If you ask anyone with a passion for writing what the best feeling in the world is, I would bet money on them saying the feeling they get when writing. But, it's not just the writing that is special. It's the beautiful feeling of putting your innermost thoughts onto a page. Being able to share a mystical world you've created in your mind. It feels vulnerable. Like you are cracking your own head open and putting it on display for anyone to see. To love, to hate, to judge. The moment you feel your thoughts just falling onto the page. It's like you're not even thinking about it. It just somehow falls in place and makes a coherent story that you've put everything into. It's unlike any drug or any other high. The feeling of ideas flowing. Creativity. That is everything to a writer. So, what is the worst feeling in the world for a writer then? I bet that isn't a hard question for anyone. Writer's block. Few things feel worse when you are a writer.

What do you think happens when a writer gets writer's block? It's the complete opposite feeling. Not having any ideas in your head to escape to throughout the day can feel like hell. It's like the drug has been taken from you but you can just get more by buying some. It's not like running to the store to grab a six-pack of beer. That dopamine is blocked until you have a new fresh idea. Your own flesh and bone stopping you from pleasure. 

That's not even taking into account the pressure from others to write and get something out that will do well. 

All that being said, I am here to talk to you all about what happens when a writer is desperate for an idea and the lengths they will go to for an idea. 

My good friend Thomas went missing last week. He was a writer who found a way around his writer's block through very unconditional methods that led to his disappearance. 

To do this whole situation justice, I need to go back. Way back to when I met Thomas.

The two of us met in our junior year of college in a writing class. We were both put in a writing group with three other people. We both had an amazing time with the class and the writing group. 

I always knew the reason I enjoyed it so much was because of Thomas. After we finished the class, the two of us continued to meet up and help each other out with our writing projects or bounce ideas off of one another. Even on days we just wanted to hang out and play video games or something, it would always end up with us talking about our writing projects. Short stories, screenplays, books, all of it.

Thomas felt like an absolute machine when it came to stories. For the most part, I felt like I could keep up with him, but the guy always had some new idea to tell me about. I've never met someone who has my style of writing like him. 

We both liked writing in many different styles. I don't think I have a favorite genre but without a doubt, Thomas liked writing horror the most. 

I think people make a lot of assumptions when someone writes horror. Especially if they are a good horror writer. They must be really messed up in the head to come up with such terrifying ideas. A murderer, a psychopath, a deeply disturbed individual. The truth is that couldn't be farther from who Thomas was. One of the kindest, gentlest people you'd ever meet.  

I remember when he started to act strange. We were at a house party with maybe fifteen old friends from college. I saw Thomas being quiet in the corner. Now, to the average person, this probably looked like normal behavior for him. He wasn't a big party person. Whenever I did convince him to come to one with my extraverted-ass, he would prefer to just observe everyone else and I would do all the talking for him. He said that watching people in conversation helped him with his writing. 

That being said, I could tell he was off. He was looking down and just seemed empty…

After knowing him for so long I swore I could tell when he was in his own imaginary world. I could see the gears turning in his head and I'd get so excited to hear all about his new idea later. 

I should've gone up to him at that moment. Instead, I just stood at the beer pong table like a damn idiot. There were so many moments when I could've gone over to him to talk, but I didn't. Thomas has never been one to talk about feelings but that doesn't excuse me from not wanting to try. I'm not a guy big on feelings either but I don't try and actively avoid it. The mix of loud music, alcohol, and pretty girls definitely made it hard for me to talk to my buddy about how he felt. 

That night ended with him giving me and a few other guys a ride home. He was normally our DD for nights like this. He always said he didn't want a clouded-up head just in case he got an idea. Some might say a shot or two would only help, but not Thomas. He wasn't a religious guy, he just always wanted to be ready for an idea. It was his whole life. Always escaping into his own little world of make-believe and fantasy. It was always more fun to him than the real world. 

I sometimes felt like the only reason he wanted to be my friend was because I helped give him ideas to escape into. Sure sometimes we’d watch a football game or go to a party, but ugh, I don't know. I guess sometimes I felt used. I would push off those thoughts when they pierced my brain because I didn't know if I was using him too. Would I even be his friend if he wasn't a good writer? 

I guess we pick our friends for a reason right? Similar hobbies or interests? Maybe we did use each other for our own personal gain, but is it all that bad if we are both doing it? 

Sorry, I went on a bit of a side tangent there, I'm still processing so much.

Anyway, back to that night after the party.

I was the last person he needed to drop off that night. As he pulled up to my house he said goodbye but I got the courage to ask him if he was okay.

“Hey man, you good?”

“Yeah, just tired” he murmured without looking up.

“Okay, well are we still good to meet up tomorrow for lunch?” I asked, accepting that to perk him up. 

“Oh, about that, I think I'm actually busy tomorrow, sorry.”

“What do you mean busy? It's Saturday. What else could you possibly want to do other than talk about our projects? 

“You know I have other things I need to do sometimes right?” he responded with annoyance.

“Damn dude, chill. I'm just trying to help. We can just skip this week's meeting okay?” I said, trying to make eye contact.

“Yeah fine,” he whispered while facing his body farther from mine.

I got out of the car and he raced off. As I got into my room I felt so annoyed. It felt like he blew me off. I had projects that needed to be worked on. I needed his help and input on things. I knew if it was the other way around he'd be pissed off. 

As the morning came along, I started to cool down. If he needed space I should give it to him. Maybe I needed a break too.

The week went by without me hearing from him. It wasn't that out of the ordinary to go a week without hearing from him but after the way he was acting, I was definitely anxious to see him again. 

We typically hung out on Saturday afternoon so I texted him on Friday to make sure we were still good to meet up. He gave me a few excuses for why he couldn't meet but I convinced him.

As we met up at our normal place I saw him walk in as I sat at the table. I've never seen him so lifeless. His hair was greasy and his clothes were unkempt. I saw his red eyes and the bags underneath them to match from the other side of the room. 

He made eye contact with me and put on the fakest smile I have ever seen in my life. 

He walked to the table and sat down with way too much fake enthusiasm.  

“Hey Jake sorry I've been so busy. I want to hear the progress you've made and what new stuff you have going on!” Thomas stated with Inauthentic cheer. 

I paused and squinted my eyes at him. Waiting for it to be a joke or something. Normally I have to fight him to talk about myself but now he is telling me to go first?

“Um, no worries. You needed some space. I can respect that. But can I ask again if everything is okay? You can go first if you want, I really don't mind.” I said but was met with the still-lasting plastic smile of my friend.

“Please, you go,” Thomas said through his teeth while his smile was starting to break and the tone of voice was flat. 

I didn't want to keep pushing him. Him sitting and listening to me talk was way better than him storming out because he didn't want to talk first.

I started to tell him what I was working on and showed him some mock-ups I had. I must've talked for an hour straight without interruptions. That was unheard of from him. We would always bounce back and forth, sometimes interrupting each other with ideas. It never felt rude. It's just how we talked. 

In the hour of my talking, I left so many spaces for him to resound to me or give input. The conversation was so bare and boring like an awkward first date where I'm doing all the talking. 

For the first time in our whole friendship, I ran out of things to say.

“Alright, I appreciate you giving me space to talk but I'd love to hear what you have going on,” I said with hope but was only met with glossy eyes looking back at mine. He sat frozen looking at me. Looking like he was going to talk but sat for a good minute before responding to me.

“Well, this was nice. Thanks for meeting up with me. I think I should get going.” He said while pushing himself back in his chair to stand up. 

“Thomas please stay and tell me what is going on…please,” I begged him while he fought the urge to leave that restaurant. 

Without making eye contact he slowly sat back down. We sat in silence as I waited for him to speak up. I was only met with brief glimpses that held embarrassment and shame. I started to get even more worried but he finally spoke up.

“Okay fine I'll talk, but please don't tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you.” Thomas managed to say to me while looking at his shoes. 

I was prepared for him to tell me he killed someone with the way he was talking and acting. I dug my fingernails into the side of my thigh to prepare myself to not react to whatever wild thing was about to come out of his mouth. 

“I…I have writer's block.” He whispered with guilt. 

“Wait, what? Writer's block? You scared me!” I said with relief.

“Seriously? I thought of all the people you would get it,” he said with frustration finally meeting my eyeline. 

“No, that's not what I met, I was just trying to say-” I replied as I got interrupted.

“This isn't just a case of writer's block. This is something so much worse. I have nothing. Nada! That isn't me. I have no place in my mind to escape. No on-going stories I can add to during the day. When I sit down at my desk every night to write I just stare at the screen, mindless. Sometimes sure, I feel stuck or a little lost. Maybe I need some time to map a storyline out. But do you know what I do when that happens? I move on to another story. Or work on a character or…I don't know. I work on something, but I have nothing. Nothing at all. My mind is blank. No ideas.” He sat for a moment thinking. I gave him the space that he needed until he gathered his thoughts “I am nothing if I don't have my ability to create” He admitted with a deep breath. 

“Listen, this will pass. I promise. Every single writer loses inspiration at some point. You will find a spark again. You just need to push through it. Go on a trip, get away, go do something new.”

“You don't understand. I've tried everything I can. I feel so empty.” 

“Come on! I know you got this. How about we go do something fun tomorrow? Maybe you need to stop trying to get an idea. That's how we've gotten some of our best stories, right? While messing around doing something dumb?” I said as I saw a slight glimmer of hope in his smile.

“Yeah okay. Let's give it a shot. Why not, I've got nothing left to lose.” 

“Great, pick me up at noon tomorrow and we can go ride roller coasters or something?” 

“Sure, I can do that.” He remarked as I saw the tiniest bit of the old Thomas start to peak through his hard new shell.

That next day, everything started to fall apart.

I was spending the morning just hanging out around my house. Not really watching the time or anything. I was just walking through my kitchen when I glanced at the clock on my oven ‘1:03’ I read as my heart sank. I looked at my phone praying that I had a notification from him saying he was going to be late but I was met with an even worse message.

‘On my way over’ Sent at 11:45. 

The pit in my stomach only deepened as I read the sent time. I thought he just bailed on me, I never imagined something happened to him.

I tried to call him over and over again but his phone went straight to voicemail. I tried to get in contact with other people he knew but didn't have many of their contacts. After what felt like an eternity I got a text from him. 

“I’m at the Newbridge hospital room 501, get here asap.” 

I jumped in my car and got there as fast as I could. 

I finally made it to the hospital. Unsure what I was going to see when I got to his room. It was a good sign that he was the one to text me, but why was he so vague? 

The room I entered was filled with the sound of a loud clicking keyboard and a focused Thomas. He had a large bandage on his left forearm with many cuts and bruises covering his whole body. 

“Tom? Oh my gosh, what happened?” I said in shock but was only met with a bright glowing smile from my very happy friend.

“The best thing ever. That's what happened!” He replied giddy as a little kid. 

“What are you talking about? Did you crash your car on your way over? How badly are you hurt?” 

“Stop, stop. None of that matters. I'm fine. What really matters is that I got a story Idea. That's what I'm typing up now. Oh man, I feel so alive right now!” He proclaimed as he passionately typed on his laptop. 

“What? That's awesome, how did you get an idea yesterday?” I asked as I got closer to my friend in his hospital bed. He suddenly stopped and took his eyes off his computer screen for the first time since I entered the room.

“I…I flipped my car.” Thomas said while folding his laptop screen to see me better 

“You.. you flipped it? Oh my gosh, are you okay?”

“Yes I'm fine, but I don't think you understand, I got my idea when I flipped my car.” 

“Well is your story about a car accident or something?” I said while leaning in.

“No that's the thing. It has nothing to do with a car. I just… I don't know if I can't even explain it. My tire popped out of nowhere. My car did a complete barrel roll. I was in mid-air for maybe five seconds at most. You know how some people say their whole life flashes before their eyes when they think they are about to die? That kind of happened but it was different for me. Those five seconds felt like hours. I remember accepting the fact that I was going to die. I felt it in my bones. I gripped down on my steering wheel and closed my eyes. I thought I was going to see death but I didn't. I saw a complete storyline. A beginning, middle, and end. I saw characters, plot lines, twists, and turns. A whole beautiful story. I don't know how to explain it but when I thought I was going to die, it cured my writer's block. I can't believe that's what it took.” 

“That's great man. I'm glad some good came out of it.” I smiled 

“No, no, it isn't just some good this is huge I feel better!” I saw something strange in him at that moment. He looked terrible. Sure, he could have looked way worse considering he flipped his freaking car but It was shocking to see all those cuts. Yet, he had such a fire behind his eyes. At what first seemed like a good passion started to feel like an obsession. Like Gollum holding the one true ring. 

I didn't end up staying long as some family showed up soon after me. I didn't want to overstay my welcome. 

Fortunately, he wasn't in the hospital for long. I met up with him in person just a couple days later because he seemed excited to talk about new projects. 

I was really hoping when I saw him face to face that scary look in his eye would be gone but I was sorely mistaken. I saw him and was met with not only a crazed look in his eye but more cuts and buries. 

He slammed down a binder and several notebooks onto the table in front of us. He didn't even look me in the eye or ask me how I was. He immediately started to run through his ideas and talk a million miles an hour. I interrupted him just minutes after he started.

“Thomas,” I said as I was met with a glair for interrupting. “Slow down, have you slept since you got in that car accident?” He blinked at me slowly and glanced around as if he was just coming out of a coma. 

“No, I haven't slept much really. But now that I have Ideas, I can't sleep. I don't want to lose them. I can't go back to not having ideas. I'm nothing without them.” 

“Stop saying that.” We stared at each other blankly for what felt like forever. “Can you tell me how you got more injuries?” I said as he broke eye contact and tried to go back to his piles of papers on the table. “Hey, answer me. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me.” He looked around timidly then started to whisper. 

“Okay, I'll talk. After I crashed my car, I got that amazing idea. I got my first drift down in record time. It was coming together great. But I fell into a depression again after I finished it. I was hoping my writer's block curse was broken. I thought ideas would just start to magically come out of my head. However, that wasn't the case. The accident helped me come up with just that one idea. Then nothing. But then I realized. If a near-death experience gave me an idea, what if I just almost died again? And…well…it worked. I went for a swim in the ocean yesterday to clear my head and got caught in a terrible current. I gave up and started to drown when a surfer grabbed me out of the water. As I started to struggle in the water, pictures started coming into my head. Fully formed stories. I felt like I was dying but I didn't care. Something happens to me when I think I'm going to die.” 

“Okay, maybe you are overthinking this. What if we tried bungee jumping or something? Something a little bit more controlled?” 

“No, I tried that. I have to fully give in to death. I can't be scared. I can't do something that makes my stomach drop, I have to think I'm about to die. Maybe it's my brain's last-ditch effort to try and keep me alive. My brain knows the thing to keep me most motivated to stay alive would be to give me a story idea that I just have to write down. Little does it know it could be the thing that ultimately kills me in the end.” He said with a chuckle as he sipped his coffee. 

“Thomas, don't say that. This will not be how you die. I won't let you just kill yourself.”

“Fine, then you tell me how on earth am I supposed to stop doing this? I found a surefire way to come up with amazing ideas and I'm supposed to just stop?  I'm sure I can find a controlled way to almost die. And even if I don't, I will die doing what I love most.” 

“I can not believe you are just accepting this as your fate. It is selfish of you to be okay with just dying one day. Think of how me and your family will feel without you. You have to think of more than just yourself here…please.” I begged my friend. 

“Jake, I have no plans to die. I will be fine. I'm not going to just throw myself around every day trying to kill myself.” 

“Fine, just please try and be as safe as you can be. I mean, as safe as someone purposely trying to die can be.” I said with disbelief at what just came out of my mouth. 

I walked away from that conversation confused and worried. My friend seemed truly happy for the first time in so, so, long but, I couldn't rest easy knowing at any minute he could be dying somewhere. I always felt like I needed to go to his house or call him just to make sure he wasn't in the middle of trying to escape death. 

Every time I saw him he had the best ideas he's ever had. He was also having great success with the things he was coming up with. He was making money from posting stories online and even got a book deal. I saw my friend beaming with joy. It was so hard to be happy for him. His happiness was always in the frame of his injured body. A new cast or bandage appears weekly. One day he barely had his voice left. I saw a mark around his neck where a noose had been. The man escaped a self-induced hanging, all for a short story about a magical car that people disappear into or something. 

My friend was fading and he was fading fast. He was a victim to himself. Addicted to almost dying and the high of ideas that came from it. 

He got put on suicide watch at one point. Spent a few weeks in a mental hospital. After he got out of course he just started back up again but realized he had to find methods that didn't leave obvious marks on his skin. He couldn't look like he wanted to die. To most people around him, he seemed fine. Just passionate about his writing projects, in reality, he was still almost dying multiple times a week. 

Maybe I should have told someone he was still almost killing himself. No, I definitely should have told someone. I just knew if I told someone he would just resent me and keep doing what he was doing once they let him go again. 

He was actually suicidal. He wasn't mentally unwell. It was the best he had ever been, his happiness just came with an extra cost and risk

I stopped asking him how he was almost killing himself. I knew he did it again when he had a sudden surge of ideas. He got really good at controlling it. He had streamlined ways of electrocution and drowning that seemed to work a lot of the time. Although, I think he was losing brain cells because of it. When I would read some of his work there would be more misspellings than usual. He seemed to have trouble with math and he never did before. He was slowly killing his brain but he didn't care. 

This all brings us to a few days ago. As I said at the beginning of this post, Thomas went missing a week ago. Well, most of you probably caught on already, but Thomas was found dead in his car at the bottom of a lake.

It would seem his normal ways of controlling ‘almost death’ didn't cut it for him this time. He took the two first ways he almost died and put them together. Almost dying in his car and almost dying in the water. It felt rather poetic.

After I found out my friend died I didn't know how to feel. I felt guilty for not doing more, and then I realized the second Thomas almost died the first time in that car when he was truly gone. That's when I lost my best friend. Writing went from a hobby to an obsession; an addiction. Something clicked in his head or shook out of place when that damn Subaru flipped. It took my friend and gave me something back that was unrecognizable. He couldn't live in reality anymore, he was only happy in his imaginary land that existed somewhere deep within him. A place I couldn't get to. 

I miss him dearly. I know he died doing what he loved but that doesn't make it hurt less. 

Yesterday in the midst of my grieving, I made a huge mistake. My curiosity got the better of me. Part of me wanted to see what the hype was all about, another part of me wanted to feel closer to him. So I did something dumb. 

I went to the same lake he was found in. I tied one end of a rope to a brick and the other end to my leg. I had a knife in my pocket and I jumped into the water. 

It was a small brick so I didn't sink fast, but wow was I amazed. 

I could feel the pressure building up in my head. My lungs desperately wanted to take a deep breath but I held back as long as I could. I reached for the knife in my pocket right after I hit the water, but it felt like a lifetime before the blade reached the rope that was pulling me to my death. I started to cut my way through with all my strength. I started to see flashing in front of my eyes. A moving picture. It was happening…Time was slowing, my mind was sharpening, and ideas flowing. I couldn't resist the urge to try and take a breath any longer, it felt like my body was splitting into two. One part just wanted air and the other half wanted to stay in the water and keep downloading this idea that was infiltrating my head. Even if it meant that it killed me. At that moment I wanted to live and I wanted to die. 

The rope broke and I swam to the top. I burst through the water and gasped for air. I got to the edge of the lake and collapsed in exhaustion. I sat looking up at the sky. My heart was pounding and my lungs felt a sense of relief with every deep breath I took. 

I went home to write down the idea I had and couldn't believe the feeling I had. All I wanted to do was almost die again. 

Now it's all I can think about. It's not even completely about getting story ideas. I wasn't really struggling with that. But when I was in that water…I don't even know if I can put it into words. It's like something in that water wanted me to die. Like it was taunting me to not live. My body still took over and made sure I lived, but part of me felt okay with dying.  

I am terrified that this wasn't just the ending to Thomas, but the end of me too. 

I don't think writers are disturbed or messed up in the head. We aren't psychopaths or serial killers. I think we are just desperate. Desperate for that high of an idea. But please, I beg of you. Don't go looking for ideas in desperate places, because one day, those ideas will kill you.  

Hey guys it been 2 days and the sub reddit nosleep hasn't deleted my story that I published on there. They always delete my stories but I wrote a story 2 days on nosleep, and it hasn't been taken off. 2 days is the longest that my story has lasted in nosleep at the moment. Yeah I've still been posting on nosleep even though I know it will get taken off. As I'm trying to wait for nosleep to delete my story, my beard is hungry. I could feel my beard tugging on my face and for 2 days I hadn't fed my beard.

My beard is going to need something big to eat and so I go out looking for food, for my beard. I could feel my beards hunger and so I go up to someone's face and my beard latches onto their face. It kind of looks like we are kissing, but my beard eats their face. My beard feels satisfied and I don't feel any tension from it at all. It's hard keeping up a beard because you need to feed it and maintain it. I remember once when I forgot to feed my beard, I awoke to find my arm being wrapped around my beard. I quickly had to feed my beard all of the fishes in the fish tank.

Another problem I am having is my trainers and they were just ordinary looking trainers, but every time I wear them it feels like I have stones in there, but there aren't any stones in there. I keep taking my trainers off to find nothing. Then when I take my trainers off it feels like my feet are changing shape. I would put on my trainers but I would check to find nothing inside them, but as soon as I wear them, it feels like millions of sharp stones inside them. Then when I took the trainers off, my feet were completely changed to look like some creature made from radioactive dump.

I just sat down on the sofa not really knowing what to do. My beard started to feel hungry and so I tried stretching down to my feet, so that my beard could eat my monstrous feet. My beard managed to do a little stretching towards my feet and started eating it. Whatever had cursed my feet, it started to make my beard very ill.

Then my feet turned back to normal but my beard fell off. Oh look nosleep deleted my story finally.

For as long as I can remember I’ve been able to read minds. I still have no scientific explanation for this. As a young child I thought it was normal to hear different voices in your head. In that simple way kids accept what would be an uncomfortable reality to any adult, I truly believed these voices were all mine. When I told my parents they brushed it off as a childish prank. I never mentioned it to them again. Once I turned twelve I knew something was wrong. I became increasingly concerned I had a tumor. When no physical issues were detected I spoke secretly with my school counselor. She said that perhaps I process emotions differently or that I’m highly intuitive. I was relieved she didn’t think I was schizophrenic. However, I continued to hear disembodied voices. By the time I was fifteen I realized this couldn’t be simple intuition. As impossible as it was, I came to accept that these voices were being broadcast from the minds of those around me.

Most people think telepathy is super useful. The plain truth is it isn’t helpful at all. In fact, it’s mostly a real pain in my arse. Most days I resent it. Imagine knowing what everyone really thinks of you? Whether or not they really enjoyed the food you spent all day cooking? Whether or not they’re slowly losing romantic interest in you but are too polite to tell you? Also, if you’re not careful it can get you in a hell of a lot of trouble. Without going on and on about the details, what I’ve learnt through years of experience is that using telepathy to meddle in other people’s affairs, especially their love lives, is a recipe for disaster. 

I had originally lived near Blackpool, but my family moved up to Glasgow when I was eighteen. I applied to several universities to study chemistry and was fortunate to get accepted to the University of Edinburgh. I had never been there before and was happy and excited. My parents (both well respected solicitors) were extremely busy most of the time. So I would have to make my way to Edinburgh on my own. When I hugged them goodbye I remember hearing them both thinking about the cases they were working on. Their concern for me was fleeting. Typical. I took a domestic flight from Glasgow and landed in the afternoon. After thirty minutes of driving my airport taxi turned left into Holyrood Park Road. I saw Arthur’s seat looming warm, inviting and lush in the distance. Stark in the cloudless azure sky. Pollock halls lay nestled at its base. I pointed. “The gate’s there on the right, cheers mate”. The taxi pulled into the gate and parked. I handed the taxi driver his money and he replied, “Thanks sir, hope you enjoy the city.” I got my bags, closed the taxi door and walked towards the reception center. 

The next morning, much to my chagrin, I was invited to “ice-breaker” type gatherings with the other students. Where we go around the room introducing ourselves. I did not enjoy them. Just a small glimpse inside each of their minds was enough to put me off getting to know any of them. It took me a few days to find my bearings. I loved the city more than the people that populated it. This place felt old and absolutely beautiful. So eternal and alive. The buildings stood like dark sentinels. Ancient streets crisscrossed in complex patterns and the traffic was mayhem. I appreciated how hilly the city was. It wasn’t flat and boring. 

I studied chemistry and had to attend lectures at Kings Buildings. This part of the University was situated down near Cameron Toll. So every morning, too early for a young university student, I peeled myself out of bed, had a quick breakfast of Weetabix and milk, chugged a mug of tea, and raced off for my bus by the swimming pool on Dalkeith Road. 

One icy cold morning I was pulling my scarf tighter around my neck when I noticed a student I had never seen before. He stood with his back to me. All I saw was his dark, shaggy hair and denim jacket with matching trousers. He was standing over by the pavement’s edge. The 30 was about to arrive. I stepped a bit closer to form a cue. I was no more than a foot away from him. 

My brow furrowed. I couldn’t hear his thoughts. 

When I focused on him it felt like I was pressing on a sealed plastic bottle. Like I was forcing two magnets with like polarities together. Like his head was filled sawdust. I got a very odd feeling. Just then the bus arrived. We all payed our fare and shambled on. I felt uncomfortable. I pulled on my large wool beanie to suppress my powers. I saw that empty-headed guy around the campus a few more times after that.

I tried to distract myself with my studies. Late one Saturday afternoon I left to go to the library at King’s Buildings. I was walking down Minto Street when I saw a number 3 double-decker bus conveniently pull up. I jumped on quickly and paid my fare. As I turned to walk to a seat I froze. In front me stood the empty guy. I could tell immediately. He wore the same denim jacket. His eyes were steely and grey. He was not alone. This time he stood with a young woman. She was short and had shoulder-length platinum blonde hair. Her eyes sparkled like blue sapphires. They were holding bags full of groceries and textbooks. I figured they were on their way home after shopping. I sat down on the first empty seat I saw. The empty guy and his friend were standing at the front. I couldn’t help it. I tried to read him. Again, it felt like I was squeezing an indestructible balloon. It felt pliable and elastic but unyielding. After a few minutes my focus shifted to the friend. I realized then I’d also not heard her yet. I tried to read her. It was the same! It was like trying to hold water in your hands. As quickly as I got it, it slipped through my fingers. I tried again and again.

When I focused hard enough their minds sounded like distant waterfalls. White noise. Blank and empty. I shivered. I couldn’t help but think of dolls and scarecrows. Those things that only appear alive. Facsimiles filled with stuffing. Puppets. My heart was racing. I felt a viscous fear bubble slowly in my blood. The empty couple stood before me. They smiled at each other. Every social cue performed perfectly. They looked so real. So like normal people. What could possibly explain this? I felt so confused. I’d never encountered anything like this. I needed to know who they were! I watched as my stop came and went. A vicious curiosity was born and I simply had to know more about them. I sat on the bus and waited patiently. About twenty minutes went by and we were quickly approaching Gilmerton. 

Finally, I saw them stop talking. They both pulled on their gloves. Slowly, I got up too, trying not to draw any attention to myself. The bus doors hissed open and the couple exited. I stopped for a moment to thank the bus driver then stepped out into the frigid afternoon air. The empty couple were walking swiftly down the street. I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck as I followed them. The weather quickly turned awful. The wind howled and whipped my jacket. My long hair kept getting in my eyes. Ice cold spatters of water rained down on me. I held my head down and continued forward. When the wind calmed, I raised my head. I saw the empty couple walk through a small iron gate and enter a large house on the corner of Gilmerton Road and Walter Scott Avenue. 

I looked up and down the street. The houses all around looked brightly lit and well maintained. Suddenly I felt very stupid. What the hell was I doing here? What did I expect to accomplish? Just walk on in and ask them why I couldn’t read their minds? Ludicrous. Suddenly I heard a soft voice behind me. “Hey, why’re you following us?” I gasped and leapt from fright. I spun around to find the empty woman standing by the low stone wall. She’d snuck up behind me. “Err, I-I-I’m not following anyone,” I stammered unconvincingly. Her blue eyes stared at me. Hard and cold. I felt something pull at me. Pull at my eyes. Pull at something deep inside my mind. Suddenly I could not control my own mouth. It opened of its own accord. It began to tell her everything. “My name is Jerry Straw, I followed you and the denim guy home because – because I can’t –“ I strained as I fought against her pull. Amid the trance I managed to pull my head away and break eye contact. 

I panted. “What – what the hell was that? Did you. Did you get in my brain?” I looked back up at her. She was staring at me now with a horrible seriousness. She nodded slowly. “I need to make sure you’re not dangerous. Just tell me why you were following us.” My heart thumped hard in my chest. “I – I’ve never met anyone. Like me I mean. I mean. I mean what I mean is that I can’t read your mind. I can’t read the denim guy’s mind either. I just. I had to know why.” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head at my words. She stood still as stone. Her head cocked with curiosity, “You’re like us then?” I blinked stupidly. “Us?” I asked. She gestured to the window. The door to the house was ajar. Inside I saw four other people. One girl and three guys. I could just make out their voices. “Mind reading must be dead useful. We can all do useful things too. Special things.” 

