. Alright?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t hiding my intent. This time it wasn’t just fear that drove me, it was anger.

Noah met me at the opening of my driveway, with all the equipment we’d listed the previous night. He seemed paler and thinner than previous weeks. I hadn’t noticed it, with my lazer like focus, but he must have been stressing too, that or he was just really ill. He was sweating and his skin seemed sickly, though we had come here for a reason, so I brushed it off. Before I could enact my plan, we'd first have to make sure he wasn't already inside. Shoulder to shoulder, we walked with purpose up to the front door, passing the scarecrow, who yet again had inched forward to the top of our garden. Standing lonely on the closest patch of grass to our front door. Gripping the length of a golf club tightly, I unlocked the front door and tentatively entered.

Taking our time, we meticulously checked every and any place he could enter from or be hiding in. Every cupboard, cabinet, wardrobe and bed were checked, but sometimes you draw a blank and the more obscure locations are left untouched. Finally satisfied that we had the place to ourselves we began putting our plan into action. Throughout the rest of the day, with Noah’s aid we rigged up multiple small trail cams in as many of the downstairs rooms as we could. One at the doorway, two in the kitchen and one on the hall. Though their configurations were rudimentary, they'd do their job when the time came. Along with this we checked the locks on every window and door, we knew he had my keys but that only entailed the front door and the shed. As we finished up and I made one more sweep of the building, I yet again caught Noah muttering to the scarecrow. It was too quiet to make out but sounded like a child’s nursery rhyme. 

“Oi, we’re done. Come inside so I can lock the door.” I yelled out of the kitchen window.

His body lethargically swung round as he dragged himself back into the kitchen. All that was left for us to do now, was wait.

The sun's rays, peaked over the sea and the evening began to darken. I knew he'd come, he had to, I wanted closure. We'd been waiting for hours at this point, and I could tell Noah was getting weary. His slim frame drooped as he lent against one of the kitchen walls, though his eyes never dropped their gaze through the kitchen window. He seemed weaker than the previous days and I hoped once this was over, the relenting stress would allow him to get back to his usual self. I couldn’t stand still, pacing back and forth from the counter to the door. He'd called me here just to make me wait, for what, another trick. I'd come running the moment he’d showed me those recordings. I needed to calm myself down, no use becoming erratic when the time finally came.

Sighing as I walked past Noah, "Stay here, I'm just going to the toilet".

He said nothing and just nodded in my direction. Standing in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, my tough bravado a mask covering a scared, drained man. I thought back to the day we moved in, ready to make long lasting memories in this house. Now, it was a prison of his making. Flipping out my phone to let Rose know I was fine; a crash rang out. In my tired state I'd clumsily knocked over the small plant pot which sat on the sink. Cursing, I made a mental note to clean it up once the more serious task had been completed.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs as Noah burst through the door, "What happened!?" he called as he flung the door aside.

Letting out a loud, audible breath, "nothing, just a pot" I replied.

As we both stood their regaining our composure, we both heard a faint click, then a creaky sound. Just loud enough for us to question whether we were in fact hearing the same thing. They say lightening doesn't strike twice, but in that instance, we were both hit with the realization of what the sound originated from. The front door.

Scrambling down the wooden stairs in a frenzied panic, to reveal. It was wide open. Instinctively I reached for the golf club, stumbling slightly as my foot caught a raised floorboard. I paid no attention to it as I lurched out of the open door and began to scan. Simultaneously Noah grabbed the wrench he'd brought and began to check the downstairs rooms. I searched and searched the grounds seeing nothing, no sign of a person. My rage peaking once more as he’d done it again. I was close to bursting, he'd played me, but as my eyes traced the garden they set on the scarecrow.

That monument of his torment, silently observing me. I snapped, the tool in my had came down on that inanimate figure like a meteor. Crashing as it tore the frail thatch work apart piece by piece. It's stake snapping as it hurtled for the grass, but I wouldn't relent. Beating its battered torso with more fight than I’d shown for the past 2 weeks, I was determined to end one of the nightmares that night. It may only have been a couple of minutes, but the carnage was scattered at my feet. Breathing heavily and with my rage filled state satisfied, I dragged myself back towards the house.

By the time I re-entered the kitchen Noah had swept the first floor and was about to ascend the staircase. Oddly a curled smile formed as his head turned. Gusts of cool evening air blew past my damp back. Their whisps just strong enough to rattle the lone red envelope laying on the kitchen table. Whether I'd missed it before I engaged it my assault of the scarecrow or it was placed during, it sent another shiver up my spine. 'Sadly, this is our last, friend. I've had so much fun playing our little game. Weren't you listening Daniel… There's a man in the house.'

Reading those words, I could hear my heart beating a furious rhythm. A rhythm that was paused only momentarily by the sound of footsteps to my left. I knew it wasn't Noah, this was coming from the direction of the open door. I prayed that like so many times before, there wouldn't be anyone there, I'd just imagined those footsteps. The fear gripped me like a strait jacket, constricting me in place. I knew what would be there and what I'd come to face as my head moved on its own volition.

Standing in my doorway, an effigy to all my fears. The scarecrow. Short plumes of smoke bellowed from the slit where its mouth was. Its hot laboured breath, that of a pursuit predator finally catching its prey. Its eyes, hollow white spheres gleaming through the sack hood, like the high beams of a car, petrifying me where I stood. I could tell it was enjoying the moment, basking in my bewilderment and stunned silence. Its wicker torso, creaking in the cool breeze. Its shape was irregular, outwardly similar to the broken body I’d lay to waste outside, though its form was far less human. Light seeped through the fine gaps in its tangled wooden frame as my eyes traced down from its face to the blade it gripped tightly in its right hand. Its metallic edge glistened as the porch light shone from behind, casting the figure in a deep shadow. It never spoke, regardless of what happened. It was silent.

Initially it moved slowly and deliberately, remaining in a rigid upright posture as if it were still attached to its supports. Shuffling backwards as it approached, we never broke eye contact. In the moment, regardless of how much I wanted to turn and run, I was fixed, whether out of fear or morbid disbelief. Suddenly it lunged, low and hard, hitting me in my midsection and taking me to the ground. Its body bent and contorted in an inhuman method, startling me and leaving no time to react. The contact temporarily knocked the wind out of me as we toppled to the floor. Staring up at the blank expression woven into its thatched face, my nightmare incarnate, I knew I’d have to fight back with all my strength. Another swift lunge as the knife it clasped slammed into the boards besides my head. Wrestling there on the kitchen floor, I tried my hardest to restrain its wriggling right arm and prevent another strike. In doing so, I was hit with a startling realisation, that hadn’t crossed my mind until that point. It was stronger than I was.

Yet it always seemed like I was just about holding my own in the fight. The enjoyment I saw in its eyes crushed any hope I had of escaping this situation unscathed. I was an ant, merely existing to entertain the entity as it gave me the illusion of false hope. That maybe the only reason it wasn’t over already.

Managing to just about pin its right arm to the floor under my body weight, I felt an opportunity and struck back, landing an outstretched elbow to its throat. Something didn’t feel right as I made contact, there was no hard structure beneath the brittle thatched frame. I’d hit with a considerable amount of force, but had encountered more resistance that I would have expected. Its chest moved with the impact, though gave no pain response, as if it wasn’t phased in the slightest. With the short window I had bought closing, I attempted to pull away to his left. As I forced myself out and rolled to my knees, a white-hot searing pain hit my left side.

Unbeknownst to me as I squirmed my way out from under its weight, it had freed the knife and embedded it in my side. Grasping my flank, I felt the wooden handle and drew back a red palm. Cool sweat dribbled down my forehead as I shakily attempted to stand. My light-headedness causing me to crumple back against the kitchen table, like a crutch. The adrenaline was wavering, and I could feel my body screaming out in pain. Its contorted body creaking and snapping as it clambered off the floor and to its feet, boneless. This time I had the foresight to try and evade its oncoming strike, although with the blade lodged in my side prohibiting my full range of movement, I wasn’t nearly fast enough.

As I shifted myself back, my foot caught the exposed floorboard, sending us hurtling down to the ground with a crunch as it pounced. The supporting boards caved under our weight, and we ended up landing in that shallow hole below. At the time I was confused about what was happening, you don't always recall things until after the events. However, as I lay there catching my breath momentarily, I looked down around us to see empty containers, a camera and ... a pack of red envelopes. How long had someone been here, how long had IT been here. Any length of time was an infinity longer than I wanted.

My mind being shook back to the present as it lurched towards me from its sitting position. Pulling away, the stake in my side scrapped at bone and carved up more of me. I couldn’t pull it out nor could I risk flailing ad causing greater internal damage. As it gripped and forced me down harder into the dirt, I had to make a decision. Secombe to my injury or channel all my remaining strength and force myself up and away from it. I knew the door was still wide open, as the porch light illuminated its back. Scanning my surrounding franticly for anything I could use as a weapon, my eyes met a sharp fragment of the floorboards we’d crashed through. Stretching out my arm as blood leaked from my side, I clasped the fragment and with all my remaining strength, drove it into the scarecrow’s abdomen. I was hoping for a pained scream or honestly any reaction that would cause it to relent, but I was met with more silence. The beating subsided and for a moment I could breathe. Cold air burnt my left side as the knife jittered inside me. At that moment, long deliberate footsteps came from the staircase.

It dawned on me at that moment that Noah hadn't heard the fight and come down to help. I knew he wasn't really a fighter, but anything would have been good. Collectively, we turned as Noah stepped down the stairs. If I’d had seen him lying in a coffin, I would easily have mistaken him for a corpse, he was sallow and gaunt. His pale greenish yellow skin clung to his bones like a deflated balloon, sagging and pealing in places. His eyes, leaking a thick black liquid like tar, as it dripped to the floor with a wet splat. However, the most notable thing was the large red stain on his shirt, in the same location I had impaled the scarecrow. The leaking cadaver dragged itself over to kitchen counter and drew a kitchen knife from the drawer. Muttering, though not in Noah’s voice. It was a deeper, more guttural, primal sound. Just like Noah had when transfixed on the scarecrow. In an almost chant like tone it sang,

“Wicker man, wicker man, frail and mire,

You need a friend to light your fire,

gather round, heed his call,

a heart to bind, a soul to thrall.”

The scarecrow’s hand stretched out as Noah placed the knife in its wooden palm. I knew this was the end, I was too weak, and any semblance of hope had drowned in the pit of my stomach. Cursing Noah and that scarecrow. I'd told him everything he needed to set up their perfect finale. As my eyes began to slide closed and I prepared myself, a beam of light erupted through the open front door bathing all three of us in its warm embrace. A figure stood in the doorway, but before I could focus on it, my eyes closed, and I faded.

It's been a week since the ordeal. Honestly, I was lucky that Owen had dropped by to do a check up on the place. If he hadn't, I'd probably be another missing person or worse, a meat puppet. I was unconscious for the most part due to the leaking hole in my side, which has mostly healed up, leaving me with a large scar and a pretty beat up kidney. According to Owen that scarecrow was just that, a scarecrow. It was lifeless and never moved while he was there, though he said he felt extremely uncomfortable whenever he was close to it. As for Noah, he didn’t put up a fight, I doubt he could in that state. Unfortunately, he died shortly after being arrested, something about complete and utter mental collapse, almost like his mind was just switched off.