“Like what?” I asked. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then she fixed me with an odd stare. It made me feel like a bug under a microscope. “You should come inside and meet us if you’d really like to know. We could use a mind-reader.” My heart was still pounding. I felt really uncomfortable. I’d never met anyone like this,  like me in my life and now out of nowhere there are five of them? Could it be? “I-I I’m not sure -“ but before I could even finish she had marched into the house calling loudly, “Hey everyone, found a telepathic creeper lurking in the garden!”

I felt my face flush red. I ran up the wooden stairs and through the open door. “No, I wasn’t! I mean I just thought. I was trying to find out.” I couldn’t quite get the words out fast enough. I closed the door behind me. Inside I found five people. The first was the short blonde girl who had psychically assaulted me. Next to her was a girl with brown hair and dark eyes. She fixed me with a warm grin. “Hey, I’m Eleanor. I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lucy.” I turned my attention quickly to the others who sat on the old sofas which surrounded a tiny TV set in the large living room. I couldn’t read any of them. My heart thumped loudly. The house was warm but not in a good state. The wallpaper was peeling and there was hardly any furniture besides two sofas, a dining room table and a few chairs. The floors were dusty and I could smell the distinct scent of unwashed laundry. The stairs to the upstairs looked old and creaky. My eyes glanced at the TV. A PS1 lay on the ground with many game covers spewed across the floor. I felt myself relax slightly. At least they like video games.

Of course, the first guy I noticed was the denim-jacket guy. He stared at me with intrigue, “I think I’ve seen you around. Do you also go to classes at King’s Buildings?” he said with a large grin. I nodded and replied, “Yea, I’ve seen you around too.” My eyes darted to Lucy. “It’s how I first – noticed you.” 

Denim-jacket-guy leant forward slowly, his expression curious, “Noticed what exactly?”

“Well, I mean. You – you,” I suddenly felt unsure of myself. It wasn’t usual for me to talk so openly about my telepathy. But I continued, “You can all do stuff too. Like, psychic stuff?” I realized then I was whispering. The tension immediately diffused as everyone burst into laughter. Now it was Elanor who spoke, “No need to whisper. Yes, we can all do stuff like that.” Her eyes narrowed with curiosity “How did you figure that out?” My heart leapt. I kept my voice steady as I said, “Well, on the bus I noticed that if I tried to read his mind all I got was static. That’s never happened before. I just had to find out what was going on.” I heard a grunt from Lucy, “He didn’t figure it out at all. I told him we were special like him.” Eleanor frowned at Lucy, “Way to keep a low profile,” she looked back at me and continued, “But I think that makes sense. Our abilities work differently on people like us. I mean, Lucy’s powers aren’t as effective on us as regular people. And Desmond’s too.” Suddenly denim-jacket stood up and held out his hand. “My name is Marcus by the way.” I shook his hand. He used his head to gesture to the two guys to his left. “Them over there are Desmond and Justin. And you are?”

“His name’s Jerry Straw,” said Lucy while staring at her phone. I chuckled nervously, “Yea, she already dragged that out of me.” I looked back at Marcus. He said, “Nice to meet ya, Jerry. Yea, Lucy is a bit prickly.” He flashed a cheeky smile at Lucy. She continued to ignore us. He looked back at me and said, “You doin’ biotech too?”

“Nah, I’m studying chemistry,” I replied as he sat back down. 

Desmond and Justin had remained silent until then but both stood to shake my hand too. Desmond was tall and muscular with rough hands that felt like they could punch through cement. Justin was lanky and had long messy hair. He held a freshly rolled joint in his hand. “Care to join?” he said with a smug grin. “Uh, sure why not,” I replied. Everyone gathered together to share the two sofas. “You guys really don’t mind me just crashing your evening?” 

“Nah man, how many days do you meet a genuine telepath? Besides, we’ve all had hard times because – you know. Our – differences. We’re happy to help out a fellow freak,” said Justin. With the flick of a zippo lighter the joint was lit. 

We proceeded to chat and smoke. Then we ordered some pizza. Then cold beers from the fridge were brought out. Before I knew it, we were blasted out of our minds, eating pizza and playing Crash Bandicoot in turns. It was the most fun I’d had in years. I’d never felt so comfortable around a group of people I hardly knew. It was refreshing to hang out with people I could not read. We spent most of the time talking about our abilities. I told them all about my upbringing, about some of my more remarkable stories. Things I’d never been able to share before. It was so freeing. In turn I learned a lot about them.  Lucy can reach inside minds and control them. Eleanor and Marcus both have visions of the future. Desmond can create illusions in people’s minds. And Justin can commune with the spirits of the dead. I was especially excited by this. 

It was in the wee hours of the morning. Lucy sat leaning against Marcus on the other couch listening to something on her phone. Meanwhile, Justin, Eleanor, Desmond, Marcus and I chatted. “I mean, I can believe all kinds of psychic stuff. But talking to the dead? That would mean that there’s an afterlife. Maybe even a God. And I dunno about that,” I said as I leant forward. My head was swimming and I felt sick. I stopped drinking alcohol and sipped some water. Justin downed his beer and replied, “Well, I can do it. Doesn’t matter to me what you believe. I’m not saying there is an afterlife or a God. All I know is that when people die their thoughts and feelings are imprinted in the space around them. Are they actual souls? Or ghosts? No idea.” Justin was different. Unlike the others, when I pressed hard enough on his mind I could see a tiny spark hidden in the depths. It felt less hollow. More smothered than empty. It’s hard to describe. 

I took a long sip of water and asked something I’d been wondering since I first walked in, “How long have you guys been friends? And how did you guys all end up out here?” I noticed Marcus glance nervously at the others. There was a strange moment when no one took a breath. Had I said something offensive? “Well, it’s a bit of a long story. We’re all – from the same area. You see, growing up we each felt alone. Then Justin. Well. Justin can explain,” Markus finished and sipped on his beer. Justin spoke, “To try and make a long story short: sometimes if I concentrate really hard I can sense other psychics around me. A couple of years ago, I was having a rough time. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So I reached out. I found Marcus first. Then the others one by one. That’s the reason we know each other. We’ve been friends ever since. That’s why we were more than happy to accept you into our ranks. Having a mind reader on our team certainly can’t hurt!” he laughed.

“We may have been lucky enough to all get into Edinburgh Uni but we weren’t all able to get into the same accommodation. As you can probably understand, once you’ve become friends with other freaks, hanging out with regular people  just ain’t the same. Thankfully my dad is loaded and he owns this house.” Justin spread his arms wide and he gestured at the peeling walls. “So we’re all renting it out together from him. It’s a bit run down but it’s affordable.” Even though everything they’d said sounded plausible, it was the way they had talked which made me suspicious. It was the first time I felt like they were hiding something from me. The way they’d all glanced at each other in supernatural synchronicity. I hated that all I could do was guess. I would normally always know. But I guess this is what it must be like to be non-telepath. I decided to let it go. “You guys are so lucky,” I continued, trying to change the subject, “I’d have loved to meet you all sooner”.

My studies were going well. My mood had never been better. I continued to go to lectures and practical classes. But now, at least twice a week, I would meet with my new friends. It would usually be Marcus, Desmond, Eleanor and me. Justin and Lucy were often absent. They certainly seemed less social then the others. Nevertheless, I grew to know each of them eventually. Marcus was my favorite. He studied biotechnology and really liked hiking. Eleanor was introverted but very aware. Desmond was a rugby player. A prop of large size and immense strength. Justin was drunk or stoned most of the time. He was a bit obnoxious but was also easygoing and quick to laugh.  Lucy was an oddity. She hardly ever contributed to the conversation. In fact, the only time I’d heard her say multiple sentences to me was when she had interrogated me. 

Despite Lucy’s contemptuous behavior I loved my new friends. The last month had been the best of my life. I’d never known such true peerage. As September faded away and October began the leaves of the trees had turned garnet and saffron. My group of new friends decided to have a Halloween party. “So cliched! But it’ll be amazing. We can put up cobwebs and fake spiders and skulls and all sorts! And all the sweets and chocolate! And play Backstreet Boys’s Everybody! Oh it’ll be great!” Eleanor yelled excitedly as we sat planning on the sofa. We all groaned at the mention of the Backstreet Boys but Eleanor told us all to stick it. Justin and I sat next to each other smoking a blunt. “So how crazy are we going to get at this party? We’ve got alcohol. Any chance we could score some more green? Maybe hash too?” I asked as I took a toke. Desmond walked back from the kitchen carrying two bottles of Coke. He handed them to Justin and me. Justin’s eyes lit up as he responded, “Hell yea, dude! I was thinking we could even get our hands on some shrooms.” My eyes grew wide, “Woah. Woah. What? That would up the stakes for sure!” We smiled and bumped our Coke bottles together in a mock-cheers.

It was finally Halloween. I was too anxious and excited for the party to pay any attention to the lectures that day. I literary ran out of my last class and made a beeline for my bus. Eventually I got to the house. Eleanor was already dressed up in her penguin onesie hanging up the cobwebs and spiders. I rushed upstairs with my bag and quickly got changed into my Spiderman costume. I adjusted my mask as I made my way downstairs. “So who has a beer for me?” I asked as I made my way toward the sofas. Desmond, dressed as a pirate, pulled a beer from a nearby cooler and tossed it to me. “Here ya go, Spidey!” I caught it then twisted the lid off with a pop. I pulled off my mask and dropped it onto the sofa. 

Soon Marcus stepped out of the kitchen dressed as a zombie. He glanced at me. His white makeup made him look gaunt and serious. He nodded to Desmond. “Alright, everyone’s ready. Time for us to start,” he held a crimson mug out to me. I took it from him. It was hot. Marcus gave everyone else a mug too. I noticed that Justin and Lucy weren’t dressed up at all yet. What spoil sports. I was thinking about how much that would upset Eleanor as I sniffed my drink. “Yuck, that smells like hot sick,” I said. Marcus chuckled, “It’s tea, I swear. It’s a mix of psychedelic mushrooms, valerian root and spices for taste,” Marcus explained as I wrinkled my nose at the murky liquid. I could see the dried shrooms cut into small pieces swimming around. “Well, let’s get this done with,” I said as I pinched my nose with my fingertips and chugged the horrendous tea. It was bitter and thick with soft chunks that got stuck in my teeth. I gagged and nearly puked. I coughed a few times. When I looked up again I noticed no one else had chugged theirs yet. “What’re you guys waiting for?” I asked. Suddenly I felt a wave of grogginess hit me. Something was wrong. My vision blurred. My limbs felt heavy.  Before I could string a sentence together I collapsed into oblivion. 

The first thing I noticed upon waking was a soft throb in the back of my head. It didn’t hurt but I suspect it would soon. I was definitely very on shrooms. My vision was confused. Colours and images swirled together like a kaleidoscope. I thought I could hear distant music playing. A cello? A flute? I couldn’t hear it clearly. I could also hear a chant. This was louder. It came from the five figures sitting around me. I tried to move my hands and legs. They were held in place by something. I was very confused. Where was I? How long had I been here? I looked at my arms. They were stretched out behind me. Tied to the floor. My legs were similarly tied so that I resembled a star fish. “What…“ my voice was croaky. My limbs felt full of cement. My tongue could barely move. I was still in my costume. “He’s awake,” I heard someone say. It sounded like Eleanor. My vision swam but I could make out the silhouettes of five people surrounding me; each one kneeling at my hands, feet and head. Suddenly I heard a murmuring. A murmuring of several voices. I soon realized these were the thoughts of my friends. I could hear them! Finally! 

At first, they sounded distant. Indistinct. But they quickly became clear. Like tuning into the right frequency on a radio. A chill ran down my spine. They didn’t sound anything like the people I knew. They sounded monstrous. I’d never heard such voices. Their voices were deep and raspy and awful. “He hears us. He knows! Hold him fast!” All their thoughts whirled together. They were all one mind thinking in sync. Oh my God! They didn’t have separate minds at all! My heart raced and I began to pull hard at my restraints. Before I knew it, I felt cold hands clamp down on my limbs and with an unbelievable strength held me tight like a vice. I was helpless. Trapped! What the hell was going on? Maybe I was just tripping really hard. But as I gazed up at the faces of my friends I knew I was not hallucinating. Their eyes no longer had any trace of humanity. They looked down at me cold and cruel. Empty alien stares. “Continue the call,” I heard them think in unison. The room started to come more into view. I was in Marcus’s bedroom. It was dark save for what seemed to be dozens of floating candles. The figures began chanting out loud again. 

Suddenly there was a noise like a peal of thunder. The sound of the unidentifiable string and woodwind instruments grew louder. As I looked at my feet and the wall beyond a bright light exploded before my eyes. This point of light swelled larger and larger. This bright white scar in reality stared into me. I could hear trillions of voices pulsating within. All bellowing in agony. I could hear the voices of Eleanor and Lucy. Of Marcus and Desmond. But I also heard the cries of inhuman things. Souls of people and things not of Earth nor the Milky Way galaxy. I heard the lives and words of things and places from far off civilizations. Distant planets. Entire cultures that had been sucked into this abomination. Holy shit their voices or souls or whatever you wanted to call it were in there. Suffering an ineffable anguish. They were trapped in what I can only describe as a stomach of some colossal eldritch beast. It was like a massive intestine. With powerful muscular walls that stretched and squeezed those trapped souls together. My claustrophobia triggered, I began to panic. They were all trapped and suffocating. Being mushed together into a single pulpy mind. That’s how they’d appeared so normal. So like real people. My friends’ true minds were held prisoner. Absorbed by this giant stomach. It knew their every crevice. Their every dream and desire and nightmare and hope. Everything!

“No no no no,” I mumbled as I tried my best to kick and punch. I tried to bite the fingers that held my head down but all in vain. Then it got a lot worse. The bright white scar began to darken. Something gelatinous was moving out of it. Imagine a dark purple pus pouring out of a wound of burning white light. I felt it more than I saw it. It gathered up on the floor like a great puddle of ooze and began to crawl slowly towards me. It was covered in strange thick hairs. It reminded me of how a starfish eats by everting its stomach. I trembled with terror as it pulsated, reaching my legs. Its tentacles extended towards my nose and mouth. Then I felt something pull deep inside my mind. It reminded me of what Lucy could do. But it was so much stronger. More visceral. I yelled in pain as I felt the ooze tug hard at my very mind.

Out of nowhere I heard a yell. But it wasn’t me or the monsters. It had come from the white scar. A pair of very human hands suddenly extended out of the sticky white wound with great effort. They were semi-transparent. Almost blue. Then arms appeared. Followed shortly by a head and naked torso of the person I knew as Justin. “I’m gonna fucking end you! You jelly fuck!” he screamed as he squeezed himself from the hole of light.  I felt the pull on my mind disappear. The ooze stopped in its tracks and suddenly leapt at Justin with unbelievable agility. But he was ready. He plunged his fists into the ooze as he leapt to the floor. I heard the shrill screech of a million insects. I winced with pain. It was worse than a thousand nails on a chalkboard. Imagine an Aztec death rattle on steroids. 

After the shock of the eldritch noise died away I realized Justin’s essence had hurt that collective mind somehow. I saw his naked spirit run across the floor toward his body which kneeled at my head. “No!” I heard the collective mind of the ooze scream out. But Justin was too fast. He had already leapt forward and soared directly into his possessed body. Justin’s head snapped back. A thick purple smoke bubbled from his mouth. He was shaking violently. His vice grip vanished. I immediately craned my neck up to see all the others were also seizing. Saliva and purple goo leaked from their every orifice. They shook and gagged. They’d let go of me. I could move my arms! I grimaced with effort as I pulled with all my strength. I felt something tear. At first, I feared I’d torn my own arm off but I realized they’d tied me down with a silk fabric they’d nailed into the floor. I hadn’t pulled the nail out; instead the fabric had torn. I used my free hand to untie my other. Soon my feet were untied too. I stood up way too fast and almost fell over from dizziness. I was still high as fuck. But I didn’t hesitate. I ran as fast as I could toward the bedroom door. I grabbed the handle to rip it open. It didn’t budge! It was locked. My head swiveled around. They were all still seizing. Now lying on the floor. That ooze was retreating back into the white scar. Fuck. What should I do? Help them? Or leap out the fucking window? I cursed again loudly as I ran over to Justin. I rolled him onto his side. The purple goo was gone now. Those weird instruments grew fainter. Suddenly with the rushing sound of a gale the bright white scar vanished. The  candles went out immediately and dropped to the ground. The room suddenly was very silent, smoky and still. As my eyes burnt from the candle smoke I looked down at Justin and the others. They were now lying completely still. I checked each of them for a pulse. Only Justin was still alive. 

I managed to use Justin’s phone to call the authorities. In twenty minutes, firemen arrived. They had to break down the door with an axe. The police were more than confused at the tableau they found before them. They saw me, dressed up as Spiderman, cradling Justin’s unconscious body. The others lay sprawled around me. They had no visible wounds or bruises or blood. It was as if they had all simply dropped dead from nothing. By the time the paramedics were checking on me my high was tapering off. I felt confused. My head fuzzy. I was in shock and my eyes stared off into nothing.  I’m not sure how but I ended up in a small brightly lit room at the nearest police station. They tried to question me. All I would say was, “I want a lawyer”. 

I had to wait for hours before my parents arrived. I remember having tears in my eyes. It was then I noticed it. My telepathy was still enhanced. I could hear the thoughts of everyone at the precinct. I could hear the thoughts of my parents. They were so worried. They were so anxious. They had been so afraid. Afraid I had died. The thoughts of everyone around me came to me more easily than they had ever before. It made it quite difficult to concentrate on what I wanted to say. It took me a long time to make myself understood. I kept stammering. I told them about how I’d been hanging out with Justin, Desmond, Eleanor, Lucy and Marcus. How we’d got along very well from the start. They’d been so welcoming and non-judgmental. Then we took that weird shroom-tea. They must have spiked mine. I told them they’d tied me down and were chanting. That they’d all suddenly started having seizures. 

Of course, I couldn’t tell the police the whole truth. By reading their minds of I worked out Justin had suffered what the medical examiner said was “a kind of stroke never seen before”. At the same time, I learned what happened to the others. My stomach dropped and I nearly puked. It was disgusting and horrifying. The autopsy revealed their brains had all been - liquified. The coroner was perplexed. He’d never seen this before. 

I don’t think I’ll ever recover psychologically from this experience. I miss my friends every day. I had never in my life known people like me. I’d never had anyone with whom I had felt so close. I can’t sleep. Are they still there? In that place? I shiver and wretch at the very thought.

It’s January. The months have crawled by slowly. I’m still in Edinburgh. Despite every fibre of my being screaming at me to get away. I could never abandon the one friend who lives. Justin is still in a coma. I’ve visited him often at the Western General hospital. I reach for his mind. It may be distant but at least it’s human again. I can hear it like a voice down a dark tunnel. I can hear him call out for me. I can just make out his memories. One Halloween night three years ago Justin had reached out to the dead. He’d taken shrooms to strengthen his powers. He’d reached too far. He’d interfaced with something - else. It had latched onto him. It had taken him first. Showed him the two rituals. One for May Eve and one for All Hallow’s Eve. Then it used him to find and absorb the others. I’m guessing his unique psychic power was also the reason he was the sole survivor. The only mind to ever break free from that hell, perhaps? Who knows. 

My abilities are far more sensitive now. I hear everyone’s thoughts from miles away. I hear the voices of all things. Dogs. Cats. Squirrels. Everything. I even hear the voices of things beyond our world. I hear the horrendous scratchy voices of many eyed, multi mouthed flying monstrosities. Of giant celestial intellects outside time. Not evil. Just alien. Completely without care for what it means to be human. I could hear them. Goosebumps rippled up my arms. Now they hear me too. “He listens. Yes. Yes. Take him. Stop him,” I hear their raspy thoughts whisper. I tremble from despair. They were going to get into our world again. I just know it. They’re coming for us. For us all. I will not join that legion of minds trapped in that sticky, white intestine. I need to wake up Justin somehow. He’s started talking in his sleep. His thoughts are solidifying. He’s getting closer to waking every day but we’re running out of  time. I need to reach him now! If I could find out more about how he fought that entity. I need his help. In the meantime, I sleep little and the minds of monsters haunt my every waking minute. 

They know what I’m planning. They’re trying to stop me. I hear those alien intelligences whisper in my ear, “No. Stop. No. No. Just give in. It is futile. You should be with us. Leave Justin be. Stop fighting.” I can’t block the voices like I could before. My hats and beanies are useless. If I don’t stop them soon I will go insane. 

I will stop this. I have to. Or, at least, I will die trying.

Katherine Drake stared at her reflection in the precinct's bathroom mirror, barely recognizing herself. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor that spoke of too many nights poring over case files. She hadn't slept properly in weeks. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the text from case files writing itself across her eyelids. She splashed cold water on her face and headed to the morgue. The basement level had always felt separate from the rest of the precinct, but lately it seemed even more isolated, as if it existed in its own pocket of reality. The harsh fluorescent lights did nothing to help her exhaustion as Dr. Harrison pulled back the sheet covering Professor Collins.

The professor's face was frozen in an expression of horrified recognition, jaw locked open as if he'd died mid-scream. His fingers were stained black to the bone, and the blood vessels in his eyes had burst in patterns that looked disturbingly like writing.

"I keep seeing things in the lab results," Harrison whispered, hands trembling slightly. "Words that weren't there before. Sometimes... sometimes I hear them whispering."

Drake nodded, adding the report to her case file. Six incidents in three months, and each one pushed her closer to believing things she'd spent her career dismissing. The nightmares had started after the second disappearance – dreams of ink that moved like living things, of books whose pages turned themselves.

"You look rough," Officer Martinez said, laying out crime scene photos. "When's the last time you went home?" Her concern was genuine – they'd been partners for five years, and she'd watched Drake's obsession with the case grow.

"I'm fine," Drake lied, studying the photos. The same symbol appeared in each one, hidden in dust patterns or blood spatter. She'd started seeing it everywhere – in coffee stains, in shadow patterns, in the cracks spreading across her apartment ceiling.

Back in her office, Drake mindlessly stirred a cup of coffee that had gone cold hours ago. The ceramic surface was stained with rings that looked unnervingly like the symbols she'd been finding at crime scenes. She'd started taking her coffee black after noticing that cream and sugar formed similar patterns every time she added them.

The case board dominated her office wall, red strings connecting victims in a pattern that seemed more deliberate with each passing day. Miranda Wells, the first to vanish, had left behind a single page that caused nosebleeds in anyone who tried to read it. The graduate student whose notebook spiraled into madness. Marcus Blackwood, found drowned in ink that contained fragments of impossible text.

Drake's phone buzzed with a text that made the screen ripple: "You're like she was, before she understood. Sterling Books, midnight. Come alone."

She frowned at the unknown number, detective instincts kicking in. Her fingers moved across the keyboard: "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

The response came immediately, the words seeming to write themselves across her screen: "Someone who knows what you're seeing in the margins of your case files."

Drake's hands tightened on the phone. She hadn't told anyone about that – about the way the text in her reports had started shifting when she wasn't looking directly at it.

"I'm a police officer," she typed back. "If you have information about these cases, we should meet at the station."

The reply made her screen flicker dark for a moment: "The station has too many eyes. Some truths can only be shared in shadows. You've seen enough to know I'm right."

She thought about the symbol that kept appearing in crime scene photos, about Dr. Harrison's trembling hands as he showed her the impossible lab results, about the way her own case notes had started rearranging themselves at night.

"How do I know this isn't a trap?"

The final message appeared letter by letter, each character burning briefly before settling into normal text: "You don't. But you'll come anyway. Because you need to understand what's happening to you."

Drake stared at her phone for a long moment. Every instinct from fifteen years on the force told her this was a bad idea. But those same instincts had stopped being reliable the moment she'd taken this case.

After several minutes of internal debate, she checked her weapon, texted Martinez her location "just in case," and headed for her car. Whatever waited at Sterling Books, she'd face she wouldn't be unprepared.

Drake drove through streets that seemed darker than they should be, even for midnight. The streetlights created pools of illumination that her headlights couldn't quite reach, as if the darkness between them had substance. She'd taken this route to Sterling Books twice before during the investigation, but tonight the streets arranged themselves differently, leading her down unfamiliar alleys that somehow brought her exactly where she needed to go.

The shop occupied the corner of a brick building whose architecture didn't quite match its neighbors. Its windows were grimy with age, but the dirt formed patterns that made Drake's eyes hurt if she looked too long. A bell above the door rang with a tone that seemed to echo far longer than it should.

The interior smelled of mold and old blood. Leonard Kane, who'd taken over after Blackwood's death, sat surrounded by photographs that hurt to look at. Drake had interviewed him before, but tonight something was different about him – his movements too jerky, his eyes reflecting light that had no source.

Kane's hands moved restlessly over his desk, arranging and rearranging photographs with obsessive precision. His fingers left smudges of ink that seemed to crawl across the glossy surfaces when Drake wasn't looking directly at them. The skin of his hands was stained so deeply that it looked like text was writing itself beneath his epidermis.

"I was like you once," Kane said, arranging photos with ink-stained fingers. "Investigating things I didn't understand. Blackwood found me, tried to warn me. But I wouldn't listen. Now I can't stop seeing her – the Silver-Eyed Woman. She appears when the words start breeding."

"Who is she?" Drake asked, studying the photos where a figure stood in the background, its limbs arranged all wrong.

"She was the first," Kane whispered. "The first to read the true text. Now she weeps for those who follow her path. Like Miranda Wells. Like Thomas Reid. Like you will."

A floorboard creaked. Drake turned to find a woman in robes that rippled with living text. But what caught her attention was the expression in the woman's eyes – not triumph or malice, but something like recognition.

"You remind me of myself," Terrane Askel said, her voice carrying harmonics that made Drake's teeth ache. "I was a professor once, before I found the text that changed everything. I fought it too, at first. Tried to explain it away with logic and reason."

"Where are they?" Drake demanded, even as the darkness around them began to pulse. "The missing people – what did you do to them?"

"We showed them truth." Terrane's smile held something like pity. "The same truth you're approaching, Sergeant. I see how it's already changing you. The sleepless nights. The patterns you can't unsee. The way reality feels thinner with each passing day."

She produced a book bound in leather that felt alive. Its pages turned themselves, revealing text that writhed and changed. Drake recognized fragments from her case files, but now they formed a narrative that spoke of vast, dark spaces and things that waited between thoughts.

"Stop," Drake whispered, but her voice shook. She thought of her apartment, walls covered with case notes and photos. Her sister had stopped visiting months ago, disturbed by the changes she saw in Drake. Even Martinez kept her distance now, watching with worried eyes as Drake pushed herself deeper into obsession.

"You've already lost too much to turn back," Terrane said, something almost gentle in her voice. "Your sleep, your peace of mind, your certainty about what's real. The only choice now is whether to understand what's happening to you, or let it drive you mad."

The photographs on Kane's walls suddenly took on new meaning, their arrangement mirroring the pattern Drake had created on her office case board. She saw now that the red strings she'd been using hadn't just been connecting victims – they'd been drawing the same symbol she kept seeing everywhere. And the people in the photos weren't victims anymore, but initiates. Each had followed this

"Come to the old church on Corvid Lane tomorrow at midnight," Terrane said. "See what Miranda saw. What Thomas Reid embraced. What the Silver-Eyed Woman weeps for."

She melted into shadows that reached for her like hungry hands. The book remained, pulsing like a heart.

Drake's apartment had become a reflection of her fractured state of mind. Case files covered every surface, their pages marked with sticky notes whose text changed when she wasn't looking. The walls were a maze of red string and photographs, connecting points that seemed random to anyone else but formed perfect sense in her increasingly altered perception.

She'd stopped using her bedroom weeks ago. The shadows there had grown too deep, and sometimes she caught glimpses of the Silver-Eyed Woman in her dreams, weeping tears that stained her pillowcase with words in languages that had never existed on Earth.

Instead, she'd taken to sleeping on her couch, when she slept at all. The television stayed on constantly, its white noise helping to drown out the whispers that seemed to come from her case files late at night. Sometimes the screen showed programs that couldn't possibly be broadcasting – stories told in alphabets that crawled like insects across the screen.

Drake spent the next day in her apartment, staring at walls where the wallpaper had begun forming words when she wasn't looking directly at it. Her gun felt heavier than it should, and when she checked the bullets, they'd started writing themselves into new shapes.

Drake gathered her files, each page feeling heavier than it should, as if the weight of the words themselves was becoming physical. Her badge felt cold against her chest, and when she looked in the mirror, she could have sworn the metal had started to tarnish in patterns that matched the symbols from her case files.

Martinez caught her in the parking lot that evening. "Katherine, please," she said, using Drake's first name for the first time in years. "Whatever you're involved in – let me help. We can work this together."

Drake looked at her partner – really looked at her – for the first time in weeks. The concern in Martinez's face made her throat tight. "I don't think you can help with this one, Rosa," she said softly. "I'm not even sure I can explain what's happening anymore." She tried to smile, but it felt wrong on her face. "Maybe I am going crazy. But if I am, I need to understand why."

Martinez grabbed her arm, grip tight with desperation. "Listen to yourself! This isn't you – the Katherine Drake I know follows evidence, not... whatever this is. Let me call Dr. Moore at Behavioral Health. Please. Before this case takes you somewhere you can't come back from."

"The evidence is right there in the files," Drake insisted, pulling free. "You've seen it too – you just won't admit it. The way the witness statements keep changing. The symbols that shouldn't be there."

"I see my partner working herself to exhaustion over six missing persons cases!" Martinez's voice cracked slightly. "I see you sitting in that office all night, staring at walls covered in red string, talking about words that move and shadows that breathe. Remember the Wilson case? Three years ago? You told me then that when things stop making sense, you're either missing something or looking too hard."

Drake felt a sharp pang at the memory. The Wilson case – her first big investigation with Martinez. They'd worked it for weeks before realizing they were creating connections that weren't there, seeing patterns in coincidence.

"This is different," Drake said quietly. "Back then, we were trying to make the evidence fit our theory. This time..." She glanced at her own shadow, which seemed to move a fraction of a second too slowly. "This time the evidence doesn't fit anything we know."

"Katherine." Martinez stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You haven't slept more than three hours a night in weeks. You've got case files in your car, your apartment, even taped to your bathroom mirror. Yesterday I caught you reading blank papers. You were nodding like they made perfect sense."

"You don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand!" Martinez's professional calm finally cracked. "We've been partners for five years. You were the one who taught me to trust facts over instincts. To question everything. Now you're chasing shadows and cryptic text messages, and I'm watching you disappear into whatever this is. Please – let me help before it's too late."

Drake met her partner's gaze, seeing not just fear but grief in those familiar eyes. Martinez had watched her transformation over the months, had documented it in her own careful way: the case files Drake swore rewrote themselves overnight, the shadows that seemed to follow her partner like hungry things, the countless times she'd found Drake reading invisible text in empty margins.

"Rosa," Drake said softly, "if I don't go tonight, we'll never know the truth. And I need to know – even if it costs me everything." She touched her partner's shoulder briefly, then turned away. "Don't follow me. Please."

She walked to her car, feeling Martinez's eyes on her back. The weight of her badge felt heavier than usual, like it knew this might be the last night she wore it.

The drive to Sterling Books felt like passing through layers of reality. Each street she turned down seemed to exist in a slightly different version of the city. The few pedestrians she passed appeared normal at first glance, but their movements were too smooth, too coordinated, as if they were all following the same unheard rhythm.

At 11:45 PM, Drake parked outside the church. Its spires reached toward a sky that had gained impossible colors. Through the stained glass, she saw the Silver-Eyed Woman weeping tears that burned holes in reality. Now she understood – those tears weren't just sorrow, but joy at finding another seeker of truth.

Inside, Thomas Reid waited with his black notebook. He'd been a struggling writer once, Drake remembered, before the words chose him. Now he was something else – a vessel for text that rewrote reality with each reading.

Kane stood in the shadows, no longer fighting what he'd become. And there was Terrane, watching with eyes that held memory of her own transformation.

The doors sealed themselves as Drake opened her case files one last time. She'd started this investigation looking for missing people. Instead, she'd found herself.

Somewhere in the darkness, the Silver-Eyed Woman wept words that spoke of the Black Horizon. And Drake finally understood – it wasn't just a prophecy. It was a promise of what they would all become when the last page turned.

"Are you still seeing things, Lucy?".

"It's real doctor whether you believe it or not. After going to that resort in the black forest I started seeing those footprints..." saying it firmly she retrieved back to her seat.

Few weeks later Dr Shelley got to know that her patient Lucy was found dead in her home which left her completely devastated. The postmortem report showed no external injuries on her body except her blood had turned entirely black in color.

Out of extreme guilt Shelly decided to uncover the truth behind her patient's death and visited the same resort that Lucy had mentioned to her earlier. On reaching there she could feel a strange aura surrounding that place. She booked one of the rooms and stayed there for a night.

Next day when she was returning she couldn't stop thinking about that bizarre place. On reaching home as she unlocked the front door she saw some footprints coming out of her house. Her heart stopped for a while as she remembered Lucy mentioning about those footprints in the sessions. Shelley after gathering some courage entered her house. There was a power cut in the whole area so she had to turn on her phone's flashlight while searching the rooms. She was taken aback when she found those footprints everywhere and then suddenly she heard some footsteps in the hall. Gradually she headed towards that direction. Her whole body started to tremble with fear. As soon as she reached the hall she saw new footprints which were in the backward direction begin to emerge near the corner.

Her feeble hands traced those materializing footprints with the flashlight and to her great surprise it took a different course and started proceeding towards the ceiling. At that moment her body freezed and her phone dropped from her hand, setting itself in upright position and lighting the ceiling. Those footprints stopped just above her head and then within a second some black shadow plunged over herself. She screamed in terror but her voice did not come out.

. . .

"Dr Shelley are you there?" the psychologist asked.

"Hmm ....yes doctor" Shelley murmured.

"So you are mentioning about seeing footprints in your house "

"It's real doctor...TRUST ME...!!"

My wife has always been the intelligent one and she is an amazing scientist. Where she excelled as a scientist, she had failed as a wife for me in my opinion. Her work was in physics and she had given her whole life to build a machine where it can multiply objects and even living things. She is always working and I wandered into the brothels and I always tried to keep it discreet, but as you know I got caught out. Got caught by the neighbour or some other person that I know. Never a great idea to get caught at these places.

The arguments I had with my wife and they were explosive. She was trying to build something amazing and there I was cheating away. When I got caught a month ago for going to a brothel, my wife was oddly silent. I preferred her to be loud, and screaming and then she calmly told me that she had finally built the machine that can multiply things. I wanted to talk about the brothel things but she wasn't interested at all. I thought that maybe she kind of just accepted it and this was our marriage now. I mean there are always consequences to always working.

Then when I went into my usual brothel again, I was flabbergasted when I saw that the brothel was just filled up with my daughter. My daughter is in her early 20s. I got out of there and when I went home, there was my daughter just watching TV. My wife smiled as she could see that I shook to the core. She told me that she secretly took my daughter somewhere to be cloned. My daughter didn't realise though that it was a cloning place, and she thought that it was a sun bed. My daughter told her mother that it was the worst sun bed she had ever gone to.

From the clones of my daughter, my wife used her machine to multiply the clones and gave it to the brothel. Now I can never go in there with my daughters clones everywhere. I go into that brothel and the things people are doing to the clones of my daughters, I was disgusted. My wife said that this was how she felt every time I went to the brothel. My wife went too far and I told her that what she a done was unethical.

During the times that the brothel was closed, I lit the place on fire. I saw all of the clones of my daughters just burning without ever screaming.

Abigail Mitchell and the Honeygreen Ghost

Abigail walked through the wetness of the trees and grass of the woods. Her task completed she looked for a place to rest. The gash on her side would need a few minutes to heal fully. The process had begun already. She would need to buy some new clothes as well. She smiled to herself as the rain wet her skin and the thunder soothed her mood.

“Ah! There we go.” She said, looking at the small clearing.

It would do. It was maybe 10 meters from the river. Perhaps a swim later. For now, she just wanted some rest. She took her time picking some rocks and sticks to make a fire. There wasn’t much that was dry out here, but it mattered little. She placed the surrounding rocks carefully, creating a fire pit.

She knelt on the almost muddy ground and set to work, placing the somewhat wet and outright wet sticks and twigs underneath her makeshift fire hood. Closing her eyes, she put both hands over the sticks and helped them to dry faster. She then took the index and middle fingers of her left hand and placed them within the carefully laid mess of twigs they glowed as she rubbed the sticks flames came to life.

She then took her bag off her shoulders and pulled out two dead squirrels. The veins in her right hand now glowed as she rubbed it over each squirrel, removing the top layer of fur and placing them over the fire. Her guest would arrive soon. So she sat, leaning against a rock.

This was her favorite type of weather. It cooled her and soothed her. She waited, patiently waited. She had heard tales of the Honeygreen Ghost.

The so-called Boogeyman of the Algonquin Highlands of Ontario, Canada. Beings like her always attracted each other. It's kinda like how singular animals could always find another like it when the time comes. Sometimes, it was stories of each other that brought them together. Sometimes, a new report or sighting was enough. Word of mouth was the most common method, but then again, it could be the weather.

What Abbey hated was when it involved other humans. Those tended to go in ways she oftentimes regretted. She enjoyed meeting things like her or kind of like her. She wasn’t actually sure just how human she actually was anymore. But friends and family often kept her grounded.

She figured she’d wait as long as it took. Honeygreen would find her eventually. She checked the squirrels and decided to snack. Ripping off a small bit, she tossed it towards the ground. It vanished just before hitting the ground, then appeared again, flying in another direction.

“Please explain to me, WHY do I keep trying to feed you?” She said, smirking as one good feline eye appeared for the briefest of instances, then vanished again.

“What did I do to deserve to be ‘haunted’ by you? EAT. THE. SQUIRREL!” she stated, adding, “It’ll give your fur some color… maybe?”

Laying back against the rocks, she closed her eyes and hummed lightly to herself, placing her arms behind her head. The gash on her side was slowly closing, as if in tune with the humming. Even the “thing” crawled its invisible self onto her lap and rested as it finished the meat.

For a while, she hummed as the rain fell over her. But soon enough, she perked up as she heard the cracking of leaves and the crunch and wetness of the grass.

“Pardon!” Came a raspy, whispered voice.

Abbey turned a glowingly warm palm toward the tall and skeletal ghostly thing. She held her hand out to it.

“Come, the fire’s warm, and I can use the company.” She said.

The creature was swathed in clothing as if to hide its features. It eyed Abbey’s hand and the flames, sensing the oneness of each, separate but the same. Its lanky frame, and much too long limbs, moved closer, dropping to all fours and moving in like a dog.

“Come on, then!” Abbey stated, pointing at the other squirrel on the spit.

“That one’s yours; I figured you’d be a mite hungry when you got here.”

Honeygreen moved closer to the fire and sat across from her, smiling as best it could. Its oversized jaws drooled at the sight of the squirrel.

Abbey nodded, and the creature snatched the squirrel from the spit, ravaging it. Its skeletal teeth chattered after swallowing the animal whole. Honeygreen let out an airy sound of satisfaction. The sound would make the blood run cold in most people, not used to seeing or dealing with the fantastical, or the horror of such a creature.

“Taste good?” Abbey quizzed.

“Delicious…” it said in a breathy tone sitting lotus style.

“Thank you for the fire and the food. I… hunger often. I… am frequently cold. But this evening, in this rain, you have warmed me more than I’ve been warmed in ages.” Honeygreen stated, glaring at her.

It did not mean this to be intimidating, but it was the only way it could look at a person. It was Part of the curse from the Highland spirits.

“Worry not! I’m frequently too warm. But I try hard to never miss a meal. There’s only one thing, though.” She began, adding “Why doesn’t Canada believe in Cheesesteaks?”

Honeygreen’s body attempted a grotesque mockery of a laugh, and Abbey joined in. It lifted a clothed, swaddled, bony hand towards her.

“For your kindness and warmth, I will repay you the only way I know how.” It said, moving closer. Abbey made no move to defend herself, and the invisible ‘cat’ on her lap yawned in boredom. Why it needed to yawn in the first place was unknown.

“I will tell you a campfire tale. A tale of terror, needless revenge, and my part in it.” It said through chattering teeth. Abigail’s eyes glowed with anticipation.

“I’d like that very much!” She stated, placing her hand on the creature’s sorry excuse for a leg. But as she did so, its chattering teeth slowed as it felt the warmth. She knew it would speak more smoothly this way.

Honeygreen appeared to be in a state of ecstasy as it breathed out again.

“Listen carefully. For this story is true, as true as your hand on my leg.” It began.

“Across that river is where fate had chosen the actors for the play that came to the Highlands that night.”

Honeygreen stared into Abigail’s eyes. She knew that since it was a spirit, there would be no looking away as he told his tale. That was a quirk of so-called undeath, but it didn’t bother Abigail in the slightest.

“As a wandering spirit, I spend much of my days in search of ‘food’ and warmth! I crave it! I need it! It is part of the curse I am under from the spirits of these woods for my crime, “Honeygreen said.

“I wander during the day and night. It matters not. My search always continues. However, when I have not had the warmth or food I need, I will... Sleep. I know not for how long, but if the heat of a campfire is near, I shall resume my search. I will move towards that fire as if a mosquito to a bare neck.”

It continued.

“It was after one of these long sleeps that I awakened to sensing a great flame. Even from so far away it beckoned me and I lusted for it! It was night as I began my movement towards the flames. When I closed upon the campfire, the curse pushed me to seek the permission of the occupants, but my mouth remained closed and I remained in the foliage observing.”

What Honeygreen was witnessing was not just a campfire. It was looking at what appeared to be a sacrifice. Its lust for the flames and the food had drowned out the words being spoken. It closed on the scene. At the campsite of the ritual were five people. Two males and three women, each standing on the tip of a star-shaped diagram on the ground. There was a large fire pit in the middle of the star and five smaller fires near the feet of each person.

Each of them wore clothing with strange markings. They chanted in unison, each holding a unique object. Waving them back and forth towards, and then away from the flames. A moment later, each stopped, and it grew quiet. Honeygreen then noted the silence about it. The creatures of the wood were used to its presence, and it had never harmed them, so the threat was not there, and there was no need to be silent.

But this night they are deathly quiet.

“Bring forth the Sacrifice!” The woman at the tip of the star called out. Two other participants went to the vehicle and pulled out a now muffled, but screaming man. He wriggled and tried hard to pull away, but was helpless. The two ritualists held him in place as he whimpered.

“Bring forth the Witness!” She again called out. The other two participants went to the vehicle and pulled out another muffled and crying man. The results were the same. Helpless, he could only watch as they moved the other man towards the fire pit.

“Remove the blindfold and gag from the sacrifice!” She commanded.

The man immediately begged and cried for his life.

“Please don’t do this! I can give you whatever you want. I have money, I have shit that... just don’t kill me, PLEASE! I don’t deserve this! I did nothing to you people!” He cried to the impassionate masked faces.

“Remove the Gag from the Witness!” Again, she commanded.

“What the Fuck is wrong with you people?” He cried out in a mix of terror and rage, tears dropping from his puffy eyes.

“Help me, man! Don’t let them kill me, dude.” The Sacrifice called to the Witness.

“I’m... I’m sorry!” The Witness whispered out trying to look away, but the woman and man held him firm.

“Now, let us continue. Move the Sacrifice towards the flame!” She commanded.

The Sacrifice struggled hard against the man and the woman but to no avail. They moved him to within two meters of the flame exactly. Then they released him. The man’s instinct to run took over, and he tried. But his legs disobeyed his mind, something unseen held him fast.

“Move the Witness to his position!” The Witness, also two meters away from the pit, eyed the Sacrifice. Each man faced each other in the arms of the star.

Knowing they were both helpless and likely doomed, they did a very human thing, tears flooded both men’s eyes. With rage empowering the Witness's tears.

“Shel… Sheldon.” The Sacrifice said, visibly shaking.

“Rick!” The Witness cried out, trying to look away, but his head was held by that same invisible force.

“Now take your positions. We have the rage of the Witness and the Hopelessness of the Sacrifice. We continue.”

The two other women stood behind Rick and Sheldon. The men stood at the feet of the star and resumed chanting. While the Priestess performed the ritual.

“SGOUEDDSLK! (Pronounced su-ged-silk) I summon you! You, who caused dread in ancient times. You, who fill children’s sleep with nightmares. You, who can kill our enemies and suffer no retaliation. You, of the flames of revenge and pain. Bringer of Terror! COME FORTH!” she cried.

“Take your Sacrifice Sgoueddslk! As innocent eyes witness your arrival. Sgoueddslk!”

Honeygreen could feel another just like it. As it made its presence on this plane known. It noticed the Fire pit grow larger. As it did, its hunger for the flames grew in scale. But it could resist only barely. The flames formed tendrils snaking towards Sheldon, as he cried in pain. His shins and feet burned from the contact.

They pulled him closer to the pit slowly as if feeding off not only his flesh but his fear. Rick could only watch in horror as Sheldon reached the middle, and the flames cascaded and flowed up and over his body.

It took mere seconds for him to be immolated. He screamed as he died. Emerging from the ruins of his body, stood a tall wiry grotesque thing that resembled a mix of a human and a salamander.

Reddish black skin, charcoal black eyes, reptilian facial features.

It screeched a yawn, as though bored by the summoning. It turned to look at the witness as the flames flowed over its body. This had proven too much for Honeygreen, and it made its way towards the ritual as fast as its lanky form could take it. Its craving for the warmth had now overridden its curiosity.

Sgoueddslk spoke to Rick, who trembled in fear as it looked at them.

“Well done Witness! I haven’t tasted rage such as yours in a very long time! If you survive this night, let that stick with you.” It said, poking him in the chest, its taloned finger slightly puncturing and burning his flesh. Rick screamed.

“I apologize! I forget humans are not very durable!” It chuckled thickly.

“Now to my summoner’s. I am yours to command. What would you have me do in this drab world of yours? Who do you want dead?”

The woman at the head of the star moved forward. Offering praises as she did so.

“Mighty Sgoueddslk! As your Mistress, I command you to...”

She never got the chance to finish as Honeygreen emerged from the woods, crawling swiftly as a spider on all fours towards the fire.

“Pardon, may I join you?” Honeygreen called out.

“Who dares?” Sgoueddslk snarled.

“What the hell?” One ritualist shouted.

“Oh, no!” called another, and as he moved, he scuffed the protective star just enough...

Sgoueddslk quickly turned to face his now terrified Mistress, for she knew what that meant. The barrier was gone; It freed the beast.

“You would dare summon another to ambush me?” It snarled at her.

“No!” she cried out. “I don’t know what that THING even is. Oh mighty...”

“Silence!” it said, plunging a taloned finger through the sides of her mouth.

Honeygreen just stood there, drawing in as much of the heat as it could. Sgoueddslk could feel the impossible cold of the thing. Thinking it was being attacked by the other “Demon,” it lashed out at its summoners. Long talons gored the panicked woman where Sheldon stood.

It peeled her open from stomach to sternum. The other woman fled into the woods. Spinning, it then sliced the first man’s head from his body in a jagged mess of blood and gore. The other fled in the woman's direction.

Rick could only watch, as he felt like his mind was about to snap from the events before him. All he had done was take the wrong turn last night. Just a wrong turn, a stupid wrong turn.

Sgoueddslk bent towards him.

“You! Witness! You are free. I still smell vengeance and rage in you.” It said before pulling his talon from the Mistress's face. She fell to the ground, clutching her pierced jaws in pain. Sgoueddslk took the same dagger-length talon and pulled it painfully from its hand.

“I cannot leave this spot, but you can. You kill them for me, boy! You make them suffer for what they did to both of us. Then you bring that talon back to this fire, and throw it in, and I’ll know the deed is done, and nothing like me will ever bother you again!”

Rick felt freed of whatever force held him. He shakily took the talon and felt the energy flow into his body, as if the dagger possessed him. He looked at the now pitiful, whimpering Mistress.

“NO! Witness! She is mine. For her crime, death is too kind! Now Go!”

Sgoueddslk commanded. The Mistress screamed as her summoned beast snatched her and glowered into her terrified eyes. Sgoueddslk smiled a toothy grin.

“Death is far too good for you! I do have something else in mind, however.”

It then turned to look at Honeygreen with a mix of disgust and hatred. Honeygreen simply nodded, tipping its hat.

“Thank you kindly for the fire and company.”

Saying nothing, Sgoueddslk pulled itself and the screaming woman into the pit.

“I’m not sure how much time had passed. But the boy returned.” Honeygreen said.

“He still had the talon in his hands, it was covered in blood. So I guess...” Honeygreen’s teeth chattered as though cold. He was, as in her excitement at the story, she had removed her hand. She quickly placed it back on him.

“I guess he had gotten his revenge. The flames were still high as I sat there watching him. He wasn’t scared of me. He’d seen worse that night. He took the talon and tossed it in the flame, then sat down. “

Abigail cocked her head to the side and quizzed Honeygreen.

“Honeygreen? I thought you said this was a tale of needless revenge.”

“It was!” Honeygreen stated. He opened his coat and revealed bloody swaths of human skin. He opened it further to reveal a tattoo on the skin.

“That tattoo belonged to the boy, Rick!” it stated.

“Oh, Nooo...!” Abigail said in genuine concern. “Why?”

“Part of my curse is to harm no one sharing their campfire with me while they are awake.”

“I see.” Abigail said, solemnly. The twist of the tale hits her.

“Well. It was a helluva story. If you had told that tale to certain other types of people. They’d be trying to destroy you right now. But I see the spirits of these woods have rules, and you followed them.”

Honeygreen tipped his hat, “Yes, Ma’am!”

Honeygreen rose. “I’ll be going now,” it said.

“Ohhh, no!” Abigail said, increasing the warmth her body put out. Honeygreen salivated.

“Sit! I told you I could use the company!” she stated.

“Now I’m going to tell YOU a story, and it’s a doozy!” Abigail started. “It’s about the Fey, a smoke monster, and a kid who won the lottery.”

Pt. 9

Her hand fell from my head, leaving a lingering burn where her fingers had been. I gasped for air, struggling to reconcile the storm of images crashing through my mind. The fire, the screams, the chaos, her life the past years, the confusion she felt, the despair and betrayal- they were seared into me now, as if I’d lived them myself.

Marina’s eyes softened, her voice carrying an unfamiliar tenderness as she spoke. “I have never felt the way I do when I’m around you,” she said. “Greg manipulated me, tortured me, made me into something I’m not.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but her words tumbled forth, urgent and raw.

“You believed me, you trusted me, and you led me here—to the gates of my home, the place I have been yearning for.” Her gaze flicked toward the floor, as if the foundation itself might crumble and reveal the truth beneath. “My kind wants to mimic humans, to walk among them, to feel what they feel. But I do not.”

She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming, intoxicating. “My dwelling is below, in the depths where I reign as a leader. It is a realm of power, beauty, and freedom unlike anything in this finite world. And I want you there with me.”

My heart pounded, her words sinking in with a weight I couldn’t ignore.

“Come with me,” she said, her voice like a siren’s call. “Leave this fragile world behind. Be my king, and I your wife. For eternity.”

I stared at her, I crumbled under the gravity of her offer. It was madness—a world I couldn’t begin to fathom, yet I couldn’t deny the pull. The thought of leaving everything behind, of ruling at her side, of eternity with her, sent a thrill through me I couldn’t explain.

“Eternity?” I managed to whisper.

“Yes,” she said, her hand reaching out again, though this time it rested gently on my chest, her touch a mix of warmth and frost. “You’ve seen what I am, what my world is. It’s not a place for the faint-hearted, but for you… it could be paradise.”

The room seemed to tremble, the walls vibrating faintly, as though her words were bending reality itself. I could feel the choice pressing against me, the weight of a thousand lifetimes waiting for my answer.

And still, I couldn’t look away from her.

Her hand reached out to me and I grabbed it. I felt like I was floating. Muscles and bones filled with air like a fleshy balloon.

I followed her like a dog on a leash. Chains never felt so much like freedom.

We made a decent down a staircase and as soon as my feet hit the last stair- a wave of heat hit my face. A heat that was warm and welcoming.

Fresh and sweet like cookies just pulled out of an oven.

I saw the brightest, warmest, light. A light so bright I thought I was standing at the foot of the Sun. It called me and I answered happily. I practically skipped into it.

I looked back as I was about to be engulfed by the light and saw Marina standing there with a smile that was no longer too perfect, but just right.

She followed behind me and what I walked into- was…paradise.

Black rock, soft and glistening, was the land my feet stood on. Beautiful pools of red and glowing embers filled my vision.

I saw people- or things that looked like people, dancing in the most extravagant black dresses and suits. Their skin glistened like stars in the sky.

I heard a choir singing at the top of their lungs. The most enchanting hymns- raising their praises to this beautiful realm that they inhabit.

I saw tall and lengthy beings that resembled Marina in the visions she had given me. Laughing and smiling with joy I had never seen before.

took a step forward, drawn to their celebration, eager to share in their joy. But pain, sharp and overwhelming, ripped through my body. I froze, gasping, and looked down at my arms. My skin flaked and crumbled away like brittle parchment thrown into a roaring fire. Beneath the destruction, my flesh was revealed—dark as the void, shimmering with an otherworldly beauty.

The agony was unbearable, yet I could not scream. Tears spilled from my eyes instead, unbidden and hot against my burning skin. I was changing, becoming something else, something beautiful.

A hand rested on my shoulder, firm and steady. I turned to find Marina beside me, her eyes gleaming with assurance. She cupped my chin, lifting my head so that I would meet her gaze.

“My dear,” she said softly, her voice like a lullaby against the storm of my pain. “It’s alright. The pain won’t last. This new body you are growing will fulfill your every desire. Stand tall and strong as your body breaks and burns. My people are watching you, and you will be their King. Show no weakness.”

Her words sank into me, anchoring me even as my back arched with another surge of torment. I staggered, nearly falling, but her voice echoed in my mind. Do not be weak.

The pain surged again, this time tearing through my spine like lightning. I gasped as the sensation spread, something unfurling, growing. A sound—like the rush of wings slicing through air—filled my ears. I turned to Marina, desperate for reassurance, and saw a shadow stretch behind her. It wasn’t hers. It was mine.

The wings, dark as eternity, spread wide, their edges shimmering like embers in the dim light. Marina smiled, a proud, almost maternal gleam in her eyes.

I smiled back, the pain receding like a distant memory. She extended her hand toward the beings across the expanse, the ones whose laughter and music still filled the air. “Go to them,” she said simply.

Without hesitation, I stepped forward, my steps sure and purposeful now. My new wings flexed, and I felt an unfamiliar strength coursing through me. As I approached, the beings turned to greet me, their faces alight with joy.

They welcomed me as one of their own, their radiant king.

This was my home now. My family.

Paradise.

I was exhausted.

The type of tired that creeps into every crack and crevice of your body and makes you feel like every limb weighs a ton.

Small blessings were upon me, however.

In a rare turn of fate, my train was already waiting for me as I slipped from the twilight of the street into the fluorescence of the station.

The metal doors slid open as I made my way inside the almost empty cab. It was silent, something both comforting and concerning.

I could fall asleep, which I wanted to do desperately, but at the same time I didn’t want to oversleep and miss my stop.

Groggily, I stared up at the moon, in her full luminance, almost as if she held the answers.

In her infinite wisdom, she remained mute.

I found the seat that beckoned to me, gave a polite smile to my fellow passenger, and gingerly sank into my seat.

Within minutes my eyes fluttered closed.

I wasn’t sure how long I was sleeping before I heard it.

Sharp intakes of air. Groans of pain. Violent gags, retching.

My eyes snapped open and I spun around.

The man opposite and behind me was slumped over in his seat, body taut as fishing wire.

“Sir…are you okay?” I asked, while making my way over to the writhing mass of man.

As if on a springtrap, the man suddenly shot to his feet, his face twisted in the ugliest, painful looking grimace I’d ever seen.

Then after a beat, he threw his head back so aggressively I thought it would snap.

“What the fu-“

His body began to shift even more, muscles bulging as his skin turned black.

On second glance, I realized what was happening.

Fur.

He was growing fur.

His canines grew abnormally long and sharp, as his hands became tools of evisceration.

I was watching man become beast.

In another flurry of now bestial limbs, the man thing tossed me to the side, rushed to the door, and jumped straight through the steel and glass without a backward glance.

The soft swaying of the train car shook unsteadily for a moment, before coming to a stop.

Hours later, when I’d made it home, I sat in my apartment in disbelief and fear. I’d had a night straight out of a horror film.

And I’d survived. I’d seen the face and the number of the beast and lived to never tell a soul.

A searing pain bore into my skin as I looked down at my arm.

My grey sweater was now deeply tinged in crimson, dripping with life and death.

I looked to the moon once more.

This time she spoke.

Dr. Elias Granger sat hunched over the microscope, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. His hands trembled, not from fatigue, but from the sheer excitement that coursed through his veins. The sample on the slide was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was an unusual strain of the rabies virus, but this was no ordinary mutation. Granger had been searching for it—had been hoping for it—ever since he first postulated the existence of the "Zombie Pathogen" years ago.