That feeling of betrayal still hurts, regardless of whether it was of his own volition. Everything I’d done, every plan I’d made, sabotaged. Listening to some older folks in the town, there was an old legend about a ‘wicker man’, back in the late 1500s. Honestly, sounded more like a scary bedtime story you tell children to make them do as they’re told. Either way I do pity Noah, sounds like he wasn’t much more than a vestal, same as those other boys. I don’t know why it was so fixated on scaring me. Maybe it needs fear to live, I don’t know. Fortunately for me, it’s giving the local police nightmares in their evidence lockup and shouldn’t be back in my life anytime soon.

After all of the horrible events in that house, sadly we sold and have moved back with my parents. It was an amazing property, but the stain of that thing wouldn't wash out. I profusely apologized to Rose about not cluing her in on what I was doing that day. She, like always made a joke and empathised with my mental state. Things are looking up though. I got a better job (somehow) and Rose has some new clients. We're even looking for a new place, maybe a bit further afield. I'm just happy we can move on and get started with our lives again.

Saw Owen yesterday, he just popped round to see how I was holding up. Seems really drained though, muttered something under his breath too, but I wasn’t really listening. Guess he must have a lot of paperwork back at the precinct (he didn’t find that funny). Typical of Rose to try and cheer me up with a stupid joke. She's bought a scarecrow and dressed it in one of my old jackets. I was wondering what happened to it as I'd not seen it since the move back. It startled me at first as it was standing at the base of my parents’ garden. Funny though, Rose said she'd never seen it before.

My birthday was in September. I thought a great birthday present is moving out again.

I moved to the other side of the city I grew up in when I landed my first official job that wasn’t a part time or an internship. Things were looking up for some years when covid hit and I lost my job. I moved back in with my parents. I didn’t want to go back there. They weren’t nice people. But job hunting during covid drained all off my savings so I did the second last thing I wanted to do. The first being to just ending it right there, but that’s a different story.

I started to pay rent on the second month I was back. and the rent money at my parents only increased as time went on. I didn’t see it at first. They were too old to beat me but they financially abused me. Every time I got a bit of savings going on, they would need to replace a washing machine or a fridge or remodel the sun deck or buy new furniture.

Eventually I saved enough to move out again. I spend the summer looking at apartments and rentals in slightly rundown parts of town. And I’ve seen some horror movie set level of bizarre design choices. One was on the top floor of an old 5 story apartment building. Every hallway was old but normal until the one I was checking out. It had an extra crawl space on the ceiling, for storage. So, on top of the hallway being extra low, now someone could be up there at any time. And the drop ladder is right next to MY door. You may wonder about the landlord or it being up to code. Don’t bother. As long as the building is mostly ‘fine’ no body is going to rise any questions.

I ran around a bunch of places before one really good one opened up for rent. Look, I’m a horror fan. I know in a story shit like this is too good to be true. But I wasn’t in a story. The apartment is on 1^(st) floor in a good neighborhood. Not anything new or fancy but it’s a relatively safe part of town. The place is clean, spacious, and it smells like nothing. I was sold on the third point there. It was clean inside and out. I went back and forth a couple of times between a couple of places but eventually I decided on this one.

Shit went sideways the first day I moved in. I had little stuff other than what was in my bedroom so unpacking was just one day’s work. I didn’t realize my upstairs neighbor was doing remodeling or construction until I took my headphones off. It sounded like if you were skipping a bowling ball on hardwood floor. Or a hard object knocking around. Or someone trying to scrape off the floorboards. Or even weirder, it sounded like nail scratching on blackboard but very muffled and deep. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just went off and on for the rest of the day and to my dismay the entire night.

It wasn’t very loud but its noticeable every time it happened. But I was so tired out by my move I still had a great night of sleep. The sound went on when I woke up next morning.

It would go on and on for a couple of second at a time. then stop for minutes. then repeat. For days. There is never any pattern.

I haven’t seen any of neighbors and I never checked or chatted with them before I moved in because my building had a security guard and I thought that’s good enough. And I’m the kind of person who is fine with picking up an unknown caller but I empathize with all the memes about being too afraid to talk to people. If I can get away with it, I’m not going to be the one who starts a conversation.

So, after a couple days and nights like that I started to look around.

First stop is of course my upstairs. The door in locked on the outside. With a medium sized padlock.

I then looked downstairs. it’s being used as storage. so empty. I then looked at my next door. Looked normal but their window was open one tiny crack. I peaked in. it looks like someone moved out years ago and nobody came to clean it. Ever. My other next door is the elevator well.

I went back my new home and turned on some rainstorm noises to sleep.

Its October now, so I have been trying to identify where exactly it was coming from. I have spent hours listening to every wall but they all sound like its coming from the wall itself. When I’m not listening at my walls the noises seem to be coming from my ceiling. I really have tried every wall, including outside walls. My new apartment is a small two bedroom. The noise is inescapable. Its in every room. It’s the same intensity wherever I go. No matter which bedroom, or living room, or my kitchen, or right inside of my door, or even my bathroom. The only place the noise feels a bit far away is in my master bedroom’s alcove.

I don’t know what to do right now. Maybe I will try to get some recordings.

A shadow was cast over us. A silent shriek that haunted history since we first took breath. While our ancestors feared the predators luring in the dark, they missed the monster hiding amongst them. He has no origin. He has no soul to call his own. His only reason to persevere is to feast on our suffering. Or so I was told.

Throughout the recorded history only a few noticed his presence. I would have never learned of this foul beast if it hadn’t been for my father, who taught me once I was old enough. A family secret passed down the generations, bound to an oath to avenge the fallen. I wish my father would have taken the truth to the grave.

At first, I believed him to be mad; the beast was nothing but a ghost of his tormented mind. But the evidence he showed me convinced me of the opposite. In many human catastrophes, countless blood baths, or killings of innocence, he had his hands in. From the dawn of our species to now.

The writings my father revealed to me seemed a crude joke at first. But the more he amassed on me, the more my mind struggled to deny the truth. Once I saw the pictures, my skepticism died. A shade striving through human filth. Every step he took sent waves throughout the place he had infiltrated.

Sometimes he orchestrated entire uprisings that could only end in blood with only crows reigning supreme over the graveyard he had filled. Though more often than I would like to believe, all he needed to do was a minute action. Nothing but a little push to cause a ripple that would summon a tsunami. 

An unfortunate accident of someone important or the right words whispered into the ears of a future terrorist. Despite my extensive studies of the beast, I can’t tell how he knows who or what to influence to bring his wanted outcome. Perhaps he can see the future or all the different potential futures. Perhaps he is just guessing, and only his successful attempts have been documented. His failures would remain unknown to us. If there are any.

As to what I believe, I think the beast can glimpse into the human heart. It can decipher what we carry in our chest, hidden even from ourselves. With this information, the beast can play every human to a degree where it appears to be mind control. His capabilities are more akin to rewriting fate; as if he put us all on a determined path that would bring nothing but destruction.

This, at least, is what my father, my family, and every other doomed soul believed about him. To explain further, dear reader, you have to indulge me. Before unmasking the beast, I have to describe what brought me to the point of writing it all down so other people could learn of this thing. Then you will understand.

As I said, my father opened my eyes to the harsh truth when I was an adult. But even before that, I could tell something was wrong with my father. He always appeared to be preoccupied. As if something was haunting his mind. Father never cared for any of my interests or me in particular. Me and mother were nothing but noise irritating his important work. I asked Mother a few times why Father behaved in such a way. She knew about the beast, but I can’t tell when Father explained it to her.

“You will see, Jonathan,” she used to say. “Soon you will see.”

The only time Father invested his precious time into me was due to my education. Anything besides the best wasn’t good enough. Father never raised his voice against me or hit me, but he punished me with silence. His eyes were always cold, but when I couldn’t meet his high expectations, they gained a certain loathing for me. Before his disinterest would originate from a genuine lack of care, now it would arise from disdain. Only when I redeemed myself did he cease.

Praise was a rare occurrence but when it came, I held on to it like a thirsting man to water, using up every bit of it in my fruitless attempt to satiate myself. Mother was much the same. It might sound cruel, but I don’t think of her as a person. She served more as an extension to my father. She never spoke about the time before she met him. The way she acted you would think there was no such time. I don’t know what she saw in him to cast aside her identity and any hope for a loving husband in favor of my father who appeared to have lost all interest in her once I was born.

The only reason to be intimate with her was to create me. Nothing had any sentimental value in the eyes of my father. It was nothing but a means to an end. My mother to birth an heir, and me to carry on the family oath. An oath inherited from father to son for lord knows how long. My family history is not something I enjoyed to study. It is filled with tragedy and agony; much brought on by my ancestors themselves in their obsessed drive to hunt the beast.

I can only speculate how my grandfather treated my father, but by his hostile demeanor, it couldn’t have been better than my upbringing. Worse by the way he screamed in his sleep. Whatever it was, Father never dared to speak it out loud, but it influenced his every action and instilled him with the drive to end this generational-spanning pursuit. I shared this desire to end it all, as the thought of putting a child of mine through the same training I went through filled me with dread.

Every waking hour was focused on strengthening my body and honing my mind. I had to endure several harsh years of combat training and study concerning the beast. All for increasing my chance to not just survive an encounter with him but to also defeat him. Despite my father’s many shortcomings, he knew his craft and how to pass on his knowledge and skill to the next generation.

In these years I learned to hate my father in earnest. Before that, I was afraid of his judgment and yearned for his approval. But after receiving his complete attention, I came to understand that my father’s opinion shouldn’t be something to be taken into consideration. But I stayed. I stayed by my father’s side and did everything he told me to do.

After just a year, I had all the expertise to flee his grasp and survive on my own. Then why didn’t I? Easy, he had a point. The beast had to die. The fallen deserved to be avenged. And while my father was someone that I didn’t owe anything to, he was my best chance in eliminating the beast.

I think it was during the fourth year of my training that my father either thought I was prepared enough, or he couldn’t wait any longer. He was possessed by the wish to be the one who defeats the beast and puts an end to his secret reign. Gathering all the intel we had on the beasts, collected over countless decades by my family, we crafted our plan.

Based on all we had on the beast, we could narrow down his current location and identity. The beast wasn’t just a master manipulator but also a genius actor. How many different characters he made up over his long existence to blend into human society is impossible to tell. Tricking such a being should appear to be impossible, but my father and I noticed something.

Hidden underneath all the evidence of the beast’s existence and his deeds, there was a pattern. He was unstable. Despite all the knowledge and cunning he had, he often committed grievous mistakes, which seemed to pile up over the years. Did he lose his caution, as no one had been able to stop him yet? Or was something else occurring?

At this point in time, we couldn’t say, but we knew for certain that the beast wasn’t perfect. Take my family for example. As I have already mentioned, many of my ancestors didn’t enjoy a long life. Dedicating yourself to a war against the devil himself didn’t just promise a constant threat to your physical health but also to your psyche. While the beast laid waste to several members of my bloodline, many more couldn’t handle the truth and looming shadow of the adversary, taking solace in drugs or alcohol. Or mere severe measurements.