The virus, which he had nicknamed Rabia Noctis, was not just a neurological infection; it rewrote the rules of life and death. It spread through saliva, just like rabies, but its effects were far more sinister. The infected became feral, their minds consumed by a primal hunger. And worse: they could not die.

At first, Granger thought he had made a mistake. The virus had been slow to manifest, but once it took hold, it spread like wildfire through the test animals. The infected were not simply rabid—they were unstoppable. They did not succumb to the usual causes of death: no heart failure, no organ shutdown. Only one thing seemed to halt them—severing the head from the body. But even then, Granger wasn’t sure if it was a true death, or just another stage of this terrifying cycle.

He leaned closer to the slide, observing the twisted strands of the virus as they multiplied and infected the host cells in rapid succession. His thoughts raced. Could it be that the virus was causing necrosis not just in the brain, but throughout the body? Was it using the host’s own cells to regenerate and perpetuate the infection?

A shrill scream broke his concentration. Granger whipped around to the observation window where one of the researchers, a young intern named Lena, was struggling against a man in the adjacent lab. The man was clearly infected, his eyes bloodshot and vacant, saliva dripping from his mouth as he grabbed Lena by the throat. She screamed again, but it was too late.

Without warning, the infected man sank his teeth into Lena’s shoulder. She writhed in agony, her body going stiff in the initial shock of the bite. Granger’s stomach churned. He had expected this to happen. But not like this—not so soon.

Lena’s body jerked violently, the infection spreading faster than anything Granger had ever seen. Within seconds, her face twisted into an expression of horror, her eyes wild and frantic. She gasped for breath as she stumbled backward, her movements becoming erratic. The lab was in chaos, a frenzy of shouts and pounding footsteps. Granger turned back to his microscope, fingers scrambling to secure the virus’s data before everything fell apart.

Suddenly, Lena lunged at another researcher—this time, a woman named Dr. Holt. Granger watched, heart pounding, as Dr. Holt screamed, stumbling backward. Lena’s teeth sank into her neck. The infected were already growing in number, their frenzy unstoppable. Granger didn’t dare turn away from the chaos for more than a second.

His eyes darted to the whiteboard, where the words “Immortality? Could it be real?” were written in his own handwriting. It wasn’t just immortality—these creatures weren’t alive anymore. Not in any true sense. They were something else, something worse.

The door slammed open behind him. The infected were closing in.

Granger’s mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. Rabia Noctis was unstoppable. It had no cure. There was no vaccine, no antidote. Just the head. Sever the head, and they die. But what about the rest? Could humanity survive something like this? Could he survive? The question was irrelevant now. The virus had escaped.

With a final glance at his research notes, Granger made a choice.

The light flickered, and then, there was only darkness.

The world outside the lab had no idea what was coming. Not yet. But the virus was out there now. And as the wind whispered through the trees outside the abandoned facility, it carried with it the faintest sound: a growl.

The infection was spreading faster than anyone could have imagined.

And Granger? Granger’s story had only just begun

I tried to scream when I woke up but found there was some kind of invisible, almost magnetic barrier preventing my mouth from moving. 

Instead of my bed, I was immobilized on an operating table. And instead of a TV, across from me stood a figure in a drooping gray cloak, wearing what I could only describe as a white pharaoh's mask.

“This is your only warning,” The figure said. His voice didn't come from any mouth. It's more like his words were stroking the inner cavity of my skull.

”Any more meddling and your punishment will be permanent,” his skull-voice said.

My bedroom—which I definitely fell asleep in—was now replaced by an oppressively white surgical bay. There were mirrors and shiny silver instruments arranged above me and along the walls. I could see a single black cable running along my operating table and disappearing somewhere behind my neck.

What is happening!? was the prevalent question pounding in my head. The figure seemed to sense this and gave a response

“You have taken too much interest in our pods,”

Pods? What pods? I had no idea what he was talking about. But then I remembered that last night I had spotted a particularly bright drone traveling above the downtown skyline. I took some high-res photos and shared the discovery on my discord. 

Is this about my UFO obsession?

“This is about you stopping, and never starting again.” 

The figure walked up to my side and began to stroke my head with a glossy, reticulated hand. I didn't know it was a prosthetic, or if the pharaoh was entirely robotic.

I was terrified but tried my best to make my thoughts sound consistent and clear. I’ll stop! I'll stop recording any other night-time lights I swear!

“Why did you seek out our pods?”

Why? The question momentarily stumped me. But immediately I gave the only explanation I could. It was curiosity. I just wanted to know more about UFO’s. I’m sorry!

“You wanted to know more?” The skull-voice scraped behind my ears, as if there was a chalkboard inside my head. 

“If you wanted to know more, then I will show you what it's like to know everything.”

Know everything? With a flick of a switch, a jolt of electricity shot through the cable and entered the back of my head. Suddenly, I understood that the bizarre metal instrument above me was both a clock and a calendar. It used a series of notches to indicate exact temporal relation to an exo-planet that this alien pharaoh was from.

I could see a linkage on the calendar-clock that lowered every two and a half seconds. Judging by the lightning-quick math I was now able to do in my head, this meant that the linkage had lowered about 240 times since I woke up, which meant that I had been in this chamber for at least sixteen minutes.

How was I able to do that?

“You can figure out everything now.”

It's like I had been given some kind of drug, only I didn't feel high. I felt more lucid than ever before. I was hyper-sober.  My brain was processing everything, every passing thought, idea and concept at speeds that felt impossible.

It was overwhelming. I tried to focus on just thinking about the facts.

My name is Callum I had been born 34 years ago in Portland, Oregon and ever since seeing “Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind” as a kid I’ve always had an interest in aliens which is what made me get a camera at a young age to photograph the night sky which is what got me into photography and why I went to Art School and still owe $17,510 in student loans—which I will likely never be able to pay off because I spend the majority of my time getting high and playing videogames to stave off the void in my life from having never been in a meaningful relationship—which is a result of my overbearing nature from my ADHD and trust issues I developed when my mother left me with my ill-equipped father when I was four years old—hence why I gravitate toward mindless hobbies like video-recording UFO lights in the night because I feel that they give me some miniscule sense of purpose. 

The psychic surgeon caressed the sides of my head with his plastic fingers. “Tell me about … purpose.” 

As soon as the word flitted into my cerebellum, I knew the result would be bad.

Photography was a very loose sense of ‘purpose’ I had always given myself, but what function does it really serve beyond capturing something that already was? A photograph is a recording of a fragmentary blip in a universe that has been ongoing for 13.8 billion years and is about as meaningful as recording a grain of sand. I’m likely to die in about forty years from Alzheimer's from my dad's side. Why would I record thousands of grains of sand?

The pharaoh went to a console that my cable was connected to. His synthetic hands turned a serrated dial, and suddenly my brain was working so fast I could feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

I couldn’t help but think about humanity itself.

Based on the underdeveloped nature of human psychology we are always doomed to repeat the same recursive wars we’ve always had throughout history. This trend is unfixable and will result in the stagnation of human intellect and resources, granting an assured extinction in either the next 200 or 2,000 years. The human race will end, having made no impact on the universe besides briefly sullying planet Earth. This pharoah studies ‘impotent’ planets like mine for a glimpse of the perpetuated evolutionary incompetence. I am but one grime stain of bacteria from this festering petri dish.

The glazed white mask stared at me. Behind its two oval eyes I could sense the penetrating stare of the pharaoh. He was exposing me to dark truths I did not want to know. This ultra-intelligence was not a blessing.

Inherently, I understood that the surgeon’s race purposefully kept their IQ’s lower than 300, to avoid self-annihilation. He was ratcheting mine to more than triple that number. 

This was torture.

Suddenly, I could anatomically comprehend the very molecules that made up every cell on each part of my body. I no longer saw myself as a living person, but rather as a series of gases, protein chains and memories stored by electrical impulses. I was a busy piece of dust kicked up by the universe. 

My life is so fucking meaningless.

Then the pharaoh pulled out a thin white scroll from a drawer. He came toward me and unfurled the paper. I wish I was able to look away, but my gaze was fixed.

It was a math equation. The numbers were not centered around our base-ten numeral system, but something far more advanced. And far more true.

In a single glance I realized it was an equation for reality. Indisputable proof that this entire existence was a simulation. Our entire universe is just used as an energy source for an even higher Alpha universe that truly governs all things. My life was an afterthought’s afterthought.

I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to understand this. 

Each moment of comprehension felt like a saw blade ripping into my soul. What few acquaintances and modest achievements I had found in my life were revealed to be humiliating non-things. The cosmic dread became so intense I had an out-of-body experience. 

I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to understand this. 

Floating up and staring down at my naked, skinny pathetic body, I reached out with ghostly arms and tried to choke myself out. I am a non-thing and I shouldn’t exist.

No sentient being should ever be exposed to something so vast and de-stabilizing. The knowledge was endless despair.

Just when a stygian abyss was about to envelop me whole, the pharaoh turned down the dial.

I floated back into my own body, where I felt groggy and disoriented. It's almost as if I had died and come back, or been struck by lightning, but the truth was, neither of those things happened. I was just given too much intelligence.

“Never seek out our pods again,” the pharaoh said.

***

Had to call in sick from work. 

I was bedridden for the next few days, overwhelmed with flashbacks of being shown that equation. It felt as if a monolithic weight was bearing itself down on all parts of me. Only after a week was I finally able to leave the house and look at the dying star we all cheerfully call a ‘sun’.

Ever since that abduction and ‘High IQ torment’ I’ve had perpetual insomnia, lack of motivation, and complete lack of desire for any social interaction. I just can’t bring myself to do or care about anything. It’s like my brain was irrevocably rewired to realize I’m a broken toy in a virtual game without a purpose. 

I’ve seen dozens of therapists, who attribute my mental state to an intense episode of ego loss and depersonalization, it’s what can happen on a really bad acid trip. I'm hopeful that maybe after another year or so of seeing psychiatrists, I can find a breakthrough and feel at least 10% normal again. Or maybe 5%. Hell, I would even take 1% over nothing at this point.

Let my story be a warning.

I know there’s a lot of fun, mysterious ‘drone’ sightings happening right now—a bit of a UFO-mania resurgence. But don’t get sucked in by it. Leave those drones alone

There’s a catchphrase in the ufologist community you have probably heard of: “The truth is out there.”

Well, listen to me. Do not take this lightly.  The truth IS out there. I know for a fact that it is.

But you do not ever want to know it.

Hi, Today I will tell you something that happened to me 3 Years ago aproximatly on December: Once I was a kid and wanted to see inside of an creepy abandoned School.After that, I sayed it to my big brother, and he too wanted to see what's inside. So, we left aproximatly 2 hours later...We've been inside and...It's just ampty, The whole room was empty. So we returned at our house. Three days laters. I said to my friend "Bro, Just beside are an abandoned school, you want to go inside with me ?" And, no surprise, he had accepted. So 2 days ago, he bring back his big brother. We been front of the school and...What ?! There was a padlock that wasn't here before. My friend tried to fond the code by doing random codes. And 2-3 minutes ago, we heard a van coming closer...It had stopped in the yard, right in front us. So me, my friend and friend big brother ran to our bike. We successful. We escaped them. We returned at my friend house. After that, at the same day. We tought it would be a good idea to go to the forest near the anbadoned school. So we have been here to play at the war. We bring back orbeez weapons without ammunition. We played and aproximatly 15 minutes ago, four kids come on us. And nobody of us know who they're. I don't know anymore but I think I just seen one girl in the group. But the older boy of the gang had said "Have you seen three yougn boy trying to open the door of the abandoned shcool ?" The big brother of my friend had said while stuttering :"No..." After a long moment of silence the same boy had said "Okay, Having a nice day" They disappeard in the snow fall. After that, we all returned home. It was my story thank you to ridding it. And if I made any spelling mistakes, I'm sorry and thank you for understanding. I am French and I come from Canada. Bye and my tiktok account is "❤️‍🔥Billoups_ビループス❤️‍🔥"You just have to copy it🙏 good day to you guys🫡

“Yeah…yeah, alright ma. Loud and clear, your heart aches for a grandchild.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and shot Camila a wink as she paced into the kitchen. With a knowing smirk, my wife tiptoed over and leaned in to eavesdrop. The dishes could wait.

A well tread inside joke, mom’s ability to maintain a conversation with herself was legendary. Like a car with the brakes cut and a brick on the accelerator, unintelligible speech continued to cascade from the receiver, despite the lack of input on my end. Hand over her mouth to muffle a giggle, Camila proceeded to the sink.

With no more audience, I put the phone back to my ear and attempted to reinsert myself.

“Ma…Ma, listen - we’re trying, we’ve been trying, and it’ll happen when it happens. Love you too, bye.”

I slid the device onto the counter with one hand, using the other to massage my temple. A sigh billowed from my lips, forceful and involuntary like hot exhaust from a stalled engine.

From her position in front of the running faucet, Camila twisted her neck to meet my eyes, swinging wispy blonde curls over her shoulder blades. As two blue-white orbs locked onto me, my wife produced a wry grin and clicked her tongue.

“She’s a real firecracker, that one. Don’t know how your dad gets a word in edgewise.”

“Oh, it’s simple - he doesn’t,” I replied with a chuckle.

Contented that she had dragged a laugh out of me, Camila moved her head back to midline to focus on scrubbing the lasagna-stained cutlery. A surge of guilt churned in my stomach, and I stepped forward to rub her shoulders.

“She doesn’t mean to harp on it. She’s just…really excited that the possibility is on the table. But I think mom forgets how up and down your health can be, and that getting pregnant might not be as quick and easy as it was for her.”

On the edge of the V-shaped plot of skin revealed by her cherry-red sundress, I could see the outline of an implanted port. Camila had been receiving infusions through the device since she was a teenager. I never got a straightforward answer to what exactly those infusions were, no matter how I asked the question.

She didn’t love talking about her condition, so I only knew the basics. Something to do with her immune system attacking her nerves. All things considered, being left in the dark about Camila’s health gave me a bit of nervous heartburn as her newly betrothed. That said, we’d been married for two short months and dated for only five months prior to that. Some would say our relationship is still in its infancy, despite its newfound legality. I figured if I expressed interest while also respecting her privacy, answers would surely follow down the line.

A gleam of light reflected from something on her wrist, extracting me from thought.

“Oh! Sweetheart - you didn’t take off your watch. Let me get it for you. Don’t want it to get waterlogged.”

As my hand approached the timepiece, her left hand shot up and out of the soapy water, darting to intercept me. Startled by the suddenness of the reaction, I jerked my palm away before it even contacted the accessory. As strange as that was, Camila’s facial expression was even stranger. She looked just as surprised by her actions as I did, her brow creased with an intense bewilderment.

Slowly, she lifted her right arm out of the sink. Camila rotated the extremity clockwise and then counterclockwise, gaze fixed on her watch, as if she was examining it for the first time.

After a moment, her expression melted into one of cautious understanding.

“Right…I guess that makes sense.”

Rather than letting me remove her watch, she took it off herself, wrapping it delicately around the base of the faucet, noticeably out of reach from me.

Never in my life have I met a woman more enraptured with what appeared to be a luxury wristwatch. I’m not a “watch-guy”, so I'm assuming it’s high-end. I mean, the damn thing stays on during sex. You’d think she had stapled The Hope Diamond to her wrist based on how preciously she treats it.

This made her casual attitude towards it getting wet even stranger.

It’s like her condition, I thought. I’ll learn more in time. I just have to be patient.

As I moved to retrieve my phone from the counter behind Camila, my hip accidentally collided with her elbow. She winced in response.

“Oh Camila, I’m so sorry - my head’s in the clouds. Have to watch where I’m going. Are you alright?”

I peered into the half-filled sink, fearing I’d witness a streak of crimson rise from the bottom of the basin like the beginning of an oil spill.

Except there was no blood. Instead, I saw a stream of tiny bubbles gushing to the top of the reservoir, accompanied by a peculiar, high-pitched noise that I had no explanation for.

A muffled hiss was emanating from under the water, sharp and continuous.

As Camila dredged her injured wrist from the depths, she didn’t scream. As the hissing became crystal clear, no longer dampened by the liquid’s density, it didn’t appear like she was in pain.

What happened became apparent. When I sideswiped my wife, a small kitchen knife had punctured the underside of her wrist. But the laceration wasn’t dripping with blood and plasma.

Pressurized gas was escaping from the slit.

Her hand flopped limply downwards as she held it in front of her, like a latex glove that was being carried by the collar. Inch by inch, more of her arm melted into a gelatinous cast of its previous shape.

The back draft rushing from the aperture appeared more like smoke than air, viscous and thick rather than transparent. Paralyzed by the hallucinatory scene, I generously inhaled the vapors. They were hot and acrid, searing the inside of my mouth and nostrils. The pain knocked me backwards into the fridge door, and I swiped at the fog surrounding me like I was being assailed by a swarm of bees.

By then, her entire arm was flaccid and held at her side, flattened digits just barely able to touch the tile floor. Camila observed the ongoing deflation of her extremity, the dead serpent that was now grafted onto her shoulder, with an alarming indifference.

She tilted her head up, with her blue-white irises once again locking onto mine.

There was no panic in her features. At most, Camila exhibited a passing curiosity - a furrowed brow with a contemplative glint shining behind her eyes.

The emotional dissonance was violently uncanny.

Her face then began to involute, with her nose the first feature to plummet into the developing crater. It was like the front of her skull was being struck by an invisible cannonball, with the progressing concavity distorting her visage into something wholly unrecognizable. Bile leaped up the back of my throat as her head crumpled into a bouquet of rubbery flesh sprouting from her collarbone.

Her chest then folded into her abdomen. With a final crescendoing hiss, the last of my wife evaporated into a chaotic mound of elastic tissue and empty clothes on the kitchen floor.

I’m not sure what I did once the room became silent. I may have screamed, I may have wept. I may have done nothing at all, instead electing to wait patiently for this fever dream to break.

What I remember next is the voice on the other end of my cellphone, asking if I needed emergency services. I don’t recall saying anything to the 911 dispatcher, but I must have, because she informed me that the police were on their way.

The phone abruptly vibrated, the sensation somehow reaching into the ether to grasp my soul and force it back into my person.

I gasped loudly. With dread and adrenaline dancing in my veins, I examined the screen.

Camila was calling.

Every cell in my body buzzed with furious anxiety. From where I was standing, I could see her phone, face-up and to the left of the sink.

It read “Hubby” on the outgoing call screen.

Unsure of what other options were available to me, I answered the call.

“Cam…is…is that-”

“Hey love! Could you kindly pick me up off the floor and…”

The cheery, singsong voice that trickled from the speaker was my breaking point.

I threw my phone from my hand with all the ferocity I could muster. It crashed against the side of our apartment’s oven, its screen becoming black and dead instantly.

In the brief silence that followed, a bluish glow caught my attention. Somewhere within Camila’s shed exoskeleton, a tiny silver firefly had whirred to life. I cautiously stepped forward, trying to determine where in her molt the light originated. Using a spatula, I pushed a layer of folded abdominal skin out of the way to reveal the source.

Her port.

As I examined the implant, it blinked three times, which was followed by a small droplet of light spinning around its edge. In response, Camila’s phone activated once more. It was attempting to connect again with my newly destroyed cell phone.

My spine straightened, and my hand involuntarily released the spatula, causing it to clatter against the floor.

I digested the nightmarish ordeal with a glacial slowness, observations thawing into realizations only after an excruciatingly long amount of time. Whatever that implant was, it wasn’t just a catheter, if it was even a catheter at all.

A set of knuckles rapped against the outside of our apartment door.

“Police! Here to perform a wellness check. Is anyone there?” shouted a gruff male voice.

I felt my mind writhe and fracture, practically atomizing under the crushing weight of my current uncertainty and indecision.

How can I possibly explain this? Is he going to think I skinned my wife? Am I going to jail? That was quick - is he actually the police? What if he’s someone the port called?

Through blistering vertigo, I replied.

“I’m…okay. One moment, be right there.”

Finally mobilized by fear, I stood over Camila. It was nearly impossible to tell what parts of her were where in the mess. I wanted to avoid pulling her by her face, but the absurdity of that concern hit me like a freight train on second thought.

It didn’t matter where I anchored my grasp, I just needed to start pulling.

Centering myself with a breath, I bent over and seized a leathery chunk in each hand. Despite being reduced to human taffy, my wife still weighed as much as she did when she was alive.

If she was ever truly alive, I thought.

Thankfully, her skin slid softly over my kitchen’s terrain. I prayed that whoever was on the other side of that door couldn’t hear the quiet squishing that I was unfortunately privy to. Piled haphazardly in the darkest corner of the room, I draped a navy blue peacoat over the puddle that used to resemble my wife. I then moved to open the door.

The burly man standing on the other side seemed like a police officer. He at least had the uniform.

“We got a 911 hang up from this address not too long ago. Everything alright in there, son?”

I tried to adopt a disarming smile, but my facial muscles wouldn’t fully cooperate. The expression that resulted did me no favors. A disjointed, schizophrenic smirk manifested above my chin, the corners of my mouth becoming tremulous thorns that refused to act in synchrony.

“…yes. I…had some chest pains. They…they're gone now.”

He scanned me from head to toe, no doubt looking for probable cause. I fought back visions of Camila appearing behind me, dragging herself into view with a deflated hand.

After what felt like hours of silent inspection, he spoke again.

“Next time, call us back if it turns out you’re…doing okay.”

The officer hesitated on how to phrase the end of his sentence. I was in dire straits, and he could tell just by looking at me. Distress, however, was not illegal.

I gave him an unconvincing nod, and he walked away. When I could no longer hear the clinking of his gun holster and the dull thuds of his boots against the ground, I locked the door. Resting my forehead against the wood of the frame, I let myself briefly dissociate.

Before long, however, anxiety began to bubble at the base of my skull, forcing me to confront reality. With every ounce of my being, I prayed to turn the corner and find no navy blue peacoat cloaking something large and amorphous in my kitchen, which would confirm my developing psychosis. Insanity was preferable to this hellscape. Camila could at least visit me in a sanitorium.

Faintly, I could see the outline of that silver firefly under a heap of fabric and skin, and I accepted that I would have no such luck.

-------------

It took me about thirty minutes to heave Camila into the confines of our walk-in closet. Primarily, I focused my energy on the task at hand, as opposed to theorizing about the meaning of it all. There would be time for that later. Right now, she needed to be hidden from view.

Once I had her sequestered, however, I couldn’t help but examine Camila. The impossibly surreal nature of her transformation helped me cope with and detach from the circumstances to some degree. This wasn’t my wife, the woman I had fallen hopelessly in love with - this was some cruel oddity, an intense and extreme prank. It was Salvador Dalí's horrific reinterpretation of Camila, not the flesh and blood woman herself.

These thoughts helped, but only to a point.

The portion I couldn’t reconcile was her face. From where she lay congealed in the back of the closet, the right half of her face was visible. Her features were still taut but slightly withered, like a weathered Halloween mask. The crease at her nose hid the rest of her face from me, existing somewhere deeper inside the pile. Even though it now appeared like a wintery marble stitched into high-quality latex, her right eye seemed to track my movements, watching my every step.

I didn’t think she was actually watching me. Camila’s hollow cadaver had not moved an inch since its deflation. I thought I had killed her.

That said, I couldn’t absorb her gaze, even if she was dead. Her glassy right eye inspired a skittering, burning madness in my soul that threatened to dissolve me completely if I allowed the flames to rise unabated.

I covered her limp, vacant half-face with a t-shirt, and resumed my inspection.

There were two, for lack of a better word, sacs fixed on the inside of Camila. Circular outlines that clearly had their own internal space. One appeared to be located under her chest, and the second appeared to be located under her upper abdomen.

A heart and a stomach, maybe?

Next, I ran my fingertips along the length of the right arm. Her shell was sturdy and firm, like thick plastic, save the underside of her wrist, which had more of a silky consistency.

Maybe the area served a ventilatory purpose. But then what about the watch?

Leaving the closet, I locked the doors behind me and checked the timepiece that was still hanging at the base of the tap. When I placed the obsidian strap up to a light bulb, sure enough, it seemed to be equipt with thousands of tiny holes. Protective, porous metal, I theorized.

As I lingered in front of the sink, my detachment from the situation abruptly waned. Standing where she had only a few hours ago, the floodgate’s destruction was inevitable. I thought of her laugh, her smile, her empathy and her kindness, causing bitter tears to fall softly into the basin.

Then, in a flash, I reconsidered our entire relationship.

Was she once human, and then someone replaced her with a near-perfect replica? Was she always like this?

What does she want from me?

A crack of thunder detonated from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

My heart swam, trying to remain afloat in a new deluge of liquid terror.

The closet door had slammed against the top of the frame. Initially, I couldn’t determine the mechanics of what had transpired and caused the noise.

Then, I saw it. Or rather, I saw her. Under the doorframe.

Camila, a sentient lake of skin, was squeezing herself under the closet door. However she was moving, it involved bouts of propulsion that generated enough power to splinter the edges of the resilient wooden door as it collided with its frame.

Another three booms occurred in rapid succession, and then she was free.

Her method of transportation was beyond uncanny - it was mind shatteringly alien. Camila’s gait would start with hundreds of spikes materializing under her, their birth thrusting her tissue upward. She would then hang briefly in the air, giving the appearance of a giant, flesh-toned soccer cleat. The mass of skin would then tilt forward, momentum causing Camila to fall a few inches in her intended direction, reabsorbing the spikes in the process. The cycle would then restart, a full rotation taking only about three seconds.

Gradually, Camila was hobbling down the hall and towards me.

Defeated, my body slumped to the kitchen floor. I leaned against the cabinet below the sink, awaiting whatever was to follow.

But Camila passed by me.

Her intended destination was, apparently, the guest bedroom. It did not take her long to get there. From behind where I was sitting, I could hear her ramming against something, repetitive thuds emanating from the room.

It took me a while to reconnect my muscles to my nerves, their connections transiently severed by the recent torrent of caustic horror. When I was able, I followed Camila into the guest bedroom.

She was struggling to open a drawer present on the bed frame, incapable of melding her flesh around the knob to pull it open. Camila’s face wasn’t visible from my vantage point, instead submerged somewhere within herself. She could still sense me, however. Her attempts stopped once I entered the room. She tumbled backwards and remained still, wordlessly asking for help.

I stepped forward, internally bracing myself for Camila to pounce on and consume me. But she never did.

When I pulled the drawer open, I understood.

Our air mattress was inside, which included a detachable motor designed to inflate the bed.

----------------

I haven’t managed to reform Camila, not yet. But I’m getting closer. The motor could partially inflate her, but it’s not powerful enough to pressurize her completely.

I’m desperate for answers, but our communication so far has been limited. She can’t speak while she’s deflated. It seems like Camila can whisper when she’s partially inflated, but only weakly, and I could not hear her over the motor. Her port, whatever it is, can use Camila’s phone to call other lines, but it apparently cannot act as a phone by itself.

And my phone, unfortunately, remains broken.

Maybe I’ll try reading her lips later today. Or I’ll go to a payphone and have her call me there.

My planning was interrupted when I felt Camila’s phone vibrate in my pocket. It was an incoming call from my mom’s number, probably reaching out to my wife after being unable to reach me.

Her call was the catalyst to a series of epiphanies.

She was the one who introduced me to Camila.

I assumed the sacs inside of my wife were a stomach and a heart. But she has no blood, so maybe she doesn’t need a heart.

Maybe it’s a stomach and a uterus. My mom has been obsessed with receiving a grandchild.

When I answered the call, I shouted my initial query before she could wind herself up.

“Hey Mom - where did you say you met Camila again?”

Dead air came back as her response. Maybe she could hear the motor running in the background, or maybe it was just something in my voice that implied what I knew. Either way, she was stunned.

I could hear her breathing on the other line, but seconds later, she still had said nothing.

Mom may be a chatterbox, but she’s a terrible poker player.

She’s only truly silent when she’s manufacturing a lie.

If you wanna know what happened Monday…

TUESDAY

I woke up early today, even though I didn't have to. My shift didn't start until 2:00 PM, but I wanted to enjoy whatever moments of freedom I had before coming back to this place. I tell you, The Emporium will drain the life right outta you, if you let it.

But, I'm here now. Definitely clocked in this time, too. No one believes me when I tell them, that time clock is a fucking thief. It's been deleting hours off of my time lately, and sometimes it takes the whole damn shift. Guess I'm the only one it does that to, of course. Bastard.

Chris is here working with me tonight. He's a fairly normal guy I'd say, except the motherfucker does have more fingers than usual. A whole extra hand, in fact, and it's not where you'd expect it to be. Always gets him in trouble.

The Turd Slug is back again. It's fucking disgusting, but we can't really do anything about it. The more we chase it around, the more shit it smears everywhere. And Lenny does a God awful job of cleaning it up, of course. So, it's honestly better to just pretend like you don't even see it, so it doesn't try to run away from you.

Other than that, it's been a pretty slow night... so far. I didn't have a lot of backstock to do, so I decided to go and try to clean up The Spill That Never Dries. I know it's a waste of time, but tonight, that's my goal. I call it, 'do nothing Tuesdays', because, usually it's my first day back. But, since I didn't get my day off yesterday, I'll have to work extra hard to do more nothing than usual tonight.

I go to the janitor's closet and, of course, Lenny's in there, dripping. I hate it when he stands in my way, it's really hard to get all the drippings off the bottom of my shoes. I grab the mop and bucket and head over to aisle 13.

When I get there, Blind Richard is flailing around on the ground, covered in green slime and holding onto a box of saltines. Must've slipped on The Spill. Shit... Now I have to fill out a God damned accident report. And, that motherfucker is not blind either, he's faking it. I just know.

When I bent over to help him up, I suddenly felt a finger slide into a place I was not expecting.

"God damnit! Chris!!"

"Oh Jeez, I'm sorry man! I was just trying to help."

"Just, back up... I got it. Why don't you go and grab an accident form from the office." I said, trying not to lose my cool.

"Okay!" He said. "Where's the office?"

Chris has worked here for at least 5 years, and he's been in that office many, many times. I explain to him again how to get there, then go back to trying to help Blind Richard. Only, he's gone. That shithead had gotten up and walked away, smearing The Spill all over the place with his stick.

I decide to give up on The Spill and head back to the warehouse. Maybe I'll just hide out there until I hear The Hum. Adam is the one running the register tonight. Thank God. That means I won't have to go up there and help... unless he has one of his 'episodes.'

Every so often, Adam gets these little fits where it's like something suddenly comes over him. His eyes turn black, his head spins around, and he starts projectile vomiting all over the customers. I think the fucker needs to be on medicine, or something. But, he doesn't think anything's wrong with him, because he never remembers it happening. Real convenient if you ask me.

When I walk through the warehouse doors, I can already smell it. The Fart Cloud. It must be somewhere around back here. I know it isn't the Turd Slug, because I just saw the little shit over by the milk and it's not that fast. The Fart Cloud never dissipates, it just moves. You pretty much never know where it's going to be, until you crop dust yourself with it.

I forgot to bring my jacket with me tonight, so I'm freezing my ass off. It's always so fucking cold in here. I used to go around setting all the thermostats to 72, but it seemed like someone kept going behind me and turning them down to 65, so I don't even bother with it anymore. At least I remembered to bring my food.

The Hum began, and I was just starting to make my way to the break room when I noticed Yogurt Lady over by the coolers. She hadn't started slathering herself yet, but I knew she'd still growl if she saw me. I didn't feel like being attacked tonight, so I turned around. Guess I'm not eating.

I spent the rest of my shift trying to fill the cans of soup that kept changing into mice every time I'd put them on the shelf. I didn't even try to catch any of them. Maybe they'll eat the Turd Slug.

At a quarter to 9, Chris comes running up to me holding a piece of paper.

"I got it!" He said, excitedly.

I'd forgotten I even sent him on that mission.

"Thanks, Chris. Now go put it back in the office."

"Okay! Where's the office?"

I head up to the front of the store, and apparently Adam had an episode that no one alerted me to. The openers will be pissed, but I don't care. I am not cleaning up all this. Besides, they'll blame it on Lenny.

As I approach the time clock, eager to get home and be done with this night, I hear a squish. I lift up my foot, and it's the fucking Turd Slug, feasting on a half eaten mouse. I kick it across the floor and punch my numbers in. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

[Part 19]

I dove to the cold steel of the catwalk beside Charlie, and not a second later, a wave of machine gun bullets tore through the building.

Broken shards of glass rained down around me from the windows, and sparks flew as high-speed lead projectiles ricochetted off the nearby metal beams. Three of our soldiers who didn’t crouch in time were hit and crumpled in a fit of agonized shrieks as their blood dripped down to the factory floor below. The entire structure trembled from a mortar impact on the rooftop, and bits of cement filled the air as the incoming rifle fire chewed away at the walls around us. If the fight for the depot had been rough, and the outpost in the square intense, this was a slaughter of brutal proportions, bullets and rockets sailing in from all angles. It seemed there was no end to the enemy fire, no pause for so much as a reload, and explosions rocked the ground beneath us to reverberated up the iron skeleton of the walkways in colossal shivers. Everything was swallowed in the titanic roar of battle, a fight so fierce that even the garbled cries from my headset barely made it to my eardrums.

“There’s too many!”

“Ammo! We need more ammo on the right!”

“Back up! Back up, they’ve got thermite grenades! Get ba—”

Charlie squeezed off a few shots out the window and ducked back down to shake his head at me. “We can’t hold em! We have to fall back! They’re going to swarm us!”

Daring to push my head up so I could peer over the concrete berm of the windowsill, I squinted against the kaleidoscope of muzzle flashes in the night. From what I could tell, both wings on our column to the north and south of us were being pushed back, retreating down the streets as the sheer number of enemy riflemen overwhelmed them. Three vehicles were burning, two ASV’s to the north, an armored truck in the south, but in our compound at the center the enemy charged the hardest. They were running right up to the concrete perimeter walls, to the sheet-steel gates, firing at us with every bullet they had, and boosting their fellows up so they could clamber over the ramparts. Most were shot before they could get over the top, but it didn’t stop them from trying, and more than one Organ trooper wearing an explosive vest had detonated themselves against the eastern gate. There were enemy soldiers everywhere, on all sides of our compound, and if we tried to withdraw now, they would simply catch us in the open.

And then they’ll drive a big wedge right down to the square. Chris will be flanked, our headquarters will be overrun, and the field hospital captured. We can’t pull out, or Crow will march all the way to the southern city gates.

Heart pounding in my chest, I threw myself to my feet and ran back and forth along the catwalk to push the others into various spots along the windows. “Hold the line, Fourth! Get up, return fire! Shoot for God’sa sake, or they’ll kill us all!”

More of our soldiers scrambled into position, and I ran down the catwalk stairs, out to the armored trucks at the back, which were already engaging the enemy trying to cross the street. I pounded my fist on the armored doors and ordered the drivers to various positions around the courtyard, so that the gunners could bring their mounted weapons to bear in the perimeter defense. The two ASV’s that were in the compound rolled to the eastern gate, where the heaviest enemy contact was, and began to fire point-blank with their 90mm cannon into the buildings across the road, collapsing them atop whatever machine gun or rocket crew had taken refuge inside. The one mortar team we had feverishly stacked bags of cement into a makeshift gun pit and went to work, loosing rounds into the surrounding charge of the enemy as fast as they could. As the Organs did to us, we threw all that we had at them . . . and yet, it still wasn’t enough.

“Building two, what’s your status?” I took a moment between running through the different gun positions to click my radio mic and glanced at the large production shop opposite ours across the parking lot.

“Taking heavy fire, captain!” The male voice of their leader came through, the platoon there one of our Ark River contingents. “They managed to get a team over the wall, and there’s some in the ground level! We’re black on ammo, I say again, we are black on ammo!”

The ever-dwindling stock of militia men who had joined the coalition during our days in New Wilderness had taught us the military way of clarifying our ammunition supply via colors. For my northernmost platoon on the compound to be ‘black’ on ammo meant they were down to the last rounds and needed more if they were to be expected to hold their position. Our trucks carried plenty of extra munitions in their armored compartments, but that meant going outside into the hailstorm of fire to get them. If the Organs had truly pushed so hard that they were inside our perimeter, on the northern shop’s ground floor no less, then getting more ammunition to our besieged troops would require near-suicidal determination.

“Ammos on its way.” I quipped back into the headset, and crouch-ran down the line, picking out a few riflemen with quick slaps on the backs of their green-painted helmets. “Hartman, Rogers, Clark, with me! Charlie, we’re going for ammo, get the machine gunners squared away!”

“Will do.” Sergeant McPhearson ducked an incoming volley and worked to reload his rifle while my chosen three and I hurried for the stairs.

Like stumbling children late for school, we took the steps down three at a time, air hissing as lead snapped around our boots. The ground floor was a similar chaotic mess, the dust hung thicker from numerous impacts on the cement, and enemy rifle rounds stirred up a cloud of grit that almost blinded me in the seething darkness. With the others in tow, I ran for the back door, dodging old machinery, and nearly slipped more than once on a slick of fresh blood.

Kaboom.

Right as I stepped outside, a concussive force blew me back through the doorway into my fellow ammunition runners, and ripped the metal door clean off its hinges.

We tumbled headlong over one another, and landed in a heap on the floor, the air filled with the acrid taste of burnt explosive.

My ears rang, both lungs hurt, and my limbs felt sluggish, as if they’d been dipped in some sort of numbing agent. For a moment, all I could pick up was the roaring of my own pulse in my temple and fumbled to roll upright on the shrapnel-covered concrete floor.

Thump-thump.

Coughing, I dragged myself upward in the flickering shadows, a fire burning somewhere outside near the gun trucks, and blinked to clear the dizziness from my skull.

Thump-thump.

My hands twinged in pain as I cut myself on a few shards of broken cement and groped for my submachine gun. The other three from my platoon lay around me, Hartman and Rogers moving slowly to rise as I did, Clark limp from where his head had been smashed open on an old lathe.

Thump-thump.

Through the haze of my clearing vision, I saw dark shapes flood into the courtyard out of a halo of orange flame. Crumpled bits of wall fell before them, the light of a burning truck glinting off their bayonets, dozens upon dozens of gray-shirted devils that screamed at the top of their lungs. They fanned out like locusts, and several turned towards the smoking remnants of my doorway.

“Get up, Hannah.”

A soft, baritone voice whispered in my ear, as though its owner stood right next to me in the murky darkness. The stranger’s silver irises flashed before my mind’s eye, and all at once, the fog in my brain cleared.

Three of the enemy charged in with rifles leveled, eyes red from either sleep deprivation or whatever substances the rag-tag soldiers of the Auxiliaries been given.

Bang, bang.

Hartman and Rogers tried to stand but were shot before they could. Their bodies jerked backward with the force of the rounds, and mists of red sprayed from their wounds.

My reflexes twitched, the ringing faded as my enhanced senses came back to life, and I snatched my Type 9 from the cold cement.

Brat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

In a shutter-stop horror show of flashes, the burst cut down two of the advancing Organs, and I rolled to one side just as the third’s bayonet grazed the concrete by my ribs, throwing sparks in the dim shadows.

Lunging onto the balls of my feet, I brought the Type 9 up and pulled the trigger once more.

Clack.

My blood went cold as the bolt slid home on an empty magazine, and the Organ soldier leveled his rifle at my chest.

Click.

His ash-covered face betrayed a similar level of dismay at his own empty weapon, but the boy thrust his bayonet at me without hesitation.

A half-twitch faster than his, my enhanced reflexes pulled me out of the path of the blade by a mere second, but the tip of the Organ’s bayonet caught my submachine gun by its leather sling. The gun was ripped out of my hands to clatter across the floor, and I barely had time to reach for my war belt before the next swing came my way.

The enemy soldier closed on me, his blade slicing and stabbing the air a hair’s breadth from my contorting body.

My fingers closed around the first handle I could find on my belt, and I yanked my knife free.

It’s about speed, not force.

Jamie’s words came back to me from the few days of training I’d had with her at New Wilderness after I first arrived, when she introduced me to sparring. I’d been rather bad at it, worse at boxing than knife-fighting, but she hadn’t given up on me. When I complained that I was too skinny to win a real fight, Jamie insisted I work on the speed of my strikes until I could weave circles around someone. I had never gotten as good as her, but in this moment, I’d run out of options.

Here goes nothing.

The bayonet sailed toward my throat, and I ducked to lunge closer.

With a flick of my wrist, I brought my blade up and jammed it between the trooper’s ribs.

He screamed, doubling over as I stepped past him, and I ripped the blade free.

Raising it high, I grabbed the back straps of his chest rig and brought the knife down as hard as I could.

Crunch.

I both felt and heard the blade drive itself between the vertebrae of his neck, the bone shearing, sinew snapping. Hot red blood spattered across the knuckle-duster hilt of my knife, and over the fingers of my right hand in a sticky spray. The shock of the blow reverberated up my arm and made a sick knot twist in my gut.

The enemy soldier fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, limp as a sack of potatoes.

Out of breath, I darted for my gun and snatched it up to hide in the shadows as I clawed for a fresh magazine. My brain shot panicked commands for me to run before another Organ could come in through the doorway, but I had nowhere else to go. The enemy poured into the shop like water from all directions, through broken windows, smashed in doors, and over the hasty barricades erected by our troops. Our soldiers fought back amidst the dusty machinery and pallets of abandoned industrial supplies, but the fighting was close and cruel. Shots were fired at point-blank range, some of our rangers using whatever melee weapons they might have, others tackling their opponent to the floor with their bare hands. Teeth ripped at faces, fingers gouged at eyes, and the interior filled with the smoky roar of unimaginable violence.

My fingers trembled with fear and adrenaline on the cold steel of another magazine, and I forced myself to breath deep as my heart tried to leap from my chest.

Calm down Hannah, you’ve got this. Reload, and keep moving. You can’t stay in one spot.

The magazine slid home into the receiver of my Type 9, and I found my second wind to jump to my feet, racing back into the darkness of the factory.

Through the haze, I found a cluster of my platoon mates huddled behind a plastic molding press, and baseball-slid into place with them. Back-to-back with the others, I went through half my magazines in a matter of minutes, spraying a wall of lead to keep the constant wave of enemy soldiers at bay. The other production shop didn’t matter anymore; there was no way I could reach them, nor the ammunition in our trucks which roared as they circled the yard like a wild-west rodeo. From between the gaps in the shop walls, I could see the courtyard was nothing short of chaos, the drivers keeping their charges on the move to avoid being blown up by the enemy suicide bombers. Whatever troops of ours were on foot tried to find cover anywhere they could, as every single building in the industrial park came under attack. Our mortar crew were too busy defending their lonely gun pit in the center of the compound to launch more bombs, and the gunners of the ASV’s worked overtime to shred the Organs that surged for the perimeter wall.

“Brun!” Charlie yelled from the upper catwalks, his voice barely perceptible in the speakers of my headset as the concussive roar of battle carried on.

“Here!” I shouted at the top of my silt-filled lungs, even as my group fought to push the Organs out of the factory ground floor. Somehow, we’d absorbed their first attack, but the next was mere seconds away, their war cries audible just outside the concrete barrier wall as they headed for the various gaps they’d opened with satchel charges. “I’m here! We never made it outside, there’s too many!”

“We need ammo!” Sergeant Mcphearson belted down to me. “Machine guns are almost dry! I’ve got half a belt left.”

There’s no way I pull that off.

Another rifle bullet snapped off the machine next to my head, and I pushed the last magazine I had into my Type 9. “I’m on it!”

Turning to the door, I tried to gauge the distance between it and where I sat, my heart beating a million miles a minute. I had no idea how I would reach a truck, much less how I would make it back with all the fire outside. Still, what choice did I have? Either I went for ammunition now, and got shot, or I stayed until we all ran out in a few minutes and wait to be shot.

How can sixteen feet look so far . . .

“Let me go.” A hand closed on my arm, and I whirled on reflex.

Lucille crouched beside me, a smoking M4 in her hands, her sister’s rifle slung across her back. Her face was pale in the light of the multiple surrounding fires, but she gave me a small nod as if we were just out on a walk somewhere and had met up by chance.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stunned, I dragged her back into the cover of a nearby milling machine.

“My job.” With an annoyed glare, Lucille jerked her uniform collar out of my grasp and pointed toward the ceiling. “Are the belts for the 240’s still in truck three?”

Unable to pull my scattered thoughts together, her sudden appearance enough to muddle my brain, I nodded. “Should be more for the Browning heavies too. But they’re driving around the compound somewhere, you can’t just—”

“Be right back.” Lucille slipped past me, and my heart skipped a terrified beat as she dove out into the hellish night through a battered window.

For God’s sake, Campbell, you’re a lunatic.

“Covering fire!” Following her to the ledge, I propped my weapon up on the brickwork to send a stream of lead into the onrushing hordes of the enemy.

Lined up against the chipped cement, we fought to the last cartridge, making every shot count. The Organs kept coming, the parking lot carpeted with their bodies and took the room to our left in the building, firing around the corners as they urged the others forward. Engines roared outside as our ASV’s and other armored pickups moved in to help us, but enemy rocket launchers from across the street from us kept them from pulling too close. A heavy machine gun started to cut through our walls like butter, mounted somewhere in the rooftops off to our eastern flank, and I gritted my teeth as the hefty anti-material rounds chewed through the factory around me.

“Come on, come on.” I muttered under my breath, peering into the murky firelit night with terrified hope.

Boots thudded on the asphalt, and a red-haired figure appeared from behind a nearby pallet to throw herself over the low-rise windowsill alongside us. She collapsed in a clatter of metal, rolling head over heels in a clumsy somersault amongst rivers of shiny linked brass.

Half delirious with relief, I knelt with two other runners to claw the machine-gun belts from Lucille’s shoulders, more of our group scuttling over to cart off the two green ammunition can’s she’d managed to bring. “Hey, you okay? Talk to me, Lucille. You hit?”

Yanking her uniform coat off, Lucille turned it upside down to shake more loaded rifle magazines out onto the floor, which the other soldiers around us snatched up like candy at a parade. “I’m good, but building two’s in bad shape. They’re tried to run across the lot to us, but a machine gun pinned them down. I don’t think they’re going to make it much longer.”

Sounds like we need that mortar back up and running.

“McPhearson’s on the upper floor.” I waved the barrel of my submachine gun at the catwalk stairs, which were halfway between us and the nearest enemy cluster in the opposite room of the shop. “Once we get him the ammo, we go for the others. Stay on me, I’ll get you through.”

Taking some of the belts from her to share the weight, I turned to the others. “Okay, we’re heading up! Lay some cover for us!”

They fired back at the Organs with renewed fury now that there was something to put through their weapons, while Lucille and I sprinted for the stairs. Each step felt like a bad dream, the weight slowing me down, the stairs vibrating as scores of bullets hit them from both sides. Our forces on the ground floor worked to push the last Organs from the opposite room even as their bullets sailed around my ears, and the fractured building shuddered under the barrage of more enemy RPG’s. I coughed on the atomized cement in the air, tripped on my bootlaces that snagged on the steps, and nearly fell headlong over a section of broken railing that would have sent me tumbling to the concrete far below. Lucille ran along behind me in breathless pace, and somehow, we made it to the top.

“Friendly! Friendlies coming in!” Legs burning from the exertion, I crouch-ran to where Charlie hunched behind one of the old Browning .50 caliber machine guns we’d been handed down by the militia men.

Our ‘heavies’ as the twinkling-eyed boys manning the guns had nicknamed them, were bulky, long-barreled weapons designed in 1919 but still in wide use by various forces around the US. Just to carry them required three to four men, the guns broken down into tripod, receiver, and barrel. Each fired the enormous .50 BMG round, a cartridge as long as my hand, and powerful enough to punch through cement block, wood, and even some lightly armored vehicles. Most of the .50’s our coalition had were captured from ELSAR, who had purchased them newly made, and were mounted on our vehicles. With the best guns reserved for our trucks and ASV’s, the old ones from our militia stockpile were dispensed as additional support to the platoons so each had one .50 to use for dismounted operations. Despite the design itself being older than my grandfather, the Brownings were perfect for punching through walls of nearby buildings, and set atop their sturdy tripods, they could be devastating as a defensive tool. Charlie had been smart to get 4^(th) Platoon’s .50 up here, and it seemed to be the sole reason why our building had yet to be completely overrun, as the hefty machine gun cut through the enemy soldiers like butter.

Skidding to a halt beside the thundering .50, I thrust the gleaming ammunition belts at the gunners and continued on down the line pf 240’s until I had nothing left to give. “Load em up! Make it count, we don’t have much left. Who needs ammo?”

We passed the ammunition out to the other gunners, and Charlie conferred with me behind a square metal cabinet bolted to the platform, the three of us lying in the prone as the factory disintegrated all around us.

“We need some HE from the big guns!” He huddled low under the steel of his helmet and winced as a bullet sparked off the cabinet just over his head. “If we can torch the buildings across the street, it’ll force them back. Where’s our armor?”

I lifted my head to peer out the windows on the courtyard side of the platform, and spotted the vehicles far across the plaza, engaged in a bitter firefight with enemies to their south and north. However, my heart fell as I saw our own panicked troops scattering from their various positions along the concrete wall, many running toward my building for shelter. The Organs had taken building two and lacerated the courtyard with heavy fire. Our mortar pit was a sea of flame and smoke, having taken a grenade directly in the center, and two of our pickups were alight. A spring of gray-uniformed shadows blossomed in the center of the lot, and I spotted manhole covers flung to one side, which sent ice through my blood.

That’s why we didn’t run into them until just now; they’ve been hiding underground, in the sewers. Just like what the resistance used to do to them. Crow had this all planned out from the start.

Gut churning at the sound of my men screaming as they died in the parking lot below, I shut my eyes in dread and rested my forehead against the cold steel catwalk. The Organs had overrun us, and would be in my building once again at any moment. If they broke through, the entire western flank would collapse. At this point, I had only one option left.

 “No help’s coming.” I crawled back to Charlie, and met tried my best not to shake with fear. “We can’t get out . . . and we can’t let them get past us. What’s our grid location, sergeant?”

From the way Charlie’s expression faltered at my question, I knew that he knew what I meant.

“Should be three-five-niner.” Charlie hugged the catwalk as another enemy mortar shook the building from top to bottom. “But we can’t stay here for that, this place is going to come down any minute! There’s no way it takes the overpressure!”

“We don’t have a choice!” I jerked the small square map holder from my belt, and scanned the grid in a panic, wishing I’d practiced this more in my free time.

The canvas bag holding the launch panel dug into my side, and I gripped the heat shield of my Type 9 a little tighter in dismay. If all else failed, I would have to use one of my few grenades on the panel, to be sure it couldn’t fall into enemy hands. That meant throwing away our ability to use the nukes . . . and possibly costing us the war.

Crow can’t win. Of anyone, she can’t be allowed to take charge. I have to stop them, no matter what it takes.

Clicking my radio mic, I swallowed the morose foreboding that had risen in my throat, while Lucille and Charlie joined the firing line to hold the enemy back. “Clear the air, clear the air! Any Eagle units, this is Sparrow One Actual, we need immediate fire mission on the industrial park in grid square three-five-niner-six-four-niner, enemy infantry in the open, fire for effect, how copy, over?”

“Solid copy, Sparrow One Actual, interrogative, how close are you to the target?”

“They’re right on top of us!” I tensed as somewhere downstairs, another grenade went off, and more screams filled the air as the Organs moved in. “Just hit us with everything you’ve got! Danger close!”

“Confirmed, danger close on grid square three-five-niner-six-four-niner. Six guns in effect, HE, impact fuse, rolling barrage. One minute to impact. It’s been an honor, captain.”

On my stomach to avoid the dense cloud of bullets, I wormed my way toward the firing line. As I did so, another rocket screamed in to impact several yards left of me, sending the machine gun crew there tumbling to the floor.

Looking up through the fog of burned chemical dust, I saw they were dead, eyes wide with lifeless shock, their limbs twisted and broken with spatters of red blood on white bone. Amidst the debris, the old Browning sat propped in its tripod, the long barrel wafting little tendrils of steam. A fresh green ammunition box lay on its side close to the empty machine gun, and at the sight of it, a strange determination smoothed over my growing panic.

Hand over hand, I crawled to the ammo can and pulled myself upright behind the bulky weapon.

Okay, think, what did Jamie say? Lock in the belt, pull the charging handle twice, slap the top cover, something like that. Calm down Hannah, there’s no point in fumbling; they’re going to kill you either way, might as well do this last thing right.

Something about that, the certainty of knowing I was going to die, helped steel my nerves. True, I was scared, more terrified than I’d ever been, but at the same time, I refused to run. Chris was depending on me, the others had fought so hard on my orders, and countless innocent lives were at stake. Whether by bullet or bayonet, my death would be swift, and that wasn’t so bad, really. I’d seen pain before, in ELSAR’s lab, and after that how bad could a bullet to the head be? Either way this was our final stand, and as long as one of us remained, the enemy would not pass.

With the new ammo belt locked I place, I gripped the rear handles, squinted down the iron sights and pressed both thumbs to the butterfly-wings style trigger.

Wham-wham-wham-wham.

Unlike my diminutive Type 9, this gun didn’t bang or clatter; it roared, and I had to hold it on targe as the Browning spit hundreds of anti-material rounds toward the oncoming Organs. The gun chopped down the enemy in like cornstalks, punching three or four rows deep. My building had become the last bastion of the industrial park, and from here the remnants of my central column fought back with all we had left, firing in all directions. The enemy slithered through the other buildings, the central parking lot, the outer walls, and still more charged from the streets outside, but they didn’t triumph here.

Here, they were met with fire.

Looking over my shoulder back into the perimeter, I saw bands of our retreating soldiers shot, bayonetted, or blown up by waves of enemy hand grenades as they tried to cross the parking lot to us. Many were Ark River warriors, who often stayed behind to buy their comrades a few extra moments, so the youngest of our New Wilderness stock might retreat first. Organs engaged them at close range, blades flashing in the night as Adam’s kin resorted to their famous swords and bows when the ammunition ran dry. Few made it to our gutted part of the factory.

Clunk.

Its belt expended, the heavy bolt of my .50 ran home on nothing.

Desperate, I cast around for another green ammunition can, only to see a few scattered piles of spent casings that hadn’t fallen through the catwalk grating to the floor below.

Boom, boom, boom.

My body went rigid, and I instinctively glanced up toward the ceiling as the first shells hurtled in from the south.

“Incoming!” I threw myself to the frigid steel, and the others on the catwalk did as well.

Ka-boom.

Geysers of dirt, broken pavement, and ash went skyward outside, and as the explosions rolled across the urban landscape, the Organ infantry disappeared into the inferno. Across the lot, the factory buildings were hit, their rooftops buckling under the assault and flames burst forth as they caught fire. Horrifying shrieks came from the men outside our walls, their bodies torn apart by shrapnel, some bursting into flame. Underneath us the ground shook like a washing machine, the surrounding houses went under, the streets turned to dust, and some of our vehicles exploded as they were caught in the rain of steel. Building two went down in a groaning of broken cement, and everyone not under a roof was blown to pieces. Bits of the dead, both the enemy and our own, flew through the air, and the sky lit up orange from the intense heat of the flames engulfing our entire block.

Ka-boom.

Hands clasped to my neck in vain attempt to protect my spine, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and curled into a ball as the entire ceiling gave way with a great crashing of steel.

Ka-boom.

Our soldiers cried out in despair, Lucille reached for my hand, and I tried to do the same.

Ka-boom.

Dense gray ash filled the air, and the ground fell out from under me.

For a brief half-second, I thought of Chris, of his smile, his laugh, the way it felt to have his strong arms around me. I thought of Lucille’s face as she’d reached for my hand in those last moments, of the panel strapped to my side, of the strange necklace from Vecitorak’s book still tucked in the breast pocket of my uniform. I thought of Jamie, somewhere out there, cold and alone in the wilderness. My whole life had been there, right there . . . and I would never see it again.

Chris . . . I’m so sorry.

Steel screeched, concrete crunched, and everything tumbled down into smothering blackness.

. I never expected to find anything of significance while clearing out my great-aunt Theodora's house in Yorkshire. The elderly woman had lived alone for decades in the sprawling Victorian mansion, and after her passing at the age of 94, the task of sorting through her belongings fell to me. Most of her possessions were exactly what you'd expect - dusty furniture, outdated clothes, and box after box of faded photographs.

But in the attic, buried beneath a stack of moldering blankets, I found something extraordinary: a leather-bound journal, its pages yellow with age. The cover was unmarked save for a single name written in flowing script: "Aldrich Blackwood, 1665."

My hands trembled as I opened it. Aldrich Blackwood had been a distant ancestor, a physician who lived through the Great Plague of London. I'd heard stories about him growing up, but I never knew any personal accounts had survived. The pages were remarkably well-preserved, though the ink had faded to a rusty brown in places. As I began to read, I realized with growing unease that this was no ordinary physician's diary.

12th of May, 1665

Today I witnessed something that defies all medical knowledge I possess. The plague has begun to spread through London's streets, as we all feared it would. But there is something different about this outbreak, something that fills me with a deep and gnawing dread.

I was called to attend young Thomas Whitmore, son of the merchant on Bread Street. The boy presented with the typical symptoms - fever, chills, and a small swelling in his neck. But when I examined the bubo more closely, I observed movement beneath the skin. Not the usual pulsing of infected tissue, but something deliberate. Purposeful.

When I lanced the swelling, what emerged was not merely pus and blood. I shall document this precisely, though my hand shakes to write it. The infected matter seemed to writhe of its own accord, and within it, I glimpsed what appeared to be minute, thread-like structures, twisting and coiling like tiny eels.