Why then didn’t the beast end my family? Why take the risk of anyone coming for you; no matter how slight the chances of one’s own loss? The answer is the beast tried. He had tried to kill every single one of my ancestors but failed to do so. Multiple times he came close, but always one member of my family escaped. Why not turn the tables and hunt the hunter? Because for some reason, the beast couldn’t.

Furthermore, the beast showed periods of inactivity. While measuring his actions proved near impossible, as often his influence was too faint to notice, we were able to map his deeds. Similar to his incompetence, his level of downtime was increasing. Did he need to rest more the further he aged? Questions over questions and there was only one way to answer them all.

My father and I took a great risk by going after the beast with such lacking intel, but both of us were keen to end the hunt. It appeared we didn’t just inherit the responsibility to stop the beast but also the tiredness of an entire bloodline, fighting for far too long. So, after months of observation and stalking, we were able to find him.

With the difficult part done, we went for the near-impossible one. Catching him. You see, Father didn’t just want to assassinate the beast, he wanted to capture him. The family records show that the beast isn’t someone to be trifled with, but he doesn’t seem to be unkillable. Ageless yes, but not immortal. This being said this doesn’t mean he would die as easily as a human being would.

One of my ancestors for example shot the beast six times in the chest. The bullets drove him to death’s door, but he succeeded in escaping justice despite his injuries. This showed us that we couldn’t believe normal measures to be sufficient to accomplish the deed. But perhaps it would have been. We were certain the beast was weakened, so maybe a well-timed bullet to the head would have been all it needed.

But no, father wasn’t willing to take any more risks. So, we decided to capture him and to take our time ending him. To accomplish this, we started to poison him. Small doses at first, nothing that should alarm him. We wanted to test out whether it would numb him enough to seize him.

One of the training fields which I had to master was deception and disguise but fooling the fools’ lord was impossible. Once alarmed, the beast would vanish, and it would take decades to find him again. So, we couldn’t come into direct contact with him, but with the people around him.

The coffee shops the beast loved to visit, his workplace, and his favorite restaurant. The beast is a creature of habit, and we had his schedule mapped out. We knew when he wasn’t nearby, so we could infiltrate his surroundings to place our drugs and poisons. And within days, our plan proved itself successful.

The beast appeared sick, barely able to keep his eyes open. His workplace ordered him to stay put at home and only return once cured. Dear reader, you might question our strategy. How could a being such as the beast ever fall sick? Wouldn’t such a creature be immune against all mortal illnesses?

The short answer is no. The beast’s body had been ravaged by the plague three different times. This allowed some of my ancestors and other hunters to find and fight him. But no matter the infliction, he persevered, but he suffered, nonetheless. And, more importantly, he was afraid for his life.

The beast did as he was told and remained at his home. On the third day, he went out to do some shopping. He had no one in his life to do this for him, fitting for a being of his nature. This was when we ambushed him. My father lured him next to our van by asking for directions. I told you, dear reader, I fear that the beast can look into the human heart and read it like a book. He should have noticed our intentions immediately right away. At that point in time, I thought the sickness was hindering his observation skills. Furthermore, I thought the beast believed himself safe, having forgotten all his caution.

Father distracted him for a few moments, so I could sneak out of the van. It happened within moments. The beast described which direction my father should take to reach his destination as I flung my arm around his neck and injected him with a mixture of drugs strong enough to knock out a horse. He was struggling underneath my hold, and I noticed his inhuman strength. If he hadn’t been weakened before, he could free himself with ease. As the mixture began to spread, I dragged him into the van. Once I closed the door, he had lost consciousness.

We brought him to our home and locked him up in our basement. Our house was reinforced and prepared for a direct assault of the beast. But also, to keep it there if the opportunity should open itself up to us. We bound him to a chair with locks of steel inside a cage. There were no windows, and the only door could take a rocket blast. Just for good measure.

I don’t know how long we watched his unconscious body. The arch enemy of not just our family but our very species trapped in front of us. Quite the sight to behold. Or so it should have been. I knew the beast looked like a common man, but you expect to see something in him. Some minute detail he got wrong. Something that would mark him as the devil. But no, he looked like someone ordinary. A bit disappointing.

He stirred after a few hours. He took in his surroundings, and the realization of his situation dawned on him. The lord of fools could act like no one. He begged. He sobbed. Screams for help. The beast fought against his restraints, roaring to be freed. My chest tightened at his performance. If I had been a lesser man, I would have believed him.

Father wasn’t moved either. He took his seat in front of the beast and began his questioning. He wanted to learn more about him before killing him.

“What are you talking about, man?!” the beast cried. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Every time the beast failed to answer, Father hit him. Strong from the beginning, but his punches lacked the ferocity I knew my father to be capable of. That changed within an hour. Blood littered the floor accompanied by several teeth. It was a difficult thing to watch. The never-ending cries and my father’s wrath.

“Show yourself, devil!” my father screamed. He seized the beast by his hair, wet with sweat and blood. “Your lies won’t convince anyone!”

The beast’s face was swollen. His eyes were shut, and his nose was broken several times; any resemblance of a human appearance was beaten out of his features. My father collapsed in his chair, panting. He had kept himself in peak condition. He could run any marathon with ease and his punches could crack a human skull with just one hit. That the beast had survived his barrage for hours by this point proved beyond a doubt that this wasn’t a man in front of me.

“Jonathan, do it,” Father said, wiping away the blood from his hands.

I took out the bag of tools we had prepared for this moment. I do not intend to describe what I did to the beast. My father took joy in his torment. That’s why I think we kept him for as long as possible. Not to learn anything, but to make him suffer. To force the devil to endure his own domain for once, share the fate of any poor sinner, doomed for eternity.

I didn’t enjoy it. Often, I had dreams of grandeur. Of me being the savior that would free humankind of their worst adversary. That I would make the beast experience true regret once I was finished with him. Reality was less spectacular. I tortured him. Every pain you could imagine, I drowned him in. Agony you couldn’t even begin to grasp. Even if you torment the devil himself, your hands will be soiled by sin that can’t be washed away. It shouldn’t. It should stick to you to remind yourself what you are capable of and willing to commit.

Three days. Three days the beast endured… no, three days I endured.

Up until this point, I had successfully disassociated myself from the situation and me. But as I was taking a break, cleaning myself, I started shaking. I couldn’t stand any more second in this.

“Just say it,” I said, turning towards the beast. “Just tell him what he wants to learn.”

The beast was covered in blood and wounds. I hadn’t left a single spot untouched. His flesh was burned, cut, crushed, and worse. How many bones I broke or limbs I destroyed, I don’t dare to ponder. His body was more composed of freshly made scars than anything else, burrowing deep, speaking of pain reaching down towards hell. Yet he hadn’t died.

The beast’s head hung low, twitching. He was muttering something to himself. I grabbed a knife for the chance he would try something and approached him. I had to step next to him to hear his weak whispers.

“I can’t…,” he said. “I can’t wake. Let me sleep. I can’t endure it…”

“Then confess!” I said. “Be truthful towards my father, and I promise your suffering will cease!”

The beast shook his head, tears falling. “It hurts… it hurts so much…”

Somehow, I knew he wasn’t speaking about the torture I put him through. “What do you mean? What is hurting you?”

“My head… it’s full. Please, I don’t want to wake…”

“What are you talking about, devil? Answer me?!”

“It hurts?!” the beast screamed. He jerked his head up, staring at me. I was startled, moving away from him. While his eyes had been shut swollen two days ago, his body had an unnatural capability to heal itself. Due to that, the swelling had receded, and I could see them. His right eye still had the light blue tone as when we captured him but not his left one. The iris was drenched in a dark that would devour you if you wouldn’t be careful with a hot crimson star in its midst. It burned. An inferno trapped inside his head, so intense it blinded me.

“It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!”

He didn’t stop screaming the same phrase again. He wanted to trash around, the bindings cutting into his flesh as they held him. He threw his head back, his chest rising and falling in violent interludes. Blood poured out of his left eye, red tears descending like a comet toward the ground. The look he gave me. No malice, no promise of revenge or carnage. Inside this trapped star of his, I saw no devil but a broken being, driven mad.

His wild stare pierced into me with the weight of too many lives. “Why did you wake me?! Why?!”

Like a savage monster, the beast rampaged against his chains. A rage born from something I couldn’t understand took hold of him. But neither my father nor me were the target of his ire. I think the world itself or perhaps something grander laid at the core of his wrath. Too big to seize or to rip apart. Without a direct perpetrator to take revenge against, the beast seemed to want to tear apart anything too close to it, blinded by his inner turmoil. Something needed to die to clench this lust of his.

Dear reader, I can’t begin to describe the dread filling my lungs with every breath I took, pushing out the air I would have needed. Standing in close approximation to the beast and his anger crippled my mind and body, forgetting how to perform the simplest of tasks. How do I move my legs? How do I blink? How do I breathe?

“It’s all your fault!” the beast spat at me. “All of you should go to hell! You should burn! All of you! Burn, you should! Burn!”

As his left eye turned towards me, I became the only thing it seemed to perceive in the whole world. Its inferno leaked out of it, and I swear, dear reader, I could feel the heat of it. It bit into me, threatening to burn away my flesh and soul alike. This little taste of it, of the agony that would await me, was all it took to make me run up the stairs and flee.

The next hours are nothing but a blur. I can recall taking my parents' car and driving until it had no fuel anymore. I left it abandoned on the street and made my way through a forest, dodging tree branches and other obstacles in my mad sprint. When I came to stop or why I don’t know.

All I remember was cowering against a massive rock, pushing my back into the moss growing on its surface. Like waking from a nightmare, I blinked at my surroundings, having to remind myself that whatever I thought to have gone through was over. That I was back in reality. Night was already on the rise, and I feared to have been lost in the forest. Thankfully, I hadn’t made it far into its green embrace and found my way out of it easily enough.

I walked all night, haunted by my own cowardice. Father would be infuriated. I would never hear the end of it. But this was nothing more than a passing thought. This cursed eye followed me like a wraith, digging its claws into my skull, refusing to let go. To find any refuge from its haunting presence, I replayed the strange rumblings of the beast. What had he meant?

I didn’t find an answer on my walk. My mind was in shambles. As the sun rose again, I had arrived at home, or what was left of it. At first glance, it didn’t seem of the ordinary. But once I noticed the bloody handprint on the open door, I knew what had happened. I stood there for a couple of minutes, licking over my dry lips.

Did I want to see my dead parents? Did I need to see their shredded corpses, their guts littered over the floor? I don’t know whether I ever truly loved my parents. Thinking of them in this regard appears alien to me. Why treat them in a way they never treated me? But as I stepped towards my old house, I could sense a tear making its way down my cheek. I felt relieved at its presence, living proof that I was still somewhat human.

It was the only one I shed for them. 

I won’t describe them to you. They deserve this much at least. Just let it be known, that they tried to fight.

The beast had broken free of his shackles probably shortly after I fled, ripped skin and flesh still sticking to the shattered steel. In a daze, I sat down in the very spot the beast had been trapped in. I didn’t care for the blood soiling my clothing. I had bigger things on my mind.