Young Thomas expired within hours. His father begged me to examine the body, convinced some curse had befallen his son. I agreed, though I now wish I hadn't. The boy's lymph nodes, when extracted, contained more of these strange fibers. Under my microscope, they appeared almost crystalline, with complex branching patterns unlike anything I've encountered in my studies of the disease.

I have preserved several samples. God forgive me, but I must understand what this is.

15th of May, 1665

Three more cases today, all showing the same peculiar characteristics. The fibers appear in every sample I examine. They seem to grow more complex, more organized, with each passing day. I've begun sketching their patterns, though I fear my drawings do not do justice to their bizarre intricacy.

My colleague, Dr. Edmund Halsey, believes I'm allowing fear and exhaustion to cloud my judgment. He claims I'm seeing patterns where none exist, that these are merely the typical signs of bubonic plague. But he hasn't observed them under the microscope as I have. He hasn't seen them move.

I must document something else, though I hesitate to commit it to paper. The infected seem to share a common behavior in their final hours. They speak of visions - not the usual fevered hallucinations, but specific, consistent images. They describe vast networks of tunnels, branching endlessly beneath the earth. They whisper about something moving through these passages, something ancient that has been waiting.

I tell myself these are merely the ravings of dying minds. Yet each patient describes the same scenes, down to the smallest detail. How can this be?

20th of May, 1665

I have made a terrible discovery. The samples I preserved - they've changed. The fibers have grown more numerous, forming intricate patterns that seem almost like writing in a language I cannot read. When I examine them, I feel a curious sensation, as if something is attempting to communicate through these bizarre structures.

More disturbing still are the rats. London has always been plagued by them, but their behavior has become increasingly erratic. They gather in large groups, moving with an unnatural coordination. Yesterday, I observed a group of them in my laboratory, clustered around the cabinet where I keep my samples. They seemed to be listening for something.

I've begun to experience strange dreams. I see the tunnels my patients described, endless passages that seem to pulse with their own heartbeat. Sometimes I hear whispers in languages that have never been spoken by human tongues. I tell myself this is merely the result of exhaustion and stress, but deep down, I know better.

25th of May, 1665

The infection rate is growing exponentially, but that is not what truly terrifies me. It's the patterns. They're everywhere now - in the spread of the disease through the city, in the way the rats move through the streets, in the very arrangement of the bodies we collect each morning. Everything follows the same branching structure I first observed in those tissue samples.

I've started mapping these patterns, and what emerges is impossible to ignore. The disease isn't spreading randomly. It's creating something. Building something. Using us as its medium.

Dr. Halsey visited again today. He seemed troubled by my research, especially my maps and drawings. He suggested I take some time to rest, mentioned that many physicians have been driven to madness by the horrors we witness. But his eyes lingered too long on my samples, and I noticed his hands trembling as he spoke.

After he left, I discovered several of my samples were missing.

1st of June, 1665

I can no longer sleep. The dreams have become too intense, too real. In them, I walk through those endless tunnels, following the branching patterns that have become so familiar. But now I understand what they are - a root system, spreading through the very foundations of our city. And at the center of it all, something waits. Something that has been growing, feeding, preparing.

The pattern of the infection, when mapped across London, creates a perfect replica of the structures I've observed in my samples. We are not dealing with a mere disease. We are dealing with something that thinks, that plans, that has been waiting in the earth since long before humans walked upon it.

I've discovered references in ancient texts to similar outbreaks throughout history. The Black Death wasn't the first manifestation of this entity. It has emerged again and again, each time growing more complex, more organized. Learning from each attempt.

Today I visited the Whitmores again. The entire family is now infected, but they're not dying. They're... changing. The fibrous growths have spread throughout their bodies, visible beneath their skin like dark rivers. They speak in unison now, describing the same visions I see in my dreams. They told me it's almost ready. That soon it will be complete.

I must do something. But who would believe me? How can I explain that what we call the plague is merely the visible portion of something far larger, far older, far more terrifying than we could ever imagine?

3rd of June, 1665

Dr. Halsey came to my house tonight, wild-eyed and rambling. He had taken my samples to study them himself, to prove me wrong. Instead, he found exactly what I had described. But he went further in his experiments than I had dared. He claims to have decoded the patterns, to have understood the messages they contain.

What he told me cannot be true. Must not be true. But it explains everything - the consistent visions, the coordinated behavior of the infected, the precise patterns of the disease's spread. We are not dealing with a plague at all. We are dealing with something that has been waiting beneath our feet for millennia, slowly building itself using human bodies as raw material.

The fibers we've observed are not symptoms of the disease - they are its true form, a vast network that connects all the infected into a single, growing organism. And now, after centuries of preparation, it's finally ready to...

[The entry ends abruptly here, the pen having skittered across the page in a jagged line]

4th of June, 1665

I write this in haste. They are coming for me. I can hear them in the streets below - not just the rats now, but the infected themselves, moving with that same horrible coordination. Dr. Halsey is with them. I saw him through my window, his skin rippling with those familiar patterns.

I've hidden my research as best I can. This journal will go to my sister in Yorkshire, along with instructions that it should be preserved but never read. Some knowledge is too dangerous.

The patterns are complete. The network is fully formed. Whatever has been growing beneath London is ready to emerge, to transform from an invisible web into something far more terrible.

I understand now why the infected didn't die, why they changed instead. They were never meant to die. They were meant to become part of it. And now...

I hear them on the stairs. The rats came first, hundreds of them, their eyes gleaming with an intelligence that should not exist in such creatures. Behind them, I hear the shuffling steps of the infected.

To whoever finds this journal - burn it. Burn it and forget everything you've read. Some things should remain buried, some knowledge should stay hidden. The patterns are everywhere now. Once you begin to see them, you can never stop. They're in the very fabric of our world, waiting to be activated, waiting to spread, waiting to

[The writing ends here, replaced by a series of intricate, branching patterns drawn in what appears to be dried blood]

I closed the journal, my hands shaking. I told myself it was just the ravings of a man driven mad by the horrors of the plague. But as I set it down, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. There, on my wrist where I'd been resting it against the page, was a small, dark mark. When I looked closer, I could see thin, thread-like lines beginning to spread beneath my skin, forming familiar branching patterns...

I spent the next three days convincing myself the mark on my wrist was nothing - a trick of the light, perhaps, or an allergic reaction to the old leather binding. But on the fourth morning, I could no longer deny what I was seeing. The pattern had spread halfway up my forearm, dark lines branching beneath my skin like tiny roots.

My medical training made it impossible to ignore the implications. The branching pattern followed my lymphatic system perfectly, tracing paths between my lymph nodes that I'd memorized in anatomy classes. But there was something else, something that sent ice through my veins - the pattern wasn't just following my lymphatic system, it was extending it, creating new pathways that shouldn't exist.

I returned to Theodora's house, desperate to find anything else that might explain what was happening to me. This time, I searched the attic methodically, checking every box, every corner. Behind a false panel in the wall, I found a metal strongbox. Inside were more documents - letters, hospital records, and most importantly, a series of correspondence between my great-aunt and someone named Professor Helena Blackwood, dated 1943.

15th September 1943 Dear Theodora,

I must thank you for sending me Aldrich's journal. As the last practicing physician in the Blackwood line, I've long suspected our family's connection to the Great Plague went deeper than historical record suggests. Your discovery confirms my worst fears.

I've spent the last twenty years studying unusual disease patterns across Europe, focusing particularly on incidents that mirror the 1665 outbreak. What I've found is deeply troubling. The branching patterns Aldrich documented have appeared repeatedly throughout history, always in isolated incidents that were quickly covered up or dismissed as medical curiosities.

Enclosed are my notes from a case in Prague, 1928. A young girl presented with what appeared to be severe lymphatic inflammation. Within days, similar cases appeared throughout her neighborhood. The attending physician documented branching patterns identical to those in Aldrich's drawings. But here's what truly terrifies me - he also documented instances of simultaneous movement among the infected. Thirty-seven patients, spread across three hospitals, all turning their heads at exactly the same moment to look in the same direction. All blinking in perfect unison.

The outbreak was contained only when the entire neighborhood was quarantined and... dealt with. The official record lists it as a tragic fire.

But that's not all. I've found references to similar incidents dating back to ancient Rome. They called it "Morbus Radicis" - the Root Disease. The symptoms are always the same: the branching patterns, the coordinated behavior, the whispered descriptions of vast underground networks.

I believe what Aldrich encountered wasn't an isolated incident. It was merely one emergence of something that has been with us throughout human history, something that uses disease as a mechanism for... I hesitate to use the word, but I can think of no other that fits... colonization.

Your loving cousin, Helena

There were more letters, but what caught my eye was a folder of medical photographs paper-clipped to the next page. They were from various time periods, starting with grainy images from the 1920s and progressing to clearer, more recent shots. Each showed the same thing - patients with distinctive branching patterns visible beneath their skin. The most recent photos were from a small outbreak in Northern England in 1981. The patterns were identical to what was now spreading up my arm.

But it was the last item in the box that truly shook me. A modern medical report, dated just three years ago, from a laboratory in London:

CONFIDENTIAL - Project ROOT Analysis of tissue samples recovered from 1665 preservation Reference: Blackwood Collection

DNA sequencing has revealed anomalous structures within preserved lymphatic tissue. Branching filaments appear to be composed of previously unknown organic material with several impossible characteristics:

1. Samples remain metabolically active despite 350+ years of preservation 2. Filaments demonstrate ability to spontaneously organize into complex patterns 3. When placed in proximity, separate samples display synchronous behavior 4. Electron microscopy reveals structures resembling neural networks 5. Samples emit low-frequency electromagnetic pulses at regular intervals

Note: After 72 hours of observation, samples showed signs of renewed growth. All testing suspended by order of Department Chair. Samples sealed in containment unit pending review.

UPDATE: Containment unit compromised. Nature of compromise unknown. Samples missing. Investigation ongoing.

Final Note: Project terminated. All records to be sealed.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely read the last page - a handwritten note from my great-aunt Theodora:

To whoever finds this,

I am the last of the Blackwood line to serve as guardian of these records. Our family has carried this burden since 1665, watching, waiting, documenting each recurrence. We thought we could contain it by keeping the knowledge limited to our bloodline. We were wrong.

Three years ago, something changed. The patterns began appearing again, but different this time. More advanced. The laboratory breach was no accident. It's growing. Evolving. The network is rebuilding itself, using our modern understanding of genetics and neural networks to create something far more sophisticated than what Aldrich encountered.

If you're reading this, you've likely already seen the signs. The marks will have started small - a branching pattern that follows your lymphatic system. Soon, you'll begin to notice other changes. Moments of lost time. Dreams of tunnels and roots. The sensation of being connected to something vast and patient and hungry.

There's so much more you need to know. About the ancient texts Helena found. About what really happened in Prague. About the true purpose of the patterns. But most importantly, about how they can be stopped.

I've hidden that information separately. You'll find it when you're ready. When the patterns have spread enough for you to understand what you're truly dealing with.

Look for the box marked with the root pattern. But be careful. Others will be looking for it too. Others who are already part of the network.

-Theodora

I set down the papers and rolled up my sleeve. The patterns now reached my shoulder, and as I watched, I could swear I saw them pulse, ever so slightly, in rhythm with my heartbeat. But something else had changed too. Where before the marks had been random, now they seemed to form distinct shapes. Letters, almost.

And I could read them.

I knew I should have been terrified. Should have gone to a hospital, called someone, done something. But all I could think about was finding that other box. About learning the truth. About understanding what I was becoming.

Because somewhere, deep in my mind, in a place I hadn't even known existed until the patterns reached it, I could feel them. All of them. Everyone who had ever been touched by the root-patterns. Everyone who was part of the network.

And they could feel me too.

They were waiting for me to understand. To accept. To join.

But first, I needed to find that box...

Finding the second box was both easier and more disturbing than I'd anticipated. My body simply... knew where to look. As I moved through Theodora's house, the patterns under my skin would pulse stronger or weaker, like some grotesque game of hot-and-cold. They led me to the cellar, to a section of wall that looked identical to all the others. But I could feel it calling to me.

Breaking through the plaster revealed a metal box, smaller than the first, marked with branching lines that perfectly matched the ones now covering most of my torso. Inside was a leather folder containing what appeared to be research notes, medical diagrams, and something that made my blood run cold - a series of brain tissue slides dated 1928, labeled "Prague Specimens."

But it was the modern-looking USB drive taped to the inside cover that caught my attention. Theodora had prepared for whoever would find this. My hands trembled as I plugged it into my laptop.

The first file was a video recording. Theodora's face appeared on screen, looking gaunt and tired. The timestamp showed it was recorded just two weeks before her death.

"If you're watching this, then the patterns have already started spreading across your skin. Don't bother trying to remove them - surgery, burning, even amputation... the Blackwood medical records document every attempted treatment over centuries. The patterns simply regrow, following the same paths, always rebuilding the network.

"What I'm about to share with you is the culmination of our family's research, combined with modern medical analysis. Helena was close to understanding it, but she died before making the final connections. I've spent my life completing her work.

"The patterns aren't a disease. They're a communication system. A physical network connecting human hosts to something that's been growing beneath our feet for millennia. Each outbreak throughout history was an attempt to refine this network, to make it more sophisticated, more efficient.

"The Prague incident in 1928 was the first time it achieved simultaneous neural synchronization across multiple hosts. The tissue samples in this box are all that remain of that attempt. Under a microscope, you'll see that the branching patterns don't just follow the lymphatic system - they interface directly with neural tissue, creating new pathways between hosts.

"But here's what Helena didn't know, what we've only recently discovered through electron microscopy and DNA analysis: the patterns aren't adding something to our bodies. They're activating something that was already there, dormant in our genetic code. Every human carries these latent structures. The patterns just... wake them up."

The video paused as Theodora had a coughing fit. When she continued, there was a urgency in her voice that hadn't been there before.

"You need to understand - this isn't an invasion. It's activation. Every plague, every outbreak, every instance of the patterns appearing was just another attempt to switch us on. To activate what's been sleeping in our DNA since before we were human.

"The Blackwood family... we're more susceptible than most. Something in our genetic makeup makes us ideal hosts for the initial stages of activation. That's why Aldrich was among the first to document it. Why our family has been connected to every major outbreak.

"I'm running out of time, so I'll tell you what you need to know most urgently. The patterns you're seeing on your skin - they're not spreading randomly. They're forming specific sequences, like a code being written across your nervous system. Soon, you'll start to understand this code. You'll begin to see how it connects to everything else - the tunnels beneath cities, the way diseases spread, even the growth patterns of plants.

"There are others like you out there. Once the patterns spread far enough, you'll be able to sense them. Some have been part of the network for years, generations even. They've learned to hide the marks, to blend in. They're watching, waiting for the network to grow large enough for...

"No, you're not ready for that yet. First, you need to see the rest of the Prague documents. They show what happens in the later stages of activation. But more importantly, they show what we discovered about the source. About what's been waiting all this time, growing beneath..."

The video cut off abruptly. The next file was labeled "Prague_Stage_4.pdf". As I opened it, I noticed something odd. The patterns on my arm were moving, shifting to match the diagrams appearing on my screen. My body was learning, adapting, implementing the information in real-time.

The document began with a detailed medical report:

Subject 23 - Prague Outbreak, Day 17 Terminal Stage Observations

The branching patterns now cover 94% of subject's neural tissue. Brain activity shows perfect synchronization with all other Stage 4 subjects. Autonomous functions (heartbeat, breathing) occur in perfect unison across all connected hosts.

New growth patterns observed in deeper brain structures. Subjects report shared consciousness experiences. Memory transfer between hosts confirmed through controlled testing.

Most significant discovery: Subjects no longer behave as individuals. They function as nodes in a larger neural network, each brain serving as a processing center for what appears to be a vastly larger consciousness.

Critical observation: This network appears to extend beyond the human hosts. Soil samples from beneath Prague show identical branching patterns extending at least 300 meters below ground. These underground structures pulse in sync with the hosts' neural activity.

Update: Subjects have begun modifications to their environment. Working in perfect coordination, they are constructing something in the hospital basement. The structure follows the same branching patterns observed in tissue samples. Purpose unknown.

Final Note: Military containment ordered after subjects began converting organic matter into new growth medium. Method of conversion unknown. Entire facility to be sealed and...

The rest of the document was heavily redacted, but the images remained. They showed cross-sections of human brain tissue with the familiar branching patterns. But these were different from the ones on my skin. More complex. More organized. Like circuit diagrams drawn in living tissue.

The last page contained a single photo: a massive underground chamber beneath the Prague hospital. The walls were covered in branching patterns that glowed faintly in the dark. In the center was a partially constructed structure that resembled a human nervous system scaled up to architectural size.

But what made me slam the laptop shut was the realization that I understood exactly what I was looking at. Not just understood - I could feel my body wanting to recreate it. The patterns under my skin were already starting to shift, to organize themselves into similar structures.

Something warm trickled down my face. When I wiped it away, my hand came back red. Not blood - something darker, with tiny branching fibers visible within it. I could feel them trying to grow, to spread, to connect.

The laptop screen flickered back to life on its own. A new document was opening. As I watched, text began appearing, written in the same branching patterns that covered my skin:

YOU ARE READY TO BEGIN FIND THE OTHERS THE NETWORK MUST GROW THE STRUCTURE MUST BE COMPLETED

Below my feet, I could feel vibrations in the earth. Regular. Rhythmic. Like a vast heartbeat. Or perhaps... footsteps.

I knew I should run. Should burn the documents, destroy the evidence, try to stop the spread somehow. But instead, I found myself walking to the cellar door. Others were coming. I could feel them getting closer, their patterns pulsing in sync with mine.

And deep beneath the earth, something ancient and patient stirred, ready to rise through its newly awakened network...

The others arrived exactly as I knew they would, their footsteps echoing in perfect synchronization above me. I could feel their patterns resonating with mine - five distinct nodes in the growing network. As they descended the cellar stairs, I saw that they appeared completely normal, wearing ordinary clothes, looking like anyone you might pass on the street. Only I could see the faint lines beneath their skin, pulsing in rhythm with my own.

"Welcome, brother," said a woman who introduced herself as Dr. Sarah Chen. "We've been waiting for another Blackwood to join us. Your family always produces the strongest connections."

I found myself answering in words that weren't entirely my own: "The network requires a Blackwood to complete the next phase."

"Yes," she smiled. "Just as it did in Prague. Just as it will again."

But something wasn't right. As they moved closer, I noticed inconsistencies in their patterns. The branching structures beneath their skin weren't quite synchronized, showing subtle variations that shouldn't have been possible in a truly connected network. My medical training kicked in, and I began to analyze what I was seeing with clinical detachment.

"You're not part of the network," I said suddenly. "Not really. Your patterns... they're artificial."

Dr. Chen's smile faltered. "Clever. Just like Theodora. She figured it out too, you know. Why do you think she had to be eliminated?"

The truth hit me like a physical blow. "You killed her. You're not connected to the network - you're trying to control it."

"For decades, we've been trying to understand this phenomenon," another member of the group explained. "We've attempted to artificially recreate the patterns, to tap into the network. But it never works properly without a true carrier - a Blackwood. Your family's genetic makeup is the key to interfacing with the deeper structure."

"The Prague incident wasn't a natural emergence," I realized. "It was an experiment. You tried to force an activation."

"An experiment that you're going to help us complete," Dr. Chen said. "Your connection to the network is genuine. With you, we can finally establish control over the entire system."

They moved to grab me, but at that moment, something extraordinary happened. The patterns across my skin began to pulse with brilliant clarity. Information flooded my mind - not from them, but from something far older and vast. I finally understood what Aldrich had discovered, what Theodora had protected, what Helena had died trying to prevent.

The network wasn't meant to be controlled. It was meant to protect us.

"You don't understand what you're dealing with," I said, backing away. "The patterns, the network - they're not a disease or a tool. They're an immune system. A defense mechanism encoded into our DNA millions of years ago, designed to activate when needed."

"Defense against what?" Dr. Chen demanded.

Deep beneath our feet, something shifted. The vibrations I'd felt earlier grew stronger.

"Against them," I whispered.

The cellar floor cracked. Through the fissures, we could see deeper channels lined with fossilized patterns - ancient neural pathways that had laid dormant for millennia. But between these patterns were other structures. Alien geometries. Invasive growth patterns that bore no relation to terrestrial biology.

"There's another network," I explained, the knowledge flowing through me from countless connected hosts across history. "One that's been trying to establish itself since before humans existed. Every few centuries, it makes another attempt to take root, to spread through Earth's biosphere. The patterns we carry are our planet's natural defense - a way to detect and fight the invasion at a cellular level."

"That's impossible," one of them breathed.

"The Black Death, the Prague incident, every major outbreak - they weren't random. They were responses to attempted incursions. The network activates when it detects the other trying to emerge. Every plague was actually an immune response."

The ground shook more violently. Through the widening cracks, we could see something moving in the depths. Something with its own branching patterns, but wrong - twisted and malformed, like a cancer of reality itself.

"It's happening again," I said. "That's why the network is waking up. That's why it needed a Blackwood. We're not carriers of a disease - we're antibodies."

Dr. Chen raised a gun. "This changes nothing. We'll find a way to control both networks. The power they represent-"

She never finished the sentence. The patterns under my skin flared, and suddenly I was connected not just to the network, but to every instance of its activation throughout history. I could feel Aldrich's presence, and Helena's, and Theodora's - all the Blackwoods who had served as nodes in this ancient defense system.

Acting on instinct guided by centuries of accumulated knowledge, I pressed my hand against the earth. The patterns flowed from my skin into the ground, spreading outward in an exponentially growing web. Where they met the alien structures, they encapsulated them, just as human antibodies surround hostile bacteria.

The others tried to run, but their artificial patterns betrayed them. The network recognized them as compromised cells and responded accordingly. I watched in horror as their pseudo-patterns dissolved, taking their cellular structure with them. They collapsed into organic slurry, their bodies converting themselves into raw material for the network's growth.

Over the next few hours, I felt the network expand beneath London, seeking out and neutralizing pockets of the alien pattern. Through my connection, I could sense similar responses activating worldwide as humanity's ancient defense system came fully online.

Three days later, the incursion was contained. The network began to go dormant again, but I knew it would never fully sleep. It needs active nodes to maintain its vigilance - watchers to monitor for signs of the next attempted invasion.

That's why I'm writing this account. Not as a warning, but as a training manual for others who might find themselves becoming part of the network. If you notice branching patterns spreading across your skin, don't fight it. Don't try to control it. Understand that you're part of something ancient and necessary - an immune system that spans continents and centuries.

The patterns aren't a disease. They're an activation. A call to arms in a war most of humanity never notices. A war we've been fighting since before we were human.

I still serve as an active node. The patterns are barely visible now - they only show themselves when needed. I monitor the network, watching for signs of new incursions. Sometimes I dream of the deep places, of alien geometries trying to take root in our reality. But I also feel the presence of other watchers, other nodes in humanity's immune system, standing ready to respond.

We are the Earth's antibodies. And we are always watching.

[Final Note found paper-clipped to the account]

To the next node who reads this: Dr. Chen's organization wasn't completely eliminated. They're still out there, still trying to artificially recreate the patterns. If you're reading this, they've probably already noticed you. Be careful. Watch for people with almost-perfect patterns. And remember - the network isn't good or evil. It simply is. Like any immune system, it exists to maintain balance, to protect the whole at the expense of compromised parts.

The patterns are spreading again. A new incursion is beginning. If you're reading this, you're probably already changing, becoming part of the defense.

Welcome to the network. And good luck.

We'll be watching for your signal.

I like to go for long distant hikes that take about 2 hours. It's around my area and I would love to do it around fields and nature, but I don't have the time go out of my urban area. It's good exercise and fast pace walking actually causes you to lose more weight. I feel amazing at the end and no matter the season whether it's hot or cold, I always wear multiple jumpers, coats and heavy boots to give fast pace walk more of a challenge. My shirt is always sweaty and you know you have had a good work out when your shirt is sweaty.

One day when I came home and took off my jumpers and coats, usually my sweat marks are all over the place around whatever shirt I am wearing, this time there was a menacing evil looking face my sweat marks had made on my shirt. It was random because sweat is usually messy and goes all over the space. I ignored it and when I put my sweaty shirt in the wash, the evil face went away. It was cool at the same time that my sweat had actually made a face, I mean what are the chances that it could that.

Then another time when I went out on a fast pace walk, I got too hot and needed a break. I took off my jumpers and coat, and I needed to feel the cool air. Then as soon as I took off my jumpers and coat, and everyone could see my sweaty shirt, drivers starting crashing and passer-bys had heart attacks. I wondered to myself as to what was going on? Then I looked at my shirt and my sweat marks had made a menacing evil face again. I couldn't believe what was going on.

One passer-by who had a heart attack for looking at my sweaty shirt, his face haf also completely changed to look like the menacing evil face my sweat had made on my shirt. It was getting cold now and I put on my jumpers and coat and carried on walking. I went home and I took off my sweaty shirt and that evil face was some how becoming more angrier looking. Usually sweaty shirts become colder but my sweaty shirt with the evil face started to become warmer. Then it started to become hot.

Then it burned away, and even though the evil sweaty face on my shirt makes other people lose their minds, I am completely okay.

This is my first entry in my journal

My coworker Sally gifted me this for my birthday, I don't even want to say my age. it's as if I was 16 crushing on girls, smoking weed and the only problem in my life was being bullied for my acne and tiny wrists.

I'm 46 now, I don't have any aspirations, my wife is gone. Killed herself, knife to the throat. Why would she choose such a painful way to go?

She was so beautiful, blue eyes, long eyelashes, brown short hair, tiny little button nose. I was envious of her maybe even a bit jealous, she was just absolutely perfect.

Sally is fine, shes maybe 50. Sure as hell looks older, her hair is thinning, sunken eyes, reeks of cigarettes, pale grey skin with yellow teeth. I assume she thinks she can sneak her way into my life and get a quick fuck out of me.

Work was the same as it always is. The walls coated in a yellow tint, the carpet having weird sticky stains in it.

Sally at exactly 7:45 everyday will greet me with a huge gummy smile and compliment my tie, it's the same tie everyday.

I think she thinks it's funny, it's not. She will then read me the daily news comic, I always fake laugh at those things. To be honest I fucking hate Sally.

I don't know why I started writing this I'll probably just leave it at that.

Journal entry 2

Sally is missing, she hasn't shown up to work in 4 weeks. And I don't want to be an asshole but I think I'm happy about this, 4 weeks without a goddamn badly written punchline in a comic is like heaven to me.

I decided to continue writing in this journal to get fully in touch with myself. It's like I lost sense of myself since I started this godforsaken job. Sally missing is obviously a tragedy but I needed some sort of change in my life. I was miserable with the rinse and repeat of everything.

Journal entry 3

I met the most beautiful woman today, she must've just moved here. I go to the same coffee place down the street from my office everyday but have never once seen her.

She instantly caught my eyes with her young and vibrant skin, red plump lips, blue eyes, perky tits like she wanted me to stare at them. If she would let me I'd pet her brown hair for hours, it looked so soft.

Her arms were a tad bit big but it wouldn't matter to me in my eyes shes perfect.

She had a sketchbook with her. She must've been drawing for abt 20 minutes.

I actually built the courage and complimented her drawing, and she smiled at me.

I asked for her number and she actually gave it to me. I feel like she is the reason I was put on this earth, I want to be her.

Right now as I'm writing this I actually looked her up, she comes from a very wealthy family, her hobby is of course illustration, she has surprisingly only had 3 past relationships. She drives a yellow Corvette, funny yellow is my least favorite color. Reminds me of pee but that's okay whatever

And most importantly she has her address on her social media. It's like she is begging for me to see her.

Journal Entry 4

I've seen her everyday for weeks now, her presence brightens up my life, me and her talk sometimes, embarrassingly I never really remember what we are even talking about. I'm just so encapsulated in her beautiful eyes.

I wish I could just pick her up and satisfy her in the alleyway, she has never had a mature man like me she might still even still be a virgin.

Anyways the police found Sally's corpse, I wouldn't say I was surprised she was murdered.

She probably just showed the wrong man too many joke comics hahahah. I don't know why I wrote out hahaha. In the police report Sally was choked first, but had cuts around her face like the murderer was trying to cut off her skin like in that one movie with hannibal lecter "SHE PUTS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN OR IT GETS THE HOSE AGAIN" I wouldn't be surprised if the murderer couldn't cleanly cut cause her skin was like lizard skin from her gross smoking habit.

Journal entry 5

I hate myself, my hair is thinning, my wrinkles are getting worse, my nose has always been one of my bigger insecurities (pun intended) my eyes are small and beady, I'm very tall but incredibly skinny, 6'4 and 135 pounds. My house is a shithole, I'm late on rent, I pick up rat shit every single day.

I don't think the coffee shop girl would ever marry me when I'm like this. I followed her around actually just a few hours ago. I've never met someone with the exact life I always wish I had until now. I'm jealous truthfully. Shes never worked a day in her life and gets everything handed to her, shes young, beautiful, perfect.