Did I feel hate for the beast? I can’t say for sure. The glimpse I received of him had disturbed my outlook on him. But, after pondering the last conversation I had with him, I came to understand who he really was. His fate.

And here we are, dear reader. We’ve reached the end of my story, but this little tale is not over yet. You might remember that I promised to unmask the beast. That is only partially true. You would be forgiven for calling me a liar. I didn’t do so with ill intent. Everything I ever committed, I ever partook in, was only for the betterment of humanity.

I believed killing the beast a great service to my species, one that would remain unknown to them all, who yet couldn’t live without my deeds. I wasn’t wrong, but my goals have somewhat shifted. And the reason for that is you, dear reader.

One of you is not who they believe they are. You are not a bad person. You didn’t choose to be born like that. I thought you were a devil. Perhaps you were once. I can’t say. But what I can say is that I think I understand your turmoil. No, his turmoil.

No mind was made to endure eternity. The weight of his memories is crushing him, aren’t they? When I had woken him, I had woken him to them. Had he really fed on our suffering, or had he lashed out against anything that had taken him out of his slumber?

Is that why he had manipulated? Why he had pushed for destruction, as it was the only act of revenge he’d had for this cruel world that had birthed him? I won’t forgive him. I don’t think anyone can. My speculations shouldn’t be misunderstood as me trying to absolve him of his sins. They are his crimes, but not yours. You are a victim, unknowingly at that. But he is the same. A victim, too, but also a perpetrator. A broken child and a savage beast.  

Dear reader, I know you are not aware of the true nature of your being. You are nothing more than a pleasant dream. A dream of normality. An ordinary life, free of the curse of eternity. But every dream will come to an end. The beast will lash out again, and I can’t let this happen. Too many people have died. This needs to end.

You might wonder, how I found you? How do I know you will be amongst the few to read these very lines? The answer is simple. I finally understand you. The reason my family and the others all had failed is because none had attempted to comprehend what they were hunting. The beast was never alone. You were always by his side, shielding him from his suffering. The beast had appeared unknowable. Something beyond human that we can’t ever truly predict. That only after decades of close reading we might hope to find his scent again.

But not me. Not anymore. Every step you take, every thought rushing through your mind, every tear you shed. Like an open book, you are to me now. You won’t see me coming. You won’t feel a thing. When you read this, you will think me either mad or this being nothing but a crude joke. And if you believe a single word I wrote, you won’t think yourself the beast. You will believe someone else to house the monster.

This is good. You will die convinced being human. This grace I will grant you. Why am I writing these words then? Why am I announcing my coming? It is not for my desire to tell my story or to warn you but for the beast inside. Despite being asleep, I believe him to be watching. To hear what you hear through a veil, a faint echo he can perceive.

I want him to know his suffering will end. And to you, dear reader, I am sorry. Sorry that it had to be you. May we all meet under a brighter sun. Somewhere free of curses.

And now, dear reader, it is time to say goodbye. For now.

Does this story meet requirements of the nosleep guidelines?

Hey there, everyone. My name is Jack, and I stumbled upon a strange email in my inbox from a user called GhostInTheWire. At first, I thought it was spam or another hoax because it was a very stupid name. But when I opened it, I found something unsettling—stories written by my friend (ish) named Ethan that sent chills down my spine. The email urged me to share these stories as widely as possible, claiming they were crucial to understanding what happened to him.

Ethan had always been a bit of an oddball, even before the incidents that spiraled his life out of control. He was the kind of guy who would sit in the corner at parties, watching everyone with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. An introverted soul trapped in a world that seemed too loud, too chaotic for his liking. His friends often joked that he was a modern-day philosopher, always lost in thought, often expressing profound insights that left others nodding, though many didn’t fully grasp his ideas. But behind that thoughtful exterior, there were moments of deep insecurity and paranoia that plagued him, especially as he grew more distant from everyone around him.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that these tales needed to be told, and I had to do my part. Each line pulls you deeper into Ethan's mind as he navigates terrifying experiences, leaving you to wonder what’s real and what’s a figment of his unraveling sanity. I remember the last time I saw him, his eyes darting around as if he were searching for something—or someone—hidden in the shadows. He had mentioned feeling watched, that there were eyes everywhere, always following him. It was unsettling, yet we all dismissed it as just another one of his quirky musings. But now, looking back, it feels like there was something more ominous lurking beneath his words.

The first file detailed Ethan's descent into madness, framed by a series of bizarre occurrences leading up to his capture. He had begun to receive strange messages on his phone, cryptic texts that seemed to know things about him—details no one should have known. It started innocently enough, a simple "Are you there?" at odd hours. But then the messages grew darker, more personal, revealing secrets he had never shared with anyone. It left him paranoid and isolated, convinced that someone was out to get him. Those of us close to him noticed the changes: the way he flinched at loud noises, how he jumped at the slightest touch. It was heartbreaking to watch someone so vibrant become a shell of himself.

One evening, after a particularly disorienting day filled with strange encounters—like the time he swore he saw a figure lurking outside his window—Ethan finally broke down and called me. His voice trembled as he recounted his fears, his growing suspicion that he was being hunted. I tried to reassure him, but my words felt hollow in the face of his terror. “It’s all in your head,” I insisted, but even I wasn’t convinced. He insisted on staying inside, locked away in his room, convinced that the outside world was a trap. That was the last time I heard from him before everything changed.

I knew Ethan needed help, but by the time I tried to intervene, it was too late. The last email I received from him was frantic—a mix of desperation and terror, warning me about the “voices” and “shadows” that tormented him. I thought he was joking at first, but as I read further, the gravity of his situation hit me hard. He mentioned being followed, but there was something else in those lines, something that chilled me to the bone.

He claimed he was being watched by a faceless entity that whispered his secrets, dragging him deeper into madness. He begged me to believe him, to warn others, but I felt paralyzed, unsure of how to help. And now, as I read through these stories, it becomes clear that Ethan was losing the battle against whatever was haunting him. Each tale reveals a man unraveling at the seams, caught between reality and a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

This is a struggle to write out, these files are photographs of scraggly handwriting sprawled on papers which was unmistakably Ethan’s handwriting. Ill try my very best to write what he has said word for word. I’m just as lost as all of you when it comes to all of this. I’m just the guy who found this email from a user named GhostInTheWire, and now I’m sharing what I’ve got. So, bear with me. Let’s dive into this next chapter together, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some answers—or at least unravel more mysteries.

File 1 : The Room

I-uh where do I start? I’ve told this before, right? No, Maybe not. Maybe not in the right way. Sometimes it’s hard to piece it all together. Like when you’re missing…missing parts of a puzzle, yeah? Thats what it feels like. I forget things, but not… not that night. That night, I remember too well. Too well.

We were friends. God we were so close. Me, Sydney, Mike, Jason, Lily. Always together–since high school, maybe even before that; it gets hazy when I try to dig into my middle school memories. We–we did everything together, trusted each other. And I…I loved them. But love–love can mess things up. People think love is perfect, right? Its not. I said things, I did things that hurt them, and they didnt know. No, they didn’t. Not really. But someone else did.

The voice… he knew. He always knew. Like he was watching me, listening to all the ugly parts I hid. Every mistake, every bad decision–I dont even know how he found them, but he did. Every single one. And Sydney… God, Sydney never knew. She thought I was a kind hearted person, always doing the right thing, she´d laugh with me, trust me–never doubting me for even a second. But,see,here’s the thing. I was already falling apart, way before that night. I was slipping, piece by piece, and no one noticed, no one but him.

That’s the thing about me—about what I was. I never told them the whole truth. I never told anyone the whole truth. It’s easy to play the good guy when you know how to lie, how to make people see what you want them to see. I was good at that. Real good. They thought I was this decent guy—Sydney, Mike, all of them. But the truth? I’d done things. Things I couldn’t take back. Manipulated people, twisted the truth until it barely looked like a lie. It wasn’t just little stuff either—fraud, theft... worse. And they never suspected a thing. Not a single one of them knew. I kept it all buried under smiles and jokes. I—I guess I got away with it for so long that I started believing I was actually good. But the Voice... he knew. He knew it all.

I miss her. I miss all of them. But Sydney... She's different. She trusted me more than anyone. And what did I do? I let her fall. I—no, wait. No, that’s not right. It’s not about me, not really. It’s about—about that night. The one I can’t stop thinking about. We were around the fire, just talking like we always did. Mike told some dumb joke, and Sydney smiled at me, leaning against my shoulder like nothing was wrong. Like I was still someone she could trust. That’s the moment. That’s when everything changed. The blink, the shift. And then... then I was somewhere else.

It’s hard to explain, really. There was this heaviness in the air, like something unseen had crawled into our circle, something that didn’t belong. Maybe it was the way the fire crackled a little too loud, or how the wind died down, making the night feel... still. Too still. I didn’t notice it at first. None of us did. We were caught up in our own world, wrapped in the laughter and warmth, and I—I thought everything was fine. That we were safe. But looking back now... I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming.

The last thing I remember clearly—before the steel, the monitors, the screams—was us sitting around that fire. Mike was in the middle of one of his dumb jokes, the kind that never quite landed, but we laughed anyway. Sydney was next to me, her head resting on my shoulder, smiling. It all felt... normal. Like it always did.

And then—blink—I was somewhere else. No, maybe it wasn’t that fast. I don’t know. I—I felt something, a sharp pain in my shoulder. Or was it more like a blunt force? Could’ve been a hit, or maybe... maybe nothing at all. I tried to check, saw something sticking out of me—like a dart? Or... no, that doesn’t make sense. I don’t remember pulling it out, I just... passed out. I think. The others must’ve gone down too. I—I can’t remember how.

Cold. So cold. The kind of cold that settles into your bones, like I’d been thrown into a meat locker. There was this hum in the walls, low and constant, like something alive was hiding just out of sight, watching. The room was small, tight—almost like a chamber. I was sitting in a rusted creaky metal chair with one leg just a tad bit shorter than the other, I wasn’t tied down, free to move if I wanted. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Behind me was a toilet, rusted and filthy, the kind you’d find in some old, grimy gas station. The kind of place where an old farmer with IBS probably spent half his life.

In front of me was a bottle of warm water on this oversized, cold metal table. The label was worn, scratched to hell, but I could still make out enough of it: Dasani. I’d rather stay thirsty. No fire. No warmth. Just those damn screens, glowing in the dimness, reflecting back at me. And there they were—Sydney, Mike, Jason, Lily—all stuck in their own rooms, waiting. For what, I had no idea. But they were there, on those screens. Helpless.

My head–it was pounding. Everything was spinning, like I was forgetting pieces, like I was remembering wrong. But the screens… The screens were real.

Then the voice came. His voice.

“Good Morning, Ethan” It cooed. Cheerful, almost like he was singing it to me. Mocking. “Did you sleep well? Oh wait! I know you didn’t, I know everything about you Ethan… Including those pesky night terrors of yours… made you unbearable on the ride over.”

My heart pounded in my ears, my throat tight. “What…What is this?” I croaked, barely recognizing my own voice.

“Oh you know exactly what this is Ethan! I’ve been watching you for a looong time. I’ve seen all your little failures. And now, well, now you’re going to have the chance to make things right!” He laughed, a sound like glass shattering in my head.

I-I tried to speak, tried to make sense of it, but all of a sudden, one of the monitors moved closer to me. Its then static screen flickered to Sydney. She was pale, her eyes wide. Chains locked her to a chair, and behind her…there were these–devices. Mechanical, sharp, glinting in the dim light.

Here’s the fun part,” the Voice continued, as light as ever. “You’ve got a decision to make, Ethan. It’s easy. All you have to do is choose. But if you choose wrong… you’ll see!” the voice bellowed in laughter.

Then, there came a timer reset to sixty seconds. Beneath the monitor, two buttons came up through the table–one red, the other blue.

The timer started.

“Go on, Ethan,” the voice whispered, like a twisted game show host. “All you have to do is pick one. Just one. But choose wisely. She depends on it!”

My hands felt cold, numb as I stared at the colors. Red. Blue. What the hell kind of choice was this? It didn't make any sense. How was I supposed to know? I-I had to choose.

Sydney whimpered on the screen, her eyes wide behind the grotesque device clamped over her face. It was like an Iron maiden. The mask was heavy and rusted, covering her entire head. Inside, spiked jutted inward, so close to her skin I could almost feel the pressure myself.

“Tick-Tock Ethan! Thirty-five seconds left. I wonder… what do you think Sydney would want you to pick? Red, maybe? Or does blue feel safer?” The voice exclaimed. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck as I stared at the screen, my pulse pounding louder in my ears with every second that passed. “I don’t know,” I cried, my voice breaking. “I don’t–”

“You’ve never been good at decisions, have you?” The Voice taunted, as playful as ever. “Just like that time you let Sydney take the fall for stealing from her dad’s safe. You remember, don't you? The cash you needed so badly? She trusted you then too.”

My breath caught in my throat. How does he know that? I never told anyone. Not even Sydeny knew it was me who took the money. My hand shook as I stared at the screen, the memory hitting me harder than I expected. “Who—who are you?” I muttered, my voice cracking. “How do you—” “Oh, Ethan,” the Voice interrupted, almost laughing. “You don’t get to ask the questions here. Focus. We’ve got a game to play.” His tone darkened, the sing-song gone. “Red or blue, Ethan. Don’t keep her waiting.” I winced, my hand hovering over the screen. Red or blue. My head was spinning—Sydney’s face, the spikes, her terrified breathing—it was all crashing in on me. I squeezed my eyes shut, slamming my finger down on the blue square.

There was a pause. Silence.

Then the screen went black. Except for that text in a boldened white, moving with the static of the screen.

“Uh oh, Ethan, you should've thought harder!”

Sydney's scream pierced the air, raw and jagged. My eyes flew open, and the camera zoomed in on her–Her hand trembled uncontrollably, a grotesque dance of fear as blood poured down her arm like a crimson waterfall. And—oh God—her pinky finger was missing, utterly severed. The flesh where it had once been was a jagged, raw wound, the knuckle mangled and gaping. Blood bubbled from the deep cut, pooling on the cold metal surface beneath her, vibrant and glistening in the harsh light. The metallic tang filled the air, mingling with the sickening scent of iron. Each heartbeat seemed to pulse fresh life into the gory wound, and crimson droplets splattered onto her skin, a horrifying reminder of the pain she was enduring.

The spikes inside the mask whirred, moving closer, their rusty tips almost grazing her skin now. Sydney’s breaths came in ragged, panicked gasps, her eyes pleading through the screen.

“Ethan, Ethan, Ethan…” the Voice sighed, disappointment lacing his tone. “You really messed that up, didn’t you, Ethan? She’s a little lighter now—and closer to a pointy end. But hey…” His voice shifted, becoming giddy and playful. “Don’t worry! There’s plenty more rounds to go!” My chest tightened, my breath shallow. I—I chose wrong. I did that. I hurt her. And yet... There was no time to process it, no time to apologize, no time to fix anything. The timer was resetting again. “Ready for round two?” the Voice sang, his excitement bubbling over.

Anyway, I think that’s enough for now. The air feels different after writing this, like there’s something watching me—or maybe that’s just in my head. Still, I can’t shake this feeling. I’ll come back and share more later, but right now, I need to take a break. These files… they get under your skin after a while. Ill answer any of your guy’s questions given due time. I don’t know if it’s the content or if it’s just me starting to lose it, but either way, I need to step away. If you’re curious, hang tight. There’s more to come. But for now, I’ll be back later.

My Dad once told me my great Grandfather was a trench raider in WW1.

For his whole life, he never talked about his childhood or his family outside of the occasional quip about how things were harder for him back then. But in 6th grade, when I had a history project about the “Heroes Of Canada”. I went to the man for help, who at the time, I saw as the king of Historical fun facts and awesome stories.

While we ate breakfast one morning, I had asked him what the teacher meant by a Hero, because at the time I could only think of Spider Man or Batman and they weren't Canadian. I half joked asking my Dad if Wolverine counted as a Canadian Hero. He chuckled and agreed, but said that the teacher probably meant something along the lines of a soldier or someone who fought for people's rights and equality, like Martin Luther King.

I felt silly for not thinking of something like that on my own or even just clarifying it with my teacher at school, but the thought was quickly replaced by a new one.

“Do you know any hero soldiers?” I asked my Dad, thinking to myself that it would be a way cooler project than equality. In hindsight, I really wish I hadn't asked him any questions. 

His face quickly sunk from a content smirk to a sullen, blank expression. A face I knew too well from when he was drinking. He let out a soft quiet sigh, as if to not disturb dust on an old shelf, and looked down at his plate of food. I began to twiddle my thumbs.

“Well…” His voice was strained and hushed.

“I…your, great grandfather was a soldier. Back in the Great War.” He cleared his throat as if he had misspoke. “World War One, I mean.” He kept pushing around a hashbrown within the runny yoke of his eggs, the fork scraping the plate ever so slightly. It drove me insane, but I stayed dead quiet as I twirled my thumbs.

He kept his eyes to the hashbrown and I could tell this was hard for him to conjure up again. I thought to myself that HE must've been why my Dad never brought his family up in conversation. Mom always told me Dad was raised by my great Grandfather for the formative years of his life, and after my Grandpa passed, my Dad changed a lot and moved far away from Nova Scotia, to Ontario where he met my Mom and had me. That's all I ever got though. It wasn't even from my Dad so I didn't know if that was the truth, or just something Mom told me to keep my inquisitive mind at bay. I didn't need to be told; That something terrible happened to my Grandpa. I just knew. With a shaky voice I asked my Dad one last question. 

“Can I do my project about great Grandpa? You know so much about him, and you c-can…uh…you…” I trailed off, realizing I had nothing convincing to say. I felt ashamed for even asking.

My dad finally raised his head, and slowly met my eyes. I stopped twiddling my thumbs and went cold, my stomach dropping like an anchor. I felt like I could almost puke. My Dads face twisted into a dejected version of my father that I couldn't recognize at all. The only thing he said in response was, ”That man is no Hero.” He said it through clenched teeth as the veins on his neck pulsed against his red skin. That was the first time my Dad terrified me to my core, and we never spoke about him again.

This memory came flooding back to me as I sit here in my great Grandfather's attic, holding his mud rusted trench gun next to a pile of old letters. Some addressed and stamped, some not, but a lot, and I mean a lot of them, are soaked in blood. I get goosebumps at the thought of where…or who it came from.

I’ll keep you updated and post again when I can transcribe the letters, but I think I’ll need some time. 

Slán go fóill,

Eoin Kelly

I’m struggling to find the proper start to this story. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when everything started. Memories aren’t always linear and I can’t help but feel like I’m piecing together a puzzle made of wrong pieces. However, this story has to be written. It has to be read. If not, I fear that all we went through will be for nothing.

In lieu of finding a beginning, I think it’s fair to say that this story begins at a restaurant called The Red Duck Cafe.

The Red Duck was a dive. It survived off of a steady stream of locals with an inclination towards alcoholism. The dusty parking lot in the front of the building was filled with rusted pickups and a collection of motorcycles. 

It was an old wooden building with a sloping porch and a faded exterior. One of the front windows was broken, then fixed with nothing more than cardboard and tape. Half of the neon signs flickered unsteadily, the other half didn’t turn on at all. 

The only mixed drinks that were served at The Red Duck were the ones with the recipe in the title. Tap beer was two dollars at happy hour and the entire place smelt like frying oil and cigarettes. It wasn’t the kind of place I frequented, but it was where my newest client had requested we meet at.

It was around seven o’clock when I found myself sitting at a table inside the bar. I waited patiently with a gin and tonic sitting in front of me. I watched the bubbles rise to the surface and pop, thinking about very little at all.

The bartender, an older man with a long beard, was the only other inhabitant of the bar at that time. He stood behind the bar, cleaning the classes. As always he had a rather bored expression as if there were a million things he’d rather be doing. In the background an old Johnny Cash song played on the radio.

When the door opened, a tall, dark-haired man walked into the bar. He glanced around with his hands in his pockets before his eyes fell onto me. He walked up to my table without any hesitation and sat down.

“You must be Alvaro,” I said as I offered my hand.

He shook it, “call me Varo,” he replied with a half-smile. His voice was rougher than I expected from a man his age. He couldn’t have been older than thirty-five, but his voice was harsh and weathered like the voice of someone much older and rougher. 

“You’re Ronnie?” He asked when I failed to introduce myself. 

“That’s me,” I said. People were always a bit surprised when they met me, that’s what I get for choosing a boy’s name, I suppose. 

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Varo said as he stretched slightly. “I know it’s late, I work odd hours,” he explained. As he spoke, I noticed a strange scar across the side of his throat, it was white against his skin. I tried not to stare for too long.

“It’s no problem,” I said. Afterall, it was my job. 

After a few moments, the bartender took Varo’s order and returned with a glass of whiskey. Varo sipped the drink, hesitating to tell me what it was that he was asking me to do.

After a moment of waiting I said, “if you need someone found, you’re going to have to give me a little bit of information.”

“Right,” he nodded quickly, running his hand through his hair. He seemed nervous but I had to remind myself that not everyone is used to talking about people disappearing. Sometimes it was hard to talk about.

Varo finally met my eyes and asked, “you like Phoenix?”

I shrugged. “It’s better than a lot of places,” I said. 

He nodded in response and sipped his drink. At last, Varo asked, “what kind of cases do you typically work on?”

“Minor things mostly,” I admitted. “Cheating wives, husbands with second families, that sort of thing…sometimes I’ll work on a missing persons case, but that’s rare.” Being a private investigator was hardly as glamorous as it seemed on the big screen. 

Varo hesitated for a moment before saying, “have you found anyone?”

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “A couple months ago a family hired me to find their son. I found him living with a bunch of other kids at some trap house outside of town. Before that, I was hired to find a man’s wife. She was across the country, living with an ex-boyfriend.”

“How do you find them?”

“Phones, usually. They can be tracked easily, but sometimes people ditch their phones if they don’t want to be found.”

“Then what do you do?”

“If I have access to their personal computer I might be able to narrow down the places they would go. People are pretty predictable for the most part.”