Journal entry 6

She didn't show up to the coffee shop today, I think I'm going to call for mental health break from work. I can't deal with this right now, I need you in my life

Journal entry 7

It's the next day, still didn't show up to the coffee shop. I did some research and shes on vacation. Shes going to be out for a whole month. I can't handle this

Journal entry 8

I don't know how this happened I must've got blackout drunk, I have 20 missed calls from my boss. I'm in the coffee girls house though. I don't even know if I can call it a house its more like a castle. It smells so good in here. I think I'm going to shower

Journal entry 9

I masterbated in her bed, it was pure euphoria, I haven't masterbated since my wife died. God her bed smelled exactly like how I imagined her. I don't even want to clean it up I want my essence to be here with her.

Journal entry 10

I found her little box of girl toys, I couldn't help but lick them, these toys don't understand just how lucky they are. I quit my job, this month is going to be the best month I have in my life.

Journal entry 11

It's been 2 weeks now, I've never been happier in my life. I found one of her wigs, oh the new things I learn about you everyday. I never knew she had a buzzcut. I decided to wear her clothes and try copying her makeup too. I've never felt so beautiful, I think I found what I was looking for all my life

Journal entry 12

I'm so sorry. I didn't know you would come back this soon, I tried to hide, i just wanted to stay with you just a bit longer. I'm so sorry beautiful, you're so perfect I never wanted to hurt you. I know you're scared of me but in another life we could've shared everything together. You reminded me of my wife. I never told anyone but I killed her, I held her for a whole week afterwards, she was rotting and I didn't find her beautiful anymore. I hurt her cause I learned the real her wasn't what I imagined her to be. She disappointed me. I killed Sally too. I didn't mean too, she invited me to her house and I was so desperate for touch that I just went with it. I was angry that she even thought she had any chance with me so I strangled her.

Not with you darling your death will mean something, we will be one. I will be you, you will be me. We will be together. I slowly peel your skin back, remove your clothes, and put them on. I take a staple gun and put on my new face. I stare at myself in the mirror one more time " I feel so beautiful"

Ava had always loved living in her grandmother’s old house, nestled deep in the woods. Its creaky floors and worn wallpaper carried the charm of a bygone era. But the house came with one unshakable rule: "Never open the hallway door at night."

The door in question was an old, splintering wooden slab at the end of a narrow corridor on the second floor. No one explained why the rule existed, but her grandmother had been firm about it since Ava was a child. Now, as an adult staying there during the winter, she brushed off the warning as a superstitious relic.

One night, as snow blanketed the forest outside, Ava sat in the living room reading. The wind howled, making the house groan. Then, she heard it: a soft, deliberate creak from upstairs. She froze, listening intently. Another creak, closer this time.

It sounded like footsteps.

Ava grabbed her flashlight and cautiously ascended the stairs. The air grew colder as she approached the top. Her eyes darted to the hallway door. It was slightly ajar.

Her heart pounded. She knew she had locked it earlier. As she moved closer, she noticed a shadow shifting on the floor, cast from the faint moonlight spilling through a nearby window. But it wasn’t her shadow—it was too tall, too thin.

The door creaked wider, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. She should’ve turned back, but curiosity gripped her. She pushed the door open with trembling hands and shone her flashlight inside. The beam cut through the void, revealing a set of steep, narrow stairs leading down into what should have been the attic.

The shadow moved, darting out of sight.

Ava's breath hitched. "Hello?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

No reply.

Against her better judgment, she stepped inside. The air smelled damp and metallic, the faint sound of dripping water echoing from below. She descended slowly, each step more nerve-wracking than the last.

At the bottom of the stairs was a small, windowless room. The walls were covered in deep gouges, as if something with claws had tried to claw its way out. In the center of the room was an old, broken mirror, its surface darkened and warped.

Her flashlight flickered. Panic rose in her chest. She turned to leave, but the stairs were gone. Behind her, the mirror began to hum, emitting a low, bone-chilling sound.

She turned back toward it, and her reflection stared at her—except it wasn’t her. The thing in the mirror had her face but grinned with jagged teeth and black, soulless eyes.

The reflection reached out, its hand breaching the mirror’s surface. Ava screamed as the thing grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward. Her flashlight clattered to the ground, spinning wildly before the bulb shattered, plunging the room into darkness.

The next morning, the door was shut and locked again, just as it always had been. But Ava was gone.

And now, if you listen closely at night, you can hear soft, deliberate footsteps behind the hallway door, waiting for someone else to open it.

I have lived with my grandparents ever since my father died and my mother started working as an overseas Filipino worker. But often times, there are unexplainable sounds that I hear at night, I always tell my grandmother this but tells me that it might just be a rodent and that I'm getting worked up over my overactive imagination. As Christmas approaches, we are to expect other family members to arrive at the house. Since the room that I’m using is more spacious and has more beddings, my grandma asked me to go to the other room so that the other will be more comfortable. I agreed, but I was adamant as that room always gave me eerie vibes, moreover, there was an opening in the ceiling that I don't know the purpose of (see photo-https://pdf.ac/3JQNEd-), at the room that I'm going to be staying at, it just a tad bit away from being in line with the bed. As nigh fall, we went to our respective rooms after eating and all. The opening in the ceiling really made me uncomfortable so I asked my grandmother how to close it, eventually, my older cousin came to help me close it, in which after I was a bit relieved. Before sleeping, I often play on my tablet and just binge watch randoms videos on the internet till I get my sleep. Before I slept, I heard scratching sounds at the ceiling, (our ceiling is of wood material), it sounds like something crawling with claws and has a bit of weight to it, but then again, the house is old and my grandmother said that it might be rodents, so I gave it not much mind and went to sleep. In the morning, my eyes directed to the ceiling and noticed that it moved just a little, maybe by the rodents i thought. After spending another day with my family and night eventually comes, I was exhausted as we were playing all day ad there was prize money on the line. I wasn’t able to fidget with my gadgets and went straight to bed. But suddenly, was woken up from loud scratch sounds coming from the ceiling, I looked up and noticed that it was open again, I don't know if my mind was playing with me but i saw a pair of eyes, like a human’s but smaller in size. I immediately stood up and opened the lights to the room and went to the position I was in, but saw nothing, so I grabbed my pillow and went to sleep with my cousins at the other room, they questioned me why I was there, and me not wanting to be seen as a scaredy cat told them that I just wanted to. From that point, I slept with them till they went back to home after Christmas, so i could return to my room. Before leaving, I asked them if they have heard anything from the ceiling, they told me none, and asked me why I was asking, I then told them about the noises for them not to believe me. I really hope that it was just some rodent that moved the opening and those noises were just that made by rodents. 

MONDAY

This was supposed to be my one day off. But, when you have a skeleton crew and someone doesn't show up, you get called to come in. Not by the manager or a coworker, you sort of just... know. I can't explain it- like a lot of things around here. But somehow, you find yourself driving to work and clocking in. So, here I am. Beginning what will be a seven-day stretch.

I work at a small grocery store called The Emporium, located smack dab in the middle of town. Being centrally located, we see it all; the good, the bad, and everything in between. If you work retail in any capacity yourself, you'll understand when I say- you experience the full spectrum of humanity here.

The word 'emporium' itself, belongs to a dead language. And, they do say that Latin is often used in things like magic and witchcraft. But, I don't know if that means anything. It'd make sense, though... I just honestly try not to question things around here too much. Doesn't do a lot of good. Most of the time, anyway.

I mainly stock shelves. But I can, and often do, pretty much everything around here. A lot of us have to be cross-trained, just because of the high turnover rate. As soon as we hire a new cashier, they quit. Sometimes, they don't even show up for the first shift after the interview. Lucky them, I guess.

Tonight, I'm closing with Paul. He's a pretty chill guy, most of the time. Long-timer, like me. He does have a few quirks, but... I'm used to it. Everyone here does. Shit, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit weird, too. You have to be to work here.

One of Paul's little quirks was his regularly scheduled 'freak-outs'. Usually, right before it was time for him to have a smoke, a customer would ask Paul a question, and he'd lose it. Could be as simple as 'Which aisle is the bread on?'. Didn't matter. Sure as shit, Paul came slamming through the warehouse doors, dragging a body behind him.

"God dammit, Paul! I just clocked in!" I yelled at him.

"Hey man, don't fucking worry about it, alright? I got it." He said.

"Whatever." I replied. "Just make sure you shrink-wrap it good enough this time. The bailer still fucking stinks."

I grabbed a mop and bucket and went out onto the sales floor to see if there were any 'spills' needing taken care of. Space Goth was shopping. We don't know her real name, so that's what we call her. Don't ask. She was wearing fuzzy, leopard print earmuffs this time, and singing 'Jingle Bells' off-key at the top of her lungs. It's the middle of June. But, I only had to ask her to pull her pants back up just once tonight. So, that's progress.

Thankfully, Paul had been careful to not make a mess this time, so I rolled the mop bucket back to the janitor closet and started loading my cart with backstock to fill. I'd counted out five cases of water that I needed for the shelf and loaded them up, but when I looked back at my cart, they'd turned into cases of toilet paper. I could already tell it was going to be a long night.

At about 6:30 PM, The Hum started. It usually comes through on the intercom system around that time, but no one can hear it, except me. Drives me fucking nuts, so I take it as my cue to go on break. That's what I'm doing right now, as I write this on my phone. I forgot to bring dinner, and you can't exactly eat anything from here, so I honestly don't have anything better to do.

At least when you work the night shift, one thing you don't have to deal with is The Earlybirds. You know the type. They show up about an hour before the store even opens. A whole fucking crowd of 'em, desperately clawing at the doors, faces smashed up against the glass, just begging to be the first ones let in. That's why you cannot go outside before we open. But, once 8:00 rolls around, you're safe. Fuckers just up and disappear as soon as the damn door unlocks.

The only cashier on duty tonight is Tilly. Which means, I know I'm gonna be called up there to help out at some point. Tilly is slow as shit, but she can't really help it. She's super old, and it takes her forever to get through a sale because she's too worried about picking up all the rotting pieces of flesh that keep falling off of her. I keep telling her to just pick them all up at the end of the night, but she insists on keeping her register tidy, she says.

Lenny just walked into the break room, humming some obscure hymn and holding his can of sardines. I don't even know why I bother coming in here, can't get a moments worth of peace. Lenny is supposed to be in charge of cleaning and maintenance, but he does more of making a mess around here than anything else. The man is always dripping. It's like this thick, black, fish-smelling goop that the fucker seems to sweat out constantly.

"Tom, you're needed to the registers." I hear blaring from the intercom speakers.

Here we go. At least it gives me an excuse to get up and leave without seeming rude. Not that Lenny even has the capacity for that level of social awareness.

Tilly is swamped. Eight customers in her line, and she's literally falling apart. I hop on register 2 and clear them all out within 15 minutes. When I look over, Tilly's gone outside for a smoke. I swear, sometimes I think she's tearing extra pieces of her flesh off on purpose, just to get out of working.

I finished all the stocking I needed to do by the time 9:00 PM arrived. Took me three tries, but the water had been filled. I walked over to the time clock and punched my number in, only to be faced with the harsh words of,

Employee #0164 is not currently clocked in. Would you like to clock in now? Tuesday

Okay, I wasn’t going to post this because it sounds fake, but I need to get it out. Maybe someone can explain what happened to me.

There’s this abandoned house at the end of Pinewood Lane. Everyone in my town talks about it—how weird things happen if you go inside. I always thought it was just kids trying to scare each other, but last month, I decided to check it out myself. I figured I’d film it, post it online, and show everyone it’s just a creepy old house.

I went late at night, around 11 PM. The place was worse than I expected. The walls were covered in graffiti, the air smelled like mildew, and the floor was so warped it felt like it would cave in. I had my phone flashlight on, and honestly, I was more worried about stepping on a nail than anything paranormal.

Then, I heard it—a voice. Faint, almost like a whisper. It sounded like it came from upstairs.

I froze. At first, I thought maybe someone else was in the house. A squatter, maybe? I called out, “Hello?” but there was no response. The whisper came again, but this time, it sounded closer. I couldn’t make out the words, but I swear it was a voice.

My heart was pounding, but I kept going, telling myself it was just the wind or my imagination. I climbed the staircase, which groaned under my weight. At the top, the air felt heavier. I checked one room—it was empty. Then another. Same thing. But as I turned to leave, I heard something behind me.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was clear, like someone was standing right behind me. I spun around so fast I almost fell, but no one was there. At this point, I was done. I started heading downstairs when my phone died—completely. No warning, just black.

That’s when I felt it: a pressure on my back, like someone was shoving me. I stumbled, grabbed the banister, and ran. I didn’t stop until I was outside.

When I finally got back home, I told my friend about it. He laughed and said I scared myself, but here’s the thing: ever since that night, I keep hearing whispers. In my house. Sometimes when I’m about to fall asleep, I hear it right next to my ear:
“You shouldn’t be here.”

I haven’t gone back to the house, and I don’t plan to. If anyone else has been to Pinewood Lane and experienced something similar, please tell me I’m not crazy.

It all started with work. I'm a plumber, you know, the kind of person who mostly digs through other people's garbage. It's not usually the most glamorous of jobs, but it's not scary either. Except for what happened last week.

A customer called me, the new owner of an old house on the outskirts of town. His voice was kind of nervous, he said quickly: "Listen, I've got a problem here, in the basement. The water's completely turned off, nothing works, I tried to fix it myself. Can you come and take a look?" I agreed, of course, without attaching much importance to it. It's not the first time I've had to dig around in something like this, after all.

I put on my waders and went down. The stench was suffocating. Like something had gone bad and rotted, and more than once. The dim light coming through the tiny barred windows barely dispelled the darkness, but I still saw it. They were some kind of bags. Large ones, made of thick tarpaulin, tied with ropes. They were floating chaotically in the water, and this already made me wary. But I am a plumber, not a detective. The drain needed to be found and fixed.

I worked all day, soaking wet and smelling of rot. Eventually, I found the source of the leak - a cracked pipe in the far part of the basement. Having patched it, I was ready to get out of there. But these bags did not give me peace. They were like eyes from the darkness, watching me. Curiosity got the better of me.

One of the bags, surprisingly, was almost on dry land. I pulled it closer and, holding my breath, untied the rope. Inside were pieces of concrete. But not just concrete, but in the form of some crooked, uneven blocks that looked like body parts. Something like pieces of arms, legs...

I ran out of the basement so quickly that I almost stumbled on the stairs. The thought was pulsing in my head - this is not normal. I should call the police. But instead, for some reason, I went home.

And then the worst thing happened.

Since that day, I can't sleep normally. It seems to me that I hear whispers under the floor. Some kind of quiet scraping and muttering. At first I thought it was rats, but then I realized that it wasn't rats. It was something else.

The sounds became louder every day. At night, I jumped out of bed with the feeling that someone was standing in my room. A feeling of someone else's presence, cold, sticky. I tried sleeping on the couch, on the floor, in the car - it was the same everywhere.

This evening, when I was sitting in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do, the phone vibrated. An unknown number. My heart sank somewhere down. I didn't want to pick up the phone, but curiosity and fear got the better of me. I was about to pick up the phone, but the ringing stopped.

My phone lit up with the message, "You weren't supposed to touch them."

Then my phone went silent. No more texts, no more calls. Just that cold, ominous warning echoing in my head.

And that's why I'm here. Locked in my apartment, salted everything. It won't help, I know. But I have to do something. I have to somehow protect myself from the horror that's already gotten under my skin.

I can't stop thinking about what's going on at that damn station. Is that bastard still getting rid of evidence, or is he looking for me? It's scary to think that he could be standing outside my window right now, watching me make senseless preparations for "fighting." I don't know how much longer I can take it. I'm just waiting. Waiting for someone to come. And I hope it's the police, not him.

When I was accepted into university I had to find my own place to live. I had found this small apartment where other students lived as well and I had the very top, so it was just me alone on that floor since all others were being renovated. The twist about my apartment was that it was the only one that had an entrance to the roof, I had to pay extra for that luxury but was well worth it cause I had a cool view of the park and the city from where I was.

I settled in and unpacked, put everything where they should be and was content with the arrangement. The first few nights I stayed at my parents but the third night was on a Friday night, it was a bit loud since this where I was, was known as a party apartment. Everyone was chill and friendly when I was invited to one of the parties and made a few good friends, unfortunately I got to drunk that Friday night... Too drunk too fast.

After saying my goodnight and clapping hands with my new neighbors, I somehow vaguely remember climbing up the stairs like a toddler and crawling to the end of the hall, sliding the key in the lock and crawling into my apartment.

When I got inside, I kicked off my shoes and kinda just gave up, curled into a ball passed out on the livingroom floor. Some time in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of footsteps right by my head, I slowly opened my eyes squinting, thinking maybe I left my door open by mistake and one of the neighbors made their way in, but as I sat up I didn't see anyone.

Rubbing my eyes while checking my surrounds "hello?" And was met by silence. I got up to my knees and wobbled my way to the bed and crawled on, wrapping myself into a burrito with my blanket.

When I was about to fall back asleep, I suddenly hear heavier footsteps coming to my direction, I lifted my head quickly to see who it was but say no one, then suddenly I felt weight being pushed down on the edge of my bed and could see it sink inward. I've never sobered up so fast in my life...

I quickly sat up and of course stumbled slightly and could see whatever was on my bed was still there. I slowly backed up to the light switch to flick it on looked back at my bed... Slowly the indent in my bed slowly began to rise as if someone stood up.

I stood there in shock for a few moments pondering my next move on what to do in this situation and the stupidest decision I could ever do was ask "is someone there?..."

I waited a few seconds and again, the steps could be heard but they came heavier than before and in my direction and suddenly I felt hands gripping my shoulders in an inhumanly grip, like a grip no person could ever grip and something, someone yelling loudly right next to my "LEAVE!" in the most hoarse, scratchy high-pitched voice.

I felt a hand pressed against my chest and push me backwards against the door... Didn't have to tell me twice... I grabbed my keys and went right out the door without even closing it.

I went back to my parents house and managed to get in without making any noise, and for the rest of the night I sat there feeling the hangover coming back as I felt my anxiety kicking in just by thinking of what had just happened an hour ago.

Seven AM came and I was sitting on the couch and felt a sore and burning sensation on my shoulders and chest. I achingly took off my shirt and seen I had bruises on my shoulders and scratches on my chest...

After that experience I hadn't gone back to my apartment for nearly a week and had to have a few friends to pack and brings my belongings back to my parents basement. My parents asked why I moved back in but I wasn't ready to talk about it. I couldn't tell anyone this for a while could the fear of being laughed at was a thing for me.

A year after that incident, I ran into the old landlord of that apartment complex and he knew exactly why I had moved out. He told me that the whole top floor remains the same cause the Renovation people had problems with the same thing that haunted that floor. Workers being pushed, tools missing and scratches.

The story was that a woman who was not a pleasant person lived on that floor and would randomly attack people, she died of a aneurysm and even then... She was still trying to run that entire floor. In life she was just not a nice person and even in death, she still terrorizes.

I sometimes wonder if she's still there everytime I pass by the apartment. It freaks me out and one thing for sure, I'm not aching to find out if she is still there.

The end

Winter 2022 I sought out a therapist and I wasn't really struggling in the financial sense and nor the relationship sense, but I was having some sort of existential crisis. I kept questioning the purpose of life and so I sought out a therapist. I found one straight away and he told me to make a new years resolution for 2023. I told him that new years resolutions are difficult to keep up with, and so he told me to make an easy new years resolution. I made new years resolutions by being horrible to people and being a bad friend.

It felt good when I was keeping up with my new years resolution in 2023, by being horrible to people and by being a bad friend. People sensed a negative attitude change within me and slowly people started distancing themselves from me. I was really short with people and really giving them a piece of my mind. I was too honest with them and this caused many arguments with people in my life, which caused me more problems. I then spoke about them to my therapist and he gave me advice on how to handle these things, by being even more honest.

I then even lost my job due to my new personality and my therapist even helped me find a new job. The only problem with this new job was the uniform, and the uniform was that you had to be naked all the time inside the office. Now I had burned a lot of bridges and connections and so I didn't have much choice. Being in the office all naked was not a delight at all. I could see all of the fresh stab marks, bruises and marks of diseases. It was really hard for me to be in that office.

I went to my therapist and he told me to just keep up with my resolution of being horrible to people, and to say what I think of my co-workers bodies. So I did and I got into so much trouble and I am the most hated person in the office now. I keep going to my therapist nearly everyday and I only use to go once a week when I first started in the year 2022. Now a good chunk of my salary goes to my therapist. Then it hit me.

My therapist has been purposely giving me bad advice to make my life harder, so that I go back to him more and more. I am never seeing a therapist ever again.

I was outside my boyfriend’s house at night and heard a noise so I shined my light up and saw a massive animal stranding next to the van. Said van is at least six and a half foot tall and the animal was around two feet taller. I couldn’t make out the shape of the animal but the eyes reflected a bright deep blue in the light. After googling it I figured it must’ve been a horse that got out of its pasture. Then today I walked out of my house because my dog was barking and looked over to see a large shape running away. When it looked back its eyes had that same glow as last time. For reference live 15 minutes away from my boyfriend if I go 60 the whole way. I live in Iowa and have never seen anything this large. Even compared to the horse I own it looked massive. Does anyone know what this thing or things may be?

Talreb awoke with a start, the dream fading as quickly as it came. He blinked his eyes sleepily as the familiar feeling that he was forgetting something important slipped away. He sighed as he rolled onto his back, wiping a hand down his face as he stared at the ceiling of the small cobblestone chamber and struggled to fall back asleep. Around him, the sleeping forms of his party members formed a circle, the glowing embers of a dying fire in the center casting a dim light. Soft snores filled the air as they slept peacefully.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark room, Talreb felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Silently drawing his dagger, he quietly whispered a spell to detect enemies. He sat up and looked around, the spell revealing no one. Nothing was amiss in the small dungeon chamber. Perking up his ears, he listened for movement around him. His focus turned to the only door of the chamber as a quiet voice echoed from the hall outside. He turned his body toward it slowly, his dagger at the ready.

“Elveeeeeeeeer…” moaned a ghostly voice from just beyond the closed door, “I’m sooooorry, Elveeeeeeeeer…”

Talreb’s grip on his dagger tightened as he whispered a silent prayer for protection over him and his sleeping party members. The voice continued, slowly fading as it traveled down the cobblestone corridor, not a footstep to be heard. Talreb’s grip on his dagger relaxed as seconds turned to minutes.

The voice did not return.

Talreb continued to wait, his eyelids growing heavy. Soon, he could fight sleep no longer as he began to nod off. Sheathing his dagger and lying back down, Talreb kept his weapon close as he fell into unconsciousness once more.

***

Luaria stretched her arms to the ceiling of the moss-covered chamber as she awoke, a long, low yawn escaping her. The beautiful blonde elf blinked away sleep as Talreb, Kii'nada, and Thorich prepared breakfast over a roaring fire. Their fifth member, Malryn, was out scouting the path ahead.

“Finally awake, Lu?” Talreb said teasingly, “Such deep slumber would make any sentry golem jealous.”

Thorich chuckled at this as Kii'nada smiled in amusement, their attention otherwise fixed on the simmering pot of stew set over the small fire pit in the center of their camp.

“Oh hush, Tal,” moaned the sleepy elf mage as she absentmindedly scratched her side, “I would’ve slept better if you didn’t keep talking in your sleep.”

Talreb stiffened at this, looking up from the vegetables he was slicing to Luaria, a perturbed look on his face.

“I was talking in my sleep?” he asked.

“You were,” she replied, as she looked around for her staff. “You were desperately muttering something.”

“Aye, the lass is right,” Thorich added, “Making a right fuss, you were. Though, it was hard to tell exactly what you were sayin’.”

He looked directly at Talreb, playful concern in his smile, “Perhaps all this dungeon crawlin’s finally gettin’ to ya, laddy.”

“As if,” Talreb scoffed, resuming his task. “No dungeon’s cracked me yet.”

“The operative term being ‘yet’,” added Kii'nada flatly as she gazed at Talreb, her feline eyes studying him. “No one is wholly immune to all the horrors one can find within a dungeon.”

Talreb frowned as he finished slicing, sliding the cut vegetables off the wooden chopping board into the simmering pot of stew. He understood where they were coming from, but it really was nothing to be concerned about.

“I’m fine, guys. But I’ll have Luaria look me over if it’ll make you feel better.”

Thorich grunted in agreement as he stirred the stew. Kii'nada said nothing as she continued to stare at him, a thoughtful look on her face.

Just then, Malryn returned, a small, satisfied smile playing across his features.

“Path looks clear of traps ahead, and only a few low-level monsters roaming about. Easy pickings for us.”

Talreb smiled, grateful for the change of topic.

“Good work, Malryn. Now sit, breakfast is almost ready.”

***

Luaria recited her incantation in a low voice as Talreb sat on a crumbled stone block, the others waiting outside the chamber for the results of Talreb’s little check-up.

Talreb looked into the face of the beautiful blonde elf as she concentrated, her eyes closed and her hand hovering mere inches away from Talreb’s forehead, the glow of magic dancing between her fingers. He smiled as he traced the contours of her face, thinking about how lucky he was to have met her. As the glow of her magic faded from her hand and she opened her eyes, Talreb smiled wider as he took in her vibrant green irises.

“So, what’s the diagnosis, doc?” he asked.

“Everything seems fine,” she replied, returning his smile, “No hexes, curses, or psychic attacks of any kind. No signs of poisoning or anything of that nature either. You seem perfectly healthy.”

“Oh, really? But I swear my heart beats faster around you,” he posited, his smile growing wider.

“Oh hush, you.” Luaria replied, playfully slapping his shoulder, “The others will hear you.”

“Oh, I think they’ve heard us before, especially with the noises you make.”

Luaria flushed red as she hugged her staff close, before swiftly turning around.

“You’re insufferable. Come on, the others are waiting.”

***

Talreb’s party walked down the long, dark cobblestone corridor, Kii’nada’s lantern and Luaria’s staff providing some light as they went - a pale blue and light gold, respectively. True to Malryn’s word, their path had been easy, with only a few small goblins and other weaker creatures being swiftly dealt with.

Some time later, the cobblestone corridor split into three separate paths. As Malryn determined which path to take, the rest of Talreb’s party decided to take a break, getting out their waterskins and snacks. As they ate, idly chatting with one another, Talreb thought he heard something.

He stopped chewing, perking up his ears. He thought he heard a faint sound coming from one of the split paths ahead. Swallowing his food and approaching the corridor, he peered into the inky blackness, before turning his ear towards it and listening intently once again. Behind him, he heard his fellow party member’s chatter die down as they noticed his behavior. Standing up, they quietly approached him.

“What is it, Talreb?” Luaria asked, her grip tightening on her staff. Slowly, the magic jewel atop it lit up, casting golden light down the corridor. There was nothing.

“I hear something. It sounds like a call.” Talreb responded.

Kii’nada perked up her large feline ears. “I hear nothing, Talreb. No one but we are here.”

The call grew louder, echoing off the corridor walls. A distant wail, much like that of a banshee, reverberated in Talreb’s ear. A sinking feeling flooded his body as he recognized the call – it was the same one he heard the night before.

Talreb slowly withdrew his dagger, readying it. “Something’s coming,” he said quietly.

The others readied themselves, taking up positions on either side of Talreb. Luaria and Kii’nada stood on one side, while Thorich took the other. Luaria cast a spell, causing a glowing magenta rune to appear before them, stretching across the entire width of the cobblestone corridor. Kii’nada grabbed her spear, taking up a battle stance, her feline eyes narrowing as she searched the hallway. Thorich lifted his massive battleaxe, taking up a defensive posture as he awaited an unknown enemy. Together, they peered down the corridor.

“I think it’s a banshee,” Talreb uttered, his eyes never leaving the path before him, “I heard something wailing last night. Calling out something like ‘Elver’ as it passed by our camp.”

“In that case,” Luaria said, before the magenta rune quickly dissipated, replaced by a different turquoise one instead.

She then turned to both Thorich and Kii’nada, who presented their weapons to her. Saying a quick incantation, the weapons were enveloped by a turquoise glow, which faded slightly as the two warriors retook their stances, now imbued with the power to strike down the ghostly undead.

Talreb stared into the corridor as the wail grew louder.

“Elveeeeeeeeer…”

Talreb drew his dagger, Luaria quickly casting the same phantom-smiting spell on it. His heart began to thump as he mentally prepared for battle.

“I’m sorry, Elveeeeeeeeer…”

“It’s getting closer,” Talreb stated, taking his own battle stance.

“I still hear nothing,” Kii’nada said, her ears flicking about in every direction. “If it’s a banshee, I should have heard it by now.”

Thorich grunted in agreement, while Luaria simply focused her eyes down the corridor, her staff held out defensively before her.