“What if you can’t use their computer?”

“I have my ways,” I said with a smile.

Varo didn’t return the smile.

“Most people have a handful of locations that they would consider disappearing to. A vacation spot or a town they lived in before. Like I said, people are predictable. And they’re messy. Usually people slip up by paying for something with a credit card or contacting someone from their old life.”

“What if someone was taken?” There was an intensity to his expression that led me to believe this was no longer a hypothetical.

“It gets more complicated,” I said. “If there’s reason to believe that someone was abducted, usually the police get involved. Sometimes I can help, but ultimately I’m not law enforcement and I have my own restrictions.”

Varo looked genuinely disappointed to hear this explanation.

“But, it doesn’t mean that I can’t help.” I paused for a moment. “Instead of talking in hypotheticals, can you just explain what it is you want me to do?”

Varo let out a long sigh and scratched the back of his head, nervously. “My sister stopped responding to my calls,” he said so quietly I almost didn’t hear him.

“How long ago?”

“Two days.”

“Could her phone be dead?”

“No, she’s good with her phone. She never lets it die like that.”

“What about being out of cell service, she’s not camping or anything, is she?”

Varo gave a small smirk. “No, my sister isn’t the outdoor type.”

I thought. My mind spun with questions and thoughts, however, I didn't want to overwhelm him. “Did anything significant happen leading up to her…loss of contact?” I didn’t want to say ‘disappearance’.

“She got into a heated argument with my mother. She left that night and I haven’t heard from her since.” There was a clear worry in his eyes, a look I knew all-too-well.

“Are you asking me to find your sister?”

Varo hesitated before saying, “I am.”

“I’ll need some information from you in order to do what I do,” I said. “Let’s start with her name, her address, and a cell phone number.”

I sat with Varo for a few hours at the Red Duck, learning about his sister, Luciana Delgado. She was a liberal arts student studying in Albuquerque. She had a few days off from school, so she went home to visit their mother in Las Cruces. It was shortly after that when she disappeared. 

I dug into Lu’s case the moment I got home. It seemed like a pretty straight forward case at first. A young college kid getting in a fight with her mother–she’s probably at a friend's place. If I knew then what I know now, then I would have known that I was going about this whole case wrong.

From what I found, Lu left Las Cruces, and eventually New Mexico as a whole. Somewhere on the other side of the Texas border, her phone had shut off. However, just before it lost signal, a singular call was made. The call had been made to a local towing company.

After compiling all the information I had, I scheduled a second meeting with Varo to share what I had found. Again, we met up late in the evening at The Red Duck Cafe. I walked inside to be met with the familiar smell of stale smoke and spilled beer.

“Why wouldn’t she have found a charger and recharged her phone by now?” He asked. Once again, we were the only two people in the bar. 

“I don’t know but the phone hasn’t been turned on since she called the towing company. I think it would be safe to assume that she had car problems and had to get a tow. Likely, she’s still in Judgment. It’s just a little east of the Texas border. It looks pretty remote, about an hour off the interstate, so it's possible she hasn’t been able to charge her phone.”

Varo gave a short, stiff nod. He looked even more uncomfortable then when I saw him before. He kept spinning his glass of untouched whiskey in a circle on the table. Dark bags were under his eyes and his dark hair was a mess, as if it hadn’t been brushed in days. 

“I tried calling the tow company,” I continued. “But the call didn’t go through. The line was busy both times I called.”

“Why the hell would Lu drive an hour off the interstate to a random town,” Varo said. “It doesn’t make sense that she would go that way.”

I gave a small shrug. Lots of family members failed to see the connections. “Maybe she has friends in that direction. Lots of young people go to friends’ houses after an argument with their parents. Do you know her friends?”

“No,” he admitted quietly. “But I think she has friends who live closer than Texas.”

I nodded. “I’ll call the towing company in Judgment once they open again,” I said.

“Thanks,” Varo ran a hand through his hair and glanced around the bar. “But I think I should just go down there myself.”

“Would you like someone to go with you?” I asked

Looking back, I have no idea why I offered that. I wasn’t friends with Varo and I didn’t know his sister personally. Sure, he was paying me, but I was a private investigator, not a bounty hunter. I rarely traveled with clients.

Despite this, there was an odd draw to town of Judgment, Texas. I think I had started to feel this draw the moment I had searched its name. In the moment, however, I told myself I was being a good person–a good Samaritan–by helping Varo find his sister.

Upon looking into the towing company Lu had called, I found that there was little information online about Judgment. So little, in fact, that it was boarding on suspicion. Why would a town not be labeled on Google Maps?

“You’re willing to go all the way to Texas?” His eyes met with mine and I knew I couldn’t take back my offer.

“Sure,” I said. “I don’t think I would mind leaving Phoenix for a bit.”

Upon hearing what I offered, something in Varo’s demeanor shifted and he asked, “I’ll pay for the gas, lodging, and food, if you’d be willing to take your car.”

“That sounds like a deal. I’ve never been to Texas.” Or at least that was what I had thought at the time.

Less than twenty-four hours later, I picked up Varo from The Red Duck. He tossed a black duffle bag into my trunk and climbed into the passenger seat. He rolled down the window the second he sat down. I apologized for the lack of AC, and he waved it off, asking if he could light a cigarette.

I let him. I had never been a smoker myself but I didn’t mind the smell. Something about it reminded me of a time I couldn’t remember. 

Varo let a cloud of blue smoke out of his mouth as I accelerated into the interstate. According to my GPS, it would take nearly eight hours to reach Lu’s last known location. Judgment was only a few minutes past that. Varo and I had already agreed to take the drive in shifts. I would start us off, leaving Phoenix and heading south towards Tucson.

The radio played a rather mediocre playlist of the top 40s from the early 2000s. I wasn’t really listening to it, but the noise filled the silence between Varo and I. 

I didn’t know Varo well. Outside of discussing his missing sister, we hadn’t spoken much. Taking an eight hour road trip with a stranger wasn't exactly how I planned to spend my weekend, but I was interested to know about what the tiny town of Judgment held. I hoped we would be returning with Lu by the end of the weekend. 

“What do you expect your sister to say when we find her?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he blew out another cloud of smoke. It scattered across the dashboard like fog in a valley. “I don’t expect her to be happy with me.”

“It’s none of my business but what was the fight between her and your mother about?”

Varo shrugged. “It could have been anything. My mother is a devout Catholic, my sister is a liberal arts student.” he said.

I smirked. “Has she ever done something like this before?”

“No,” he said. “She has a good group of friends in Las Cruces from what I hear. She fights with my mother sometimes but she never just leaves. Not like this. And not to a tiny town in Texas.”

I agreed it was odd. From everything he was saying, it didn’t add up. However, I had been investigating for long enough to know that one person’s perspective of something was always limited. There was likely something Varo was missing.

In Tucson, I gave up my position as driver in an attempt to sleep for a bit. Varo took over after we stopped at a truck stop. He got back on the interstate, lit a cigarette, and cracked open an energy drink. I gazed out my window at the dark desert skies. 

The mountains around Tucson couldn’t be seen in the dull light, but I was familiar enough with the area to know they were there. The interstate was illuminated in a way only an interstate could be. The lights of the cars reflected off of navigational signs and the freshly-painted lines in the road. 

I let my eyes close as I leaned back in my seat. I thought about the map we were following and the little dot which symbolized Judgment. It wasn’t long before a strange dream met me in my sleep.

I was breathing hard, harder than I ever had in my life. Tears streaked my face and my feet were bloody, but I kept running. I ran across the rough, desert ground until I found pavement. I wanted to collapse there. Everything hurt. There was so much blood, too much blood. But I had to stay awake. I had to get help. I had to tell someone–anyone–what was happening to me.

I cried in joy and relief as I saw a car barreling towards me. I waved, attempting to flag down the driver. The car didn’t stop until after it collided with my body.

I woke up with a jump. Varo, who had been fumbling with his lighter, looked over at me. 

“Sorry,” I said, not knowing if I had been having a dream or simply a memory. It was a weird sensation.

“I’m going to pull off at the next gas station,” he said, ignoring my sudden jolt.

“Why? We just left that truck stop.”

“Yeah, like three hours ago. I have to piss.”

Three hours. I considered that in silence as he veered off the road and up an exit. Varo parked the car beside the building and left in a hurry. I remained seated. I didn’t have to go in and I certainly was in no mood to make small-talk with any other late-night travelers.

Varo walked back outside, pulling the hood of his sweater up over his head. He ducked into the car and backed out. 

“Have you been to Texas before?” I asked. 

“I was born in Texas,” he said without explanation. 

“Really? Why’d you leave?” I said.

He looked surprised by this. “My family moved,” he said simply. “There’s not much to see where we’re going. Just more desert.” He took a drink from his drink.

I nodded, I had assumed as much. “Do you plan on stopping? I don’t mind driving again.”

“I planned to stop in Las Cruces,” he said. “Is that alright?”

“Yeah, that’s perfect. How far are we from there?”

“About an hour.”

“Are you stopping to see your mother?”

“No,” he said quickly. “We’ll fill up and trade places again. I just want to make it to Judgment. I’ll get us a hotel when we arrive there.”

I didn’t argue. It made sense to me. Instead, I glanced out the window and began to wonder about Lu’s strange disappearance near Judgment.

Hours passed, eventually we made it to Las Cruces. Varo pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of town. I got out and stretched while he filled up the old car. I walked into the convenience store and bought myself a cup of coffee. The man at the counter stared at me in a way that made my stomach feel strange.

As I was attempting to swipe my card, he said, “don’t go mistakin’ the wolves for sheep, miss.”

I blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“Ya need to enter your pin,” he said.

“Oh,” I typed in my pin number, grabbed my coffee, and left. 

Despite the warmth of the air outside, there was something cold inside my gut. For the first time, I began to feel uneasy. I pushed those feelings aside and told myself that I was just tired, that was all. 

I took over for the remainder of the drive. I sipped my coffee, realizing only then how terrible it was. Beside me, Varo reclined his chair slightly and kicked his heavy boots onto the dashboard. I figured he would fall asleep like that but to my surprise his eyes remained open, focusing on the world outside the car.

For a while I drove in silence, assuming that Varo would eventually fall asleep. He never did.

“How’d you become a PI?” His voice surprised me.

“I went to college for criminal justice…I’ve always been interested in that kind of stuff,” I said simply. “After school I decided to pursue a career as a private investigator. Learning the truth about things has always been important to me.” I left out my reasons for this. Not everyone wanted to hear about my less-than-perfect childhood.

He nodded. “Did you study in Arizona?”

“No,” I said. “I actually lived in Denver for a while before I moved to Phoenix.”

“Why did you move?”

I hesitated before saying, “I had an…abnormal childhood. I don’t remember much of it…the doctors say it was amnesia. I moved to Denver as soon as I was old enough to leave foster care. After Denver, I found Phoenix, and I guess I’ve been there ever since.”

Varo said nothing for a long time. I wondered if I had over shared. Most people didn’t want to hear about foster care and childhood amnesia. It was really a bit of a mood killer.

“That sounds like a difficult childhood,” he said at last. I could feel his eyes on me as I drove.

“Yeah,” I admitted. It was weird how the night could make you admit things you would never say in the day. “I think not knowing made me want to help other people know.”

“So, you truly don’t remember your childhood?”

“Not before the age of about fifteen,” I said. “At first, they told me my memories would resurface, but at this point, it’s been too long. I don’t think I’ll ever remember who I was…where I was raised.” 

Typically, when I thought of the lost time, I felt very little at all. It was so long ago; I often couldn’t bring myself to grieve my memories. However, in the dim light of the car, I felt an unfamiliar pressure behind my eyes. It was as if the highway was hypnotizing me to feel.

The sun was just a spark on the eastern horizon by the time we made it to the exit for Judgment. So far, Varo was right about western Texas, there wasn’t much to see. 

For the most part, it looked similarly to eastern New Mexico, an expanse of rugged hills. Small brush covered the ground in many areas, providing cover for all manner of desert wildlife. In the distance, mountains guarded the horizon.

The exit leading off the interstate was hardly an exit at all. The mile-marker sign had been run over and there was no sign to signify any lodging or gas. I only knew where to turn off because of the GPS I had programmed with Lu’s last known coordinates.

I followed the directions off the interstate and onto what looked to be a county road. However, much like the exit, it was unmarked. If this was a red flag, I wouldn’t have known it at the time. I was too busy feeling an overwhelming sense of indigestion, or at least that’s what I thought it was. 

“I…I need to pull over,” I said suddenly as I swerved onto the shoulder of the road. Before Varo had a chance to respond. I put the car in park and practically launched myself out of my seat. 

I retched on the side of the road, grasping the car’s bumper for support. When I had finished, I found that Varo had gotten out of the car to check on me. He hesitated with a disgusted look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“I…” again, I threw up. For once I was thankful for the desolate nature of the desert. No one drove by as the contents of my stomach were emptied onto the dusty road.

Without a word, Varo handed me a napkin. I accepted it with a nod of thanks and cleaned myself up.

“I’ll drive for a little while,” he said as he walked to the driver's side and sat down. “Judgment isn’t far. Do you think you’ll be alright until we stop again?”

“Yeah,” I said as I collapsed into the passenger seat. “That was weird. I’ve never been sick like that from driving–it must have been the food.”

Gas station food didn’t exactly have the best rap. Likely, the burrito I had grabbed from our last stop had gone bad.

Varo pulled the car back onto the road without a word. 

“Sorry about that,” I said. I was embarrassed. 

“Don’t be,” he said. “It could be the elevation. Drink some water.”

The elevation didn’t seem like it would have changed much since Las Cruces. If anything, it would have made more sense for it to go down. However, I did as Varo suggested.

“If this town is as small as it seems, we shouldn’t have a problem finding your sister,” I said.

“How small did it say it was?”

“That’s what’s weird…it doesn’t look like there’s a town out here at all. I mean it’s not listed on Google Maps.”

“Then how do you know it’s here?”

I gave a small laugh. “Yellow pages. I looked up the number Lu had called and traced it to a towing company called Judgment Auto and Towing. They had nothing listed online other than their number. So, I ended up searching for anything with the name ‘Judgment’ from around this area, that’s when I found it listed as a town.”

“That’s strange,” he said. His dark eyes were glued to the distant mountain on the horizon. “It must be really small.”

I shrugged. “I guess. Or maybe it’s a bit of a ghost town.”

“It could happen. A lot of towns were built off of mining but when gold couldn’t be found, they shrank considerably.”

I nodded. I knew all about ghost towns. Anyone who spent any time in the southwestern United States had heard about them. It wasn’t a stretch to say that Judgment was likely dying if not nearly dead. Possibly there weren't even enough people who lived there to warrant listing it as a true town.

“At the very least,” I began. “It will be a place to start.” 

I stared at the dusty landscape and found it hard to think about a young woman willingly staying out there. What was Lu doing in a landscape like this? Would there even be a hotel to stay in?

I wondered about what I would find when we reached Judgment as I gazed out my window. After leaving the interstate, we had been steadily climbing in elevation. We were by no means in the mountains, but the elevation had been increasing slightly throughout the drive.

The road was windy, but seemingly for no reason other than to be confusing. It wasn’t long before I found myself disorientated. We were going north? South? I was typically skilled with directions, but the sky had turned a hazy shade of white and I could no longer see the sun.

After about a half hour of driving, I saw a giant rock formation on the horizon. It wasn’t a mountain or a mesa, but rather a large monolith-like structure that rose from the earth like a finger pointed up. It was white instead of the sandy color of the earth. I felt an odd sensation in my chest and suddenly, I was overcome with a memory.

I saw the light of day, but it was just a sliver of it. On my hands and knees, I crawled toward the narrow exit of the coven. Rocks scraped my bare skin, but I was determined to make it out. I had to make it out. Behind me, the cave echoed with a noise that made me sick, a dull clicking sound.

I crawled until I could pull myself out of the cave. The hole was barely large enough for me to fit through, but I managed. My palms were slick with blood as I pulled myself out of the hole in the earth and into the scorching bright light of day.

A sob overtook me as I collapsed onto the ground. I stared up at the giant monument that now towered over me.

I came back to reality with a jolt, realizing that tears had been streaming down my face. The car was pulled off on the side of the road and Varo was staring at me with a strange expression.

“Are you alright? What happened?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” I said as I breathed heavily. “I had…a memory.” I stared ahead at the giant stone spire. Deep dread settled in my chest.

“Are you…good?” He raised an eyebrow. 

I must have looked like a mess. A few minutes ago, I was puking up my guts on the side of the road, now I was sobbing in the passenger seat. Some PI I am, I thought.

“Yeah,” I said. “I…I think I’ve been here before.”

A dark expression crossed Varo’s face. “If you want, I can turn around and drop you off at the nearest town.”

“No, no,” I said, coming back to reality even further. I shook off the strange sensations. “The nearest town is over an hour away. We’re so close. I…I think I might just be confused.”

With a bit of hesitation, Varo pulled back out onto the county road. I stared ahead.

“What is that thing up there?”

“A rock formation,” Varo said with a dismissive shrug. 

Despite his calm demeanor, I was drawn to his hands. They grasped the steering wheel with intensity. His tan skin looked white from the death-grip he had on the car.

I noticed that the road we were on was headed directly towards the monolithic stone. Varo could have been right. It could have just been a rock formation. However, I had seen Arches National Park and Monument Valley. 

While the giant stone ahead of us could have easily been a similar formation, there were no others around it. It was a lone rock, jutting into the skies. Its white stone looked unnatural against the dusty, tan landscape.

Despite the nausea in my gut and the strange memory I had, I told myself it was nothing. There was no possible way that I had been here before. This was far from where I had been found on the side of the road. I had never set foot in Texas let alone a strange desolate town called Judgment.

Help me understand why this story was removed from nosle, I want to do the required changes :).

The Hole

Major discoveries are driven by curiosity, and kids excel at this. They do not understand the world; they feel it. If a meal has steam coming out of it they bite it and feel the heat, it burns them but they discover that next time they should wait. Kids that are exceptionally good at this grow up with a sense of wonder that pushes them to explore the world and its secrets. I am one of those kids—or so I thought

My house has been sinking for the last few months. More specifically, my kitchen. One morning, a 30-centimeter hole appeared, swallowing 4 tiles that stood in the middle. They didn’t break; they vanished into the dirt. The kitchen floor has a flower pattern that repeats on each tile. The tiles were absorbed by the dirt, but the flower pattern remained, imprinted on the ground. There was no clay, asphalt or cement—just black mud.. That fascinated me, I should have reported it right away, but my curiosity got the best of me. How could that be? What type of natural event can do this? The next day the hole was 10 centimeters deeper.

I work in finance but I’ve always loved science. Sadly, my parents didn’t. The hole was a sign for me, I was meant to find it. I started documenting the kitchen, taking photos of the hole, measuring the area, and collecting samples from the dirt. In a span of a few days, the hole had grown to cover the area where the kitchen table stood and was 2 meters deep. The flower pattern always reappeared on the dirt, even If I moved it around during the day or dropped water on it.I couldn’t explain how that happened.

My mom came over for dinner two weeks after the hole appeared. We had a big fight. She doesn’t understand, she never has. All my life I’ve done what she wanted: I studied what she thought was the safest option, I bought the house she said would suit me best, hell I even dress with the clothes she approves of. Most of my decisions need her approval, but not this one!.  She wanted to call a contractor to come and fix the hole, as if there was something to fix.

“SHE IS SO STUPID! A natural anomaly like this one must be studied; If I am able to document and understand what is happening I could become someone” I thought to myself.

She left my house, we stopped talking since. She seemed genuinely concerned, but I knew it’s only because she didn't understand. The day after the fight was the first time I couldn’t  see the bottom of the hole. I couldn’t tell how deep it was. I threw a 30 meter rope but didn’t reach the bottom. I stopped leaving the house unless it was for groceries. I  spent all my time researching, convinced I was close to discovering something important: a reason.

Last night, something changed. I woke up to a disturbing noise—like the rhythmic stomping of a herd of animals. My head throbbed, as if not just my ears but my whole body could hear the sounds. Instinctively I went to check the hole. The kitchen floor was completely gone; the hole had devoured every square inch.. The sound was coming from within it. The darkness in the hole contracted and expanded in sync with the noise. This transcended physics—the dark circle breathed to the rhythm of the sound it produced. As the noise grew louder and louder, I stood there, mesmerized by the beauty of what was happening. The “stampede”  closed in on me, suddenly, primal fear took over.  I closed my eyes, terrified.

 As soon as I did, the sound stopped.

When I opened my eyes again, the hole was staring back at me, it took me two full breaths to understand what was going on. My body was paralyzed; I couldn’t process what was happening, I was afraid but I also felt at peace. The darkness was gone, replaced by the universe. I saw stars, planets, and nebulas swirling around inside the hole, all moving in a flower pattern.

I understood my purpose, why I was there—everything  I had done had led to that moment. It was beautiful, I cried through the night, and eventually passed out. When I woke up,I was lying naked in the middle of the kitchen. The hole was gone, and the tiles were back in place, as if nothing had ever happened. I understand now:

“We seek no reason for our presence; it is in our being here that we find our purpose.”

Mom died yesterday. I wish I had talked to her one last time, but I’m sure I will see her again when we’re both part of the hole.

I love you, Mom. I understand now.

Something strange, and frankly, depressing has been plaguing me these past months. I thought I’d take to sharing my experiences, partially just to compartmentalize everything. I started seeing things. Bizarre, terrifying things, almost every day. And, subsequently, everyone in my life has started going cold. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try anyway. Have you ever had an elephant in the room that no one is willing to address? Well, it’s like that, but I’m the elephant.

I’m not sure exactly when this all started, however there is an event that stands out in my memory, so I guess we’ll start from there.

One day, probably mid fall, I was walking down a trail at the side of a lake near my house. The sun was out, the breeze was cool and the trail was active. On the other side of the lake I could make out a kind looking old man, sitting on a bench with his legs crossed. He seemed relaxed and happy to be alive. He caught my gaze and shot me a warm smile, and I smiled back with a faint wave. As I watched him I could barely see some small birds hopping close to him, presumably pecking out some crumbs laying next to him.

And then, in an instant. His arm stretched unnaturally to pick up two of the small birds. His fingers extended into talon like appendages and his mouth drew agape, splitting open from ear to ear. He now had row of protruding razor sharp teeth which he used to devour the birds swiftly.

I was mortified. It was as if time had stopped. My eyes were wide open in disbelief and shock. I blinked frantically, in hopes that what I had seen was just some terrifyingly odd hallucination.

When I opened my eyes he was in the same relaxed position as before. I let out a sigh of relief, as I was briefly convinced what I had seen wasn’t real. However, when I looked back, I noticed him staring deeply at me. This time his transfixed gaze pierced me like a hot serrated knife. And, on his lips I saw some blood and a few small feathers. I turned my head and briskly walked back home trembling and shaking my head.

“That wasn’t real, there’s no way in hell that could’ve happened. You’re just sleep deprived and stressed. That wasn’t real. That wasn’t real”

I muttered to myself all fifteen minutes on my heavy, fast walk home. When I opened the door to the house I was dripping in sweat and shivering as if I had been in the snow without a sweater. My wife greeted me as normal, not even noting how sweaty I was or How obviously shaken I must've looked.

“Are you hungry?” my wife asked blankly

“Yeah, I-I guess I could eat…” I said hesitantly

“Alrighty then, I’ll fix you up something” she said with a generic empty smile

I sat at the dining table slightly confused.

“Maybe she knows something’s wrong, and this is how she wants to make me feel better?” I thought to myself.

It seemed… odd. She was always coddling, and good at reading my emotions. In the past if I ever looked cold, hot, dissatisfied, stressed, she always would made a point in taking care of it. She’d let me talk it out while she whipped up whatever remedy I needed at that time. It was weird to me that after I rushed in full of sweat and anxiety, she didn’t even ask if I was okay.

She didn’t read my face, or see my emotions. She just went about the routine.

“Honey, do you ever see things that maybe aren’t really there?” I asked her cautiously

“Such as?”

“Well, like people that aren’t really there. Or something falling that didn’t actually fall, you know?”

“Nope. Can’t say I do.”

She continued cooking like normal. Look, I know it may not seem strange, but I know my wife. Or, knew my wife. I swore that ANY time in the past if I had asked something weird and out of the blue like that she would’ve followed up with some interrogation-level questioning. She would’ve tried to figure out why I was acting the way that I was, or what that random question was all about.

This day was the first of many, that she felt cold and distant. She was there, and held and touched me, but I saw no real passion in her eyes. Nothing she did or said felt like it was coming from a place of love, just blanket routine and expectation. It was as if a stranger was mimicking my wife’s behavior.

After a sleepless night laying down next to a stranger that seemed hardly interested in even touching me, I called my mother to schedule lunch. I wanted to confide in her about what I had seen at the lake and my wife’s strange behavior. After an awkward, but not uncharacteristically so, call we met sometime into the afternoon.

The moment we sat at the table, something already felt off. My mother’s eyes had that same cold look to them. It was like she was looking at a stranger, not her own kin. I started shaking my leg involuntarily and fidgeting with my hands. Something about the oddity of two of the most important people in my life treating me like a stranger made my stomach churn. I felt almost ill once we made eye contact.

“Mom, I-I’m worried about… Diana” I said nervously

“What’s there to be worried about, you guys seem happy as ever.” she said with a cold empty smile

“She s-seems… distant. I’m not sure how to explain it. Y-yesterday she seemed like a different person. Like a stranger pretending to be my wife. I don’t know… It’s really weird.” I blurted out quickly

After a long awkward pause, staring through me, she replied, “How are you enjoying the weather this time of year?”

I shook my head quickly in disbelief of that cold reaction. Did my own mother just ignore something so serious? Did I actually just vocalize my previous sentence? I pressed her again on it.

“MOM! Did you not hear what I just said?” I asked sternly

“I quite enjoy the warm summer days like today.” She said wistfully as if we were having a different conversation

At this point I relented. I just looked down, jutting my head back and forth. An isolated incident is one thing. My wife having some weird mental dissociation could be resolved. But now this was becoming a trend. I’d later try to figure out what kinds of things they WOULD discuss, but this time I just excused myself from the table and left.

She didn’t even call for me. She didn’t ask why I was leaving. I just said I was going and left.

This is my first time ever submitting something on reddit and I'm not sure if nosleep is the right place because all of this is 100% true and my actual experience, but here goes nothing I guess

My Dreams Feel Too Real

(tw brief mentions of SA)

I have always had very vivid dreams. Maybe my imagination was very strong by genetics or just random luck, but since I was little my inner world has always been very realistic. 

I think it started with my favorite stuffed animal, Bunny. I know it's a very unoriginal name for a plush rabbit but hey, I was like one when I got him. Bunny was my favorite stuffed animal, but he wasn’t just a toy. My preschool recommended that parents get duplicates of their child's stuffed animal, an extra to have at school for nap time, one for emergencies, and the original to be kept safe at home. So my dad went to build-a-bear on his lunch break, and got School Bunny and Emergency Backup Bunny. 

If you don’t know, build-a-bear doesn’t really let you just buy the stuffed animals at the store. Even if you are a large man, with no child, in the middle of the day, you still have to kiss the heart and make a wish. But my father is a saint and went through it anyways, and this was the 2000’s so online shopping wasn’t an option yet.

But there was no replacing the original of course. I would always choose my first Bunny out of the others, but I remember a bout of stomach flu where I was glad to have Emergency Backup Bunny to hold, even if he did smell like crayons. 

All of this is still quite normal kids stuff, I know, but the emergence of Bunnyworld was different. All of the sudden, my parents were hearing about my second life, in Bunnyworld. I had a house, neighbors, and of course Bunny. He would talk to me there, become alive and take me on adventures. Hell, I think he even had a wife. 

I would only be able to visit Bunnyworld in my dreams, which made my older sister quite mad when I would remark how ‘oh I already saw that movie in Bunnyworld’ and she would be left out. To my parents, it was an adorable quirk, my version of an imaginary friend. 

When I was a little older, just learning how to read, me and my mom would sit in her bed and I would stumble through picture books every night. Until one night I was just zipping through them, seemingly out of nowhere. When asked where I had learned how to read so well so quickly, I told them Bunny had taught me in Bunnyworld. 

I truly don’t know if I had just learned something crucial at school that day, or if it just clicked somehow, or if Bunny had really taught me in my dreams. I don’t care about the answer too much now, it's a good story and I can read very quickly and well. But I think Bunnyworld was the last good thing to come from my dreams. 

As I grew up, Bunnyworld faded, and my dreams were more normal. There was this one recurring dream I would have sometimes, where I would have to pack a bag of everything I held dear to me while a tornado or earth smashing giant barreled straight at me. The place I was and the thing coming for me was different every time, but it never failed to make me panic. 

One time I was in a frat house where there was an active frat party happening, ane while I was picking between my earthly possessions, Maui from Moana stormed in drunk off his ass. This still doesn’t sound that bad, everyone has nightmares after all, but my dreams didn’t really start to bother me until a few years ago.

The first dream I remember feeling pain in was as equally silly as animated frat boy Dwayne the Rock Johnson, but I could feel something had shifted. Maybe not that minute, but this dream made it clear that sleep wouldn’t always be an escape anymore. 

I guess I should explain more about what I mean when I say my dreams feel real. Most nights my dreams are literal 4k VR hyper realistic movies, they look, sound, and feel completely real. I don’t know if my dreams have always been like this or got better quality as I got older, or that I simply don’t remember what they were like when I was young. 

Anyway, that one night my dream started off weird sure, but not anything that immediately scared me. An ex friend and I were going to her house one night, and she lived on one of those dead end streets that ended in a big circle of houses. We were greeted by my chemistry teacher, who was suddenly my friend's mom, and we went upstairs. I realized I forgot something in the car, and I went to go get it. The sun had gone down by now, and it was very dark out. 

Right as I opened the car door, BANG. A sharp pain blasted through my right side. I looked down to see blood ballooning from my abdomen as I crumpled to the floor. I heard shouting, my friend saying she hadn’t told me every other house was full of gang members that shot at whatever moved at night. 

By this point the pain was a dull ache, my body going into shock I assume, and there was a ringing in my ears. I could tell I was losing blood way too fast, even as the guy who shot me ran up next to me. He was a really nice guy turns out, apologizing profusely as he dialed 911, but I could feel myself fading. It was strange, but even in a dream, I wasn’t scared of dying. 

I didn’t die in that dream though, come to think of it, I never have. The ambulance came and they carted me off to the hospital and the dream ended. I’ve never died in my dreams, but they often make me wish I could. Being an accidental victim of gang violence is actually one of the sillier dreams where I felt pain. 

I have to clarify, I have never been shot, or even really injured that badly, haven’t even broken a bone before, but my mind has an idea of what it would feel like. I hope to never know how accurate my dream pain is, but I still felt it somehow, in the depths of sleep, and woke up almost expecting a pool of blood on my sheets.

I think that dream was some kind of turning point, like my mind realized what it could do to me and started experimenting with torture methods. 

When I was in a happy relationship with an amazing girl, I would still have these haunting dreams of standing on a long road, and she would smile, kiss me goodbye and walk away. I would be left screaming, crying, on my knees begging her to just turn around and look at me, but she never would. Those dreams stuck with me even through the real break up, which was like salt in my wound. 

There were some one offs that made less sense, probably because I don’t remember them well enough or they were just less cohesive. I know that there’s some psychological explanations for all my dreams, and I’m not the picture of peak mental health either. It just feels like my brain is just excessively cruel sometimes.

I know it's common for survivors of any trauma to have nightmares, but mine were just different. Instead of the real events of the awful groping on those bleachers at night, after all my friends had left and the school dance was long over, I was being brutally raped in my elementary school gym, and the mats I used to make forts out of were now splattered with my blood.

Another time, my dream was incredibly simple. I was lying in my bed, the same position I fell asleep in, and the only thing in my mind is that the minute I move, something is going to get me. A very juvenile nightmare, but then of course, I woke up. But my surroundings were the exact same, and I couldn’t tell if I was still asleep, so I just laid there, frozen, until my dog woke up and I could safely move again.

My imagination can conjure awful fake memories for me to relive when I fall asleep and I honestly can’t explain why. You think that this would leave me with crippling insomnia and an addiction to sleeping pills, but on the contrary, I still love to sleep. Because as much of a beast as my imagination can be, most nights it's not. I don’t hate my imagination because it allows me to be the amazing creative person I am, and be able to visualize insane amounts of detail even when I’m awake. Plus you can imagine how killer my sex dreams are. 

I’ve thought about trying to do something about my dreams, but I honestly don’t even know what I would do. I can’t even take melatonin without feeling like a weird robot, so prescription sleep meds seem like a bad idea. I’m wondering if anyone else has dreams as vivid as mine, and if people can feel stuff in their dreams too.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1n7og1KNg_Rxw2lnmlrsunyXQA7alM214npJyHksL44c/edit

Thank you for reviewing! I tried something new with this story, hopefully everyone can understand it lol