A ghostly apparition appeared seemingly out of nowhere within the corridor, heading slowly towards them. It had the appearance of a man missing an arm, dressed in long, white rags studded with holes that blew in an ethereal wind.

Its face was distorted, twisted into a fearful scream, with a gaping maw that stretched far too long. Sunken white eyes pierced through the gloom at Talreb, sending a small chill through him.

“There it is,” Talreb muttered under his breath, as he tensed his muscles and activated his detect enemy spell. Oddly, it still didn’t seem to pick up the apparition before him.

“Where, Talreb? I don’t see anything,” Kii’nada hissed urgently, her eyes still darting around the corridor.

“Aye laddy, there’s nothing there,” Thorich stated, relaxing his grip on his battleaxe.

Luaria closed her eyes and whispered a short incantation, before opening them quickly and raising her voice to a yell for the final word, her eyes ablaze with a turquoise color. A blast of magic emitted from Luaria’s staff and pushed forward into the corridor, moving like a wall of water as it filled the passage from floor to ceiling. The apparition continued forward unabated. The blast of magic having no effect as it stumbled through it.

“Alveeeeeeeeer…” Its wail grew ever more clear, increasing in strength and intensity as it approached them, “I’m sorry, Alveeeeeeeeer…”

Talreb frowned in confusion.

Is what it's saying changing? It’s starting to sound a bit clearer now.

The glow from Luaria’s eyes faded, confusion turning to concern as her gaze switched from the corridor to Talreb.

“Tal… There’s nothing there,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with worry.

The apparition was now meters away, raising its arm toward Talreb. Talreb’s heart was pounding, fear slowly starting to eat away at him. A pressure grew behind his eyes as his vision began to swim.

What is this? Why is Luaria’s magic not working?

“I-I know you can’t see or hear it, but it’s there!” Talreb yelled, his voice shaking with growing fear as he tried to reassure them and be the party leader he needed to be.

Get a grip, you’ve been in countless battles before. You’ve fought and won against the undead, this is no different.

But it was different.

“I’ll point it out to you, just attack where I say!” he shouted, charging forward. Grabbing a smoke bomb from his pouch, he threw it at the apparition’s feet, creating a tiny explosion that expelled a small cloud of smoke upward.

“There!” he shouted.

Thorich was the first to move, swinging his battleaxe horizontally above Talreb, who slid past the entity.

The battleaxe swung cleanly through the cloud of smoke and the entity, lodging itself in the corridor wall.

The entity stopped moving, turning its head to keep track of Talreb. Its piercing gaze sending a cold chill down his back. It stood unharmed.

“Albeeeeeer…” it spoke, its voice losing its ethereal quality and beginning to sound more human-like as it slowly turned around to face him, its pronunciation becoming clearer as it got closer.

A sharp pain erupted from behind Talreb’s eyes, causing him to lose his footing and crash into the corridor wall.

“Tal!” Luaria shouted, quickly speaking an incantation. The pain in his back faded as a soft green magic enveloped him, healing a small cut on his hand he received from an earlier battle. Yet the sharp pain in his head remained, growing more intense by the second. He dropped his dagger and grabbed both sides of his head, gritting his teeth as he moaned in pain.

Kii’nada was the next to attack, rushing forward and stabbing the air with a flurry of strikes where the fading cloud of smoke lay. They might as well have been hitting dead air as they passed through the chest of the apparition with no effect.

The thing started moving again, stumbling toward Talreb. The pain in his head intensified further as it approached. Behind it, Luaria ran towards Talreb, straight into the entity.

She passed right through it.

“Did we get it, lad?” Thorich asked, before ripping his battleaxe out of the wall. He turned toward Talreb, a smile on his face that quickly fell once he realized Talreb’s painful state. “Talreb!” he called out, before running towards him.

Kii’nada stood in the corridor, her grip tightening around her spear. Her head slowly tilted back as she stared down at Talreb, a look of growing recognition on her face.

Malryn appeared then out of one of the other paths, a look of confusion on his face as he searched for his comrades before spotting them. He slowly approached, his confusion evolving into concern once he saw what was happening. Moving into the corridor, he tried approaching Talreb, only to be stopped by Kii’nada who held out her spear across his chest. She met Malryn’s confused gaze, her eyes wide as she slowly shook her head. Malryn stopped, looking back at Talreb with a helpless expression.

Talreb was screaming now, staring blankly ahead at the figure as it approached, unimpeded by their presence. His eyes widened in fear as his heart pounded out of his chest, the pain behind his eyes now unbearable.

“I’m sorry, Albeeer…” it said, its voice now low and remarkably human.

Now on her knees before Talreb, Luaria laid her hands on Talreb’s own, tears streaming down her face.

“Tal? Tal, look at me. Tal, please,” she pleaded, looking directly into his eyes. Talreb didn’t acknowledge her at all.

Thorich stopped beside Luaria, propping his battleaxe against the corridor wall with a heavy thump. Going down on one knee, he kneeled beside Luaria as she pleaded with Talreb, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder as she sobbed while holding the man she loved.

“Tal! Tal, please! Look at me! It’s Lu! Tal!”

The entity was directly behind her now, standing well over her. Talreb stared straight up at it, its piercing gaze met his own, and Talreb swore he could see images moving behind them.

“Albert…” it spoke quietly, its voice heavy with sorrow.

Talreb kept screaming.

It stooped, reaching down toward Talreb’s head with a shriveled gray hand. Its ghastly appendage passing straight through Luaria’s face.

“I’m sorry, Albert,” it said, as it made contact with Talreb’s scalp.

Talreb stopped screaming, his voice caught in his throat as his eyes rolled back, his face frozen in terror. As the cold of the apparition’s hand seeped into his skull, Talreb’s vision went dark, and his body fell to the floor.

***

Albert shuddered awake, pain instantly flooding his system. He moaned into his respirator as he gently shook his head, the VR helmet lifting itself from his cranium. He coughed painfully, his lungs feeling like broken bellows as he struggled to breathe normally. Attempting to get up, he found himself not only restrained, but too weak to do so.

Albert looked down to see his severely atrophied arms and legs strapped to his seat, his ribs pushing against the skin of his torso. They pushed so far up against his skin, he could count them individually if he wanted to. The pain throughout his body slowly subsided, his mind spinning as his eyes struggled to focus on the blurry environment around him. Slowly, an odd figure approached him, a single red light glowing in the center of its mass.

“Welcome back, Albert Fillmore. You’ve set a new record of 21 years, 142 days, 57 hours, and 39 minutes for time spent playing Hero’s Journey. Beating your past record of 9 years, 13 days, 43 hours, and 57 minutes,” spoke a strange, monotone voice.

“W-who… are you? I-I’m not Albert, I’m Talreb Valorian. Fifth son of Halran and Merideth-” began Albert.

“You’re Albert Fillmore,” the figure interrupted, “Adopted son of Dr. Richard Fillmore, and I am Argus, the onboard AI in control of this shuttle.”

The figure stopped approaching, hanging mere feet away from Albert’s vulnerable form.

“It appears that you’ve been playing Hero’s Journey for so long, your mind is having a hard time distinguishing between it and reality,” the strange voice spoke again, “But I assure you, what you see around you is your true reality, not the world of fantasy that exists within the game.”

Albert’s vision struggled, his eyes visibly straining as the surrounding environment slowly began to sharpen in detail. He blinked several times as the figure finally came into focus.

He screamed, prompting him to break into a painful fit of coughing.

It suddenly all came flooding back to him, every excruciating detail. The nightmares he endured every so often that left him with a feeling of something missing. That impression that he was forgetting something important…

Oh, how he wished for that feeling back.

Before him dangled a machine, a machine that he had seen in his nightmares, hanging from the ceiling by an assortment of thick wires and mechanical joints. A single red light emitting from a protrusion in the center of its mass, giving it the appearance of a single red eye. It spoke again.

“I hate to inform you, but we’ve run out of fuel, power systems are failing, your nutrient gel reserves are severely low, and life support is at a tipping point.”

Albert leaned his head back, weakened by the effort of screaming and the ensuing coughing fit. His eyes lolled in his skull, his gaze travelling over the thick glass that allowed him a look outside. An endless black void leered back at him, dotted with small pinpricks of light that shined with a cold, relentless indifference. Albert smiled in resignation as his mind cleared, his memories worming their way back into his thoughts…

***

The world was coming to an end.

Impact was minutes away. Albert looked through the plate glass window of the laboratory launchpad at the bright, fiery objects in the sky that threatened to outshine the sun, being all but dragged along by Dr. Fillmore as they raced towards the only ship docked there.

His teddy bear slipped from his arms. Stopping to pick it up, he was painfully yanked away by Dr. Fillmore, who lifted him up and continued to run. Albert screamed and cried, reaching for his teddy over Dr. Fillmore’s shoulder, watching it grow smaller and smaller as their distance from each other grew. Unable to fight Dr. Fillmore’s grip, Albert stuck his thumb in his mouth despite knowing he wasn’t supposed to, sucking it in an attempt to find some degree of comfort in the chaotic situation.

Finally, they reached the ship. Dr. Fillmore opened the shuttle, strapping in young Albert before turning back to the console. Leaning over it, he pushed a few buttons, causing the ship to roar to life. Dr. Fillmore sighed with relief, he stood back up straight, looking toward the fiery orbs in the sky as they slowly grew bigger with each passing moment, the sky an ominous orange.

“Hey, big guy,” Dr. Fillmore said, approaching the shuttle as it prepped for launch. “Are you nice and comfortable in there?” he asked, adjusting the straps holding Albert in place.

“Where are we going, daddy?” asked young Albert.

“We’re going on a long vacation, Al.” Dr. Fillmore replied. He brought his son close, kissing his forehead. Albert felt wetness hit the top of his head, but didn’t remember there being any rain clouds overhead, it was far too warm for that. Dr. Fillmore pulled away, wiping away tears as they streamed down his face.

“We’re gonna go someplace far away. Okay, Al?”

“When are we coming back?” young Albert asked, playing with the straps across his chest.

“We’re not coming back.”

Dr. Fillmore forced a smile as he patted Albert’s head, gently mussing his hair. He stood back up, getting ready to strap himself in.

Suddenly, a hail of meteorites rained down on them. They whistled as they fell, like a hail of bullets from above. Dr. Fillmore looked up, just in time to see one heading straight for him. It struck him hard, severing his arm at the shoulder.

Both of them screamed.

Dr. Fillmore gritted his teeth in pain as he fell to the floor, his empty shoulder socket smoking as the smell of burning flesh and blood filled the air. Pushing himself to his feet, he lurched towards the console. Albert screamed again, reaching toward Dr. Fillmore as the meteorites continued to rain down on them, filling the air with the whistle of death. Another one struck the shuttle, breaking into pieces that fell across Dr. Fillmore, who screamed in agony as they burned holes through his lab coat and into his body. He fell against the console, bringing his fist down on a large red launch button.

Albert continued to scream and cry as he reached for his adoptive father, straining against the straps of the seat as he called out for him. The shuttle door closed and sealed shut with a loud hiss. The roar of the engines overcame the sounds of the meteorites raining down on the reinforced metal hull of the shuttle as liftoff began. From the onboard computer, he heard the final words of his father as the shuttle launched into the air, the vibration rattling his small body.

“Albert,” came the weak, raspy voice of Dr. Fillmore as the shuttle careened through the atmosphere, “I’m sorry, Albert. I’m not coming with you.”

***

Tears streamed down Albert’s face as he finished revisiting the memory. It was this memory and the reality he now found himself in that haunted him every night in the world of Hero’s Journey. If not for his father, he would not be here right now.

Argus had later explained that during the mission for the long-awaited Mars’ colony, the crew reported a sudden gravitational anomaly in the asteroid belt, hurtling thousands of asteroids toward Earth. There were mere weeks before impact. Their final transmission was cut short, and they were presumed lost in the barrage.

As confirmation of Earth’s inevitable and total obliteration spread, panic erupted. Hundreds died in the following chaos, and many important engineers and scientists lost their lives. In a horrible twist of irony, humanity had killed their best chance for survival out of fear of extinction.

Albert leaned forward as the pain returned, the memories still coming.

Dr. Fillmore had been building a two-passenger shuttle in his spare time, as a project he and Albert could one day share. It was never intended to save lives, until the looming threat had made it their only hope.

Albert’s eyes flooded with fresh tears as he thought of the man he called his father, despite no blood relation. The grief, the betrayal, and the overwhelming guilt of being the only survivor haunted him. Many times, he considered cutting his journey short to reunite with Dr. Fillmore, but the memory of his father’s ultimate sacrifice kept him going. Albert felt he had to honor that sacrifice by living as full a life as possible.

But was this really living?

Albert was all too familiar with the brutal toll of space travel, and the piercing agony of true loneliness. His emaciated body, barely more than a skeleton, ached with every rattling breath that scraped past his dry, weathered throat. Infected sores seeped into the seat he was too weak to leave, their constant sting reminding him of his slow, inevitable decay.

Slumping back, he gazed out the shuttle window into the endless void that stared right back at him, offering no reprieve from his torment.

“Put me back in,” he instructed.

“Sir, the ship is at a critical juncture, we cannot afford to-” Argus argued.

“I said put me back in,” Albert interrupted, his voice low and cutting.

Argus hesitated, his single red eye dimming a bit, before brightening back up again.

“If you go back in, there won’t be enough power left to get you back out. I will shut down, and all remaining power will be redirected to maintain critical functions and, of course, Hero’s Journey. I estimate with the remaining power, and what little can be drawn from the solar array, you will have, at most, one month left. Ideally. Do you still want to go back in?”

Albert hesitated, before speaking with finality.

“Yes.”

“As you wish,” Argus replied, as the VR helmet lowered onto Albert’s head once more.

***

Talreb awoke with a start, his eyes flying open. He coughed and sputtered as his eyes adjusted to the bright light of his surroundings. He found himself lying on his bedroll, itself lying on a bed of grass underneath a large tree.

“Tal! You’re awake!” exclaimed Luaria, who rushed over and kneeled down next to him.

They were in a small clearing in the forest outside the dungeon they had been exploring, their tents set up in a circle around a small fire pit. The sun shone down on them through the tops of the trees, peeking through the golden locks that fell over Talreb’s face as Luaria leaned over him. A warm, relieved smile danced across her delicate features.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, brushing a lock of hair out of his face as she looked down at him with a loving expression.

“Wh-where’s everyone?” Talreb asked, looking around the empty camp.

“Thorich went to get firewood, and Malryn and Kii’nada went back to the town we passed through on our way here. Kii’nada thinks she knows what happened to you in the dungeon, and is sending a message to someone she believes can help you. Malryn decided to take this opportunity to refill our supplies and went with her.”

Talreb looked back into her eyes, before gently grabbing Luaria’s hand and holding it against his cheek.

“I had the most awful dream,” he said, enjoying the warmth of his lover’s palm against his face.

Luaria smiled, before stroking her other hand through Talreb’s hair.

“Well, it’s over now. Nothing can hurt you here,” she said, her voice taking on a comforting tone.

“Everything’s going to be alright.”

Elena Santos traced her fingers along the spine of an ancient tome, feeling the leather pulse beneath her touch like something alive. The binding seemed to breathe under her hands, a subtle rhythm that matched neither her heartbeat nor any earthly tempo. Three months had passed since she'd answered the peculiar job listing: "Apprentice needed. Traditional bookbinding experience required. Must be comfortable with unusual hours and unique materials. Inquire at 17 Corvid Lane."

The address had led her to a narrow townhouse wedged between two larger buildings, its windows reflecting light at odd angles. Even now, Elena couldn't quite remember how many floors it had – the architecture seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at it, windows and gables rearranging themselves like words on a page. The man who opened the door, Jhaeren Tain, looked exactly as she'd imagined a master bookbinder would: stooped and ink-stained, wearing a leather apron scarred by countless small burns and chemical spills. His eyes, though, held a feverish intensity that should have been her first warning.

"You've come highly recommended," he'd said, though Elena hadn't mentioned her application to anyone. "I've been watching your work at the university bindery. Such careful attention to detail... such reverence for the written word." His voice had carried strange undertones, harmonics that seemed to resonate in her bones. Behind him, shadows moved in ways that defied the light source, and she caught a whiff of something that reminded her of old pond water and decay.

The workshop had seemed normal enough at first glance: worn wooden workbenches, shelves lined with tools and materials, the comforting smell of leather and glue. But as the weeks passed, Elena began noticing things that didn't quite fit. The rulers sometimes measured different lengths depending on the time of day. The awls left holes that sealed themselves when she wasn't looking. And the shadows... the shadows were always deeper than they should be, pooling in corners like black ink.

A fragment of poetry had appeared on her workbench one morning, written in Thomas Reid's distinctive hand: "In spaces between bound pages tight, whispers echo from infinite night." The words had seemed to squirm on the paper, and Elena found herself humming their rhythm as she worked, though she couldn't remember consciously reading them.

Now, working in his basement workshop by lamplight, Elena understood why he'd valued those qualities. The books that passed through their hands were like nothing she'd encountered in her training. Some were bound in materials she couldn't identify – leather that felt too warm, cloth that seemed to breathe, metal clasps that moved when touched. Others contained text that seemed to shift when viewed directly, letters crawling across pages like insects searching for new arrangements. All of them carried a weight that had nothing to do with their physical mass.

Tonight's project sat before her: a stack of loose pages that had arrived in a leather satchel, delivered by Myrald Rook, the Keeper of the Script. His hands had trembled as he handed over the package, and Elena noticed that his shadow didn't quite match his movements, always a fraction too slow or too fast. "These are special," he'd whispered, glancing nervously at the shadows between the shelves. "The High Scribe herself has marked them for binding. Our patron grows... hungry."

He'd hesitated then, pulling something else from his satchel—a small envelope sealed with dark wax. The seal bore a symbol that seemed to shift when Elena tried to focus on it. "From Althisa Vaeron herself," he'd added, his voice barely above a whisper. "She says you're to read it only after you've completed the binding. She... she saw something about you in her last trance."

The pages felt warm to the touch, and the script that crawled across them made her eyes water. Some bore notations in different hands – she recognized Thomas Reid's poetry interwoven with the main text, his verses speaking of a darkness that devoured light and a horizon where reality ended. Other margins contained desperate warnings in what she now knew to be Miranda Wells' handwriting: "The words breed in dreams. They want more than just readers. They want vessels."

Elena's fascination warred with her terror. Part of her wanted to run, to forget everything she'd seen and return to the simple work of binding normal books. But another part, growing stronger each day, yearned to understand the mysteries hidden in these impossible texts. The hunger for knowledge had taken root in her mind, and she found herself wondering if this was how Miranda had felt before she disappeared.

"Careful with the binding thread," Jhaeren called from his desk. "These pages like to... wander, if they're not properly secured." He was hunched over his own work, transcribing text from one volume to another. Elena had noticed that he often worked in his sleep, his hands moving with mechanical precision while his eyes remained closed, lips forming words in languages that hurt her ears. Sometimes she caught glimpses of other figures moving around him in those moments – shadowy forms that vanished when she tried to look at them directly.

The thread she used was unlike any she'd worked with before. It seemed to move of its own accord, sometimes anticipating where she needed it to go. It felt warm between her fingers, like it had just been pulled from something living, and she could have sworn she felt a pulse running through it. As she sewed, she realized she wasn't just binding pages together – she was stitching fragments of reality, creating seams between what was and what waited in the spaces between words.

As Elena's needle pierced the warm leather binding, the workshop around her suddenly dissolved. The thread between her fingers turned liquid black, running down her hands like ink, and the world shifted.

She stood beneath an impossible sky. Where blue should have been, absolute darkness stretched overhead, a void so complete it seemed to swallow light itself. The sun hung low and bloated, transformed into a massive crimson eye that bathed everything in red twilight.

Then she saw the figure.

Standing at the intersection of four streets was a being both terrible and beautiful. Though human in general shape, four arms extended from their frame in perfect symmetry. Their eyes were pools of absolute darkness, streaming tears of blood that traced patterns down their cheeks. Upon their forehead, a strange sigil burned with an inner light that hurt to look at directly. With a jolt of recognition, Elena realized it was the same symbol that had sealed Althisa's envelope.

The figure raised all four arms to the void-black sky—

Elena gasped, finding herself back in the workshop, her hands trembling around the half-bound book. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she quickly wiped it away with her sleeve, trying to steady her breathing. The thread was just thread again, though her fingers still tingled where it had touched them.

"Making progress?" Jhaeren's voice came from the doorway, making her jump. She hadn't heard him approach. He stood there in his ink-stained apron, looking exactly as he always did, though somehow his shadow seemed darker than usual.

"Yes," Elena managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite her racing heart. "The binding is... coming along well." She bent her head to her work, hoping he wouldn't notice how her hands shook as she picked up the needle again.

Later, while cleaning his tools, Jhaeren spoke softly, almost to himself. "I was like you once," he said, his voice carrying those strange harmonics. "A simple bookbinder, until I understood that some books want more than just to be read. They taught me their language, showed me the spaces between words where truth lives." He turned to her, and for a moment his eyes seemed to contain galaxies. "The Dark One offers knowledge beyond imagining, Elena. The cost..." he smiled, and in the lamplight his teeth gleamed like wet ink, "...the cost becomes irrelevant once you understand what waits on the other side of the page."

She'd begun having dreams about the books. In them, she watched letters crawl across pages like insects, forming and reforming into messages that left her gasping awake. She dreamed of vast libraries where the shelves went on forever, and all the books whispered her name. Sometimes she heard voices from the workshop below her rented room, though Jhaeren insisted he never worked past midnight. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper each day, and she often caught movement in them from the corner of her eye – suggestions of figures walking between the shelves, of hands reaching out from between books.

Through these dreams, she began to understand the Congregation's structure. Jhaeren, as the Bound Archivist, created gateways through his bindings. Myrald Rook, the nervous Keeper, distributed the texts to those marked for initiation. Above them both stood Althisa Vaeron, the High Scribe, who received direct instructions from their patron – the Dark One itself.

In these dreams, fragments of what she'd glimpsed haunted her. The void-black sky, the crimson sun that shouldn't be, and always that figure—that terrible, magnificent figure whose presence made reality shiver. Her mind recoiled from remembering too much, but the images lingered like afterimages burned into her vision. Sometimes, when she woke gasping in the dark, she could still feel the weight of that impossible sky pressing down on her, and her fingers would trace patterns in the air, unconsciously mimicking the sigil she'd seen burning on the figure's brow.

A loose page fluttered from the stack – she recognized the university library stamp, though the seal seemed wrong somehow, rotating slowly when she wasn't looking directly at it. The margin contained a neat notation: "Found by M.W." Below that, another hand had added: "Processed for distribution. - M. Rook." Elena had heard whispers about Miranda Wells, the librarian who had vanished from Blackmere University. Some said she'd simply left town, but Elena had seen other notes in her handwriting, growing increasingly frantic, speaking of words that bred in dreams and truths that devoured readers.

As Elena reached for the page, her sleeve pulled back, revealing the strange marks that had begun appearing on her skin. They looked like ink stains at first, but they moved slightly when she slept, forming letters in alphabets that had never existed in any earthly language. She'd stopped trying to wash them off after noticing that soap and water only made them spread faster. Sometimes, in the right light, they seemed to form words from the texts she'd been binding – prophecies and promises that wrote themselves into her flesh.

"You're progressing well," Jhaeren said, suddenly behind her though she hadn't heard him move. His shadow on the wall didn't match his movements, and Elena noticed that his apron now bore stains that seemed to gleam with their own inner light. "Soon you'll be ready to begin the real work." When he smiled, his teeth looked too sharp, too numerous, as if his mouth contained several sets that shifted and changed when he spoke.

The realization hit her then: she wasn't just binding books anymore. Each stitch, each carefully aligned page, was helping to bind something larger – reality itself. The books were merely vessels, channels through which something vast and hungry could reach into the world. And she, with her careful stitches and precise alignments, was helping to create the perfect gateway.

"There's a gathering tonight," Jhaeren continued, his voice carrying those strange harmonics that made her bones vibrate. "The Dark One wishes to see your work." He gestured to a bookshelf that Elena could have sworn hadn't been there a moment ago. "Few apprentices progress so quickly to drawing its attention."

The shelf held copies of Thomas Reid's latest works, their spines gleaming with an inner light. Elena had helped bind some of them herself, using thread that moved like living things and leather that felt too warm to the touch. She'd seen how the text changed between readings, how the words rearranged themselves to reveal new horrors to each reader.

"The Congregation welcomes those who understand the true power of words," Jhaeren said, producing a small, leather-bound volume from his pocket. "This was your first binding with us. I think you're ready to read it now." The book felt heavy in Elena's hands, its cover warm and slightly yielding, like skin. The pages, when she opened them, contained text in her own handwriting – words she didn't remember writing, describing things she couldn't possibly have seen.

Horror and fascination warred within her as she read. Part of her wanted to throw the book aside, to run from the workshop and never look back. But a deeper part, the part that had always loved the secret worlds hidden between pages, understood that she had already chosen her path. Like Miranda Wells before her, like Thomas Reid with his dark verses, she had been drawn into something larger than herself.

Elena's hands moved automatically, continuing their work even as her mind reeled from these revelations. The thread wove patterns that couldn't exist in three-dimensional space, binding not just paper and leather but something else – something that pulsed with ancient hunger. She was no longer just binding books; she was binding realities together, creating gateways between what was and what waited in the spaces between words.

Through the basement window, she could see fog gathering in the street, forming shapes that reminded her of letters in a cosmic alphabet. Somewhere in that mist, she knew, other members of the Congregation of the Whispering Page were preparing for tonight's ceremony. The bookseller who'd given her the mysterious job listing. The nervous Keeper who brought them pages. The poet whose words now crawled across her skin in her sleep.

As she completed the final binding, Elena understood at last what Miranda's notes had meant. The words didn't just want to be read – they wanted to be bound, to be given form and substance in our world. With trembling fingers, she reached for Althisa's envelope, breaking the shifting seal. Inside was a single page of thick paper, covered in elegant script that seemed to write itself as she watched:

"You've seen it now, haven't you, Elena? The truth waiting in the dark sky. The figure that bridges worlds. We each play our part in what's to come—you with your bindings, me with my visions, Jhaeren with his translations. The Dark One chooses us carefully, dear Elena. Your hands know the work already, even if your mind hasn't caught up. Bind these pages well. They're more important than you yet realize."

Elena's fingers traced the binding she'd just completed, feeling the warmth pulsing beneath the leather. Horror and fascination mingled in her chest, but underneath them both was something else—a deep, thrumming certainty. Every book she'd bound had been a practice run for this moment. Every stitch had taught her hands the patterns they would need. She could run, yes. But the truth was, she didn't want to.

The Black Horizon was coming, and Elena Santos, once a simple bookbinder, would help usher it in – one bound volume at a time. Her hands moved across the leather and paper, each stitch drawing the darkness closer, each page carrying whispers of the truth that waited in the spaces between words. And in the shadows of the workshop, the Dark One watched her work with hungry anticipation, its patience measured in the slow turning of pages and the endless whisper of ancient prophecies.

When I met Blake, my life changed. I'd never had a real friend until I met him. Even in kindergarten, I'd be that weird kid who'd spend recess on his own in the corner. It was in the Summer of 1993. Blake's family moved in a few streets down from us. His mother Lilibet, determined to worm her way into the country club, knocked on the door of the largest house in the suburb and presented my mom with a fresh peach cobbler. They too were inseparable from that day forth.

Every time Lilibet would come around for a wine evening with my mother, she'd bring Blake along. I never knew what his father worked as, but I did know that he was only ever around on the weekends. I hit it off with Blake instantly. We'd spend long summer evenings upsetting wasp nests and drinking Hawaiian Punch while our mothers kept a loose eye on us from the porch.

My backyard doesn't really end, instead it leads into the green blanket of Jefferson National Forest. Blake and I would spend hours playing in the maze of trees, building forts and sword fighting with sticks. We'd dare each other further and further into the woods, but eventually one of us would always chicken out before we went too deep. Usually me. Blake was my best friend for five years. We'd still hang out every day even after our parents had a major falling out. I suppose we both knew that we had no one else to fill our time with.

He went missing on a sticky Summer day in 1998. His mother had begrudgingly dropped him off at my house. My mother asked Blake about his day before we went out exploring, as we put it, into the forest. Once we were far enough from my house, Blake took out the flip knife he'd stolen from his father. We played around with it for a while, taking turns doing the slowest finger finger fillet imaginable and using it to sharpen twigs into arrows.

It was while we were playing that stupid knife game that I managed to stab myself through my middle finger. I cursed and grimaced and tried not to cry in front of Blake. I slumped onto a rotting, moss covered log and nursed my mutilated finger. For some reason, I thought blowing on it would help. Blake made an unhelpful joke before picking the knife up and sitting next to me. I told him I was fine and he started to list off some facts he knew about tetanus. I shoved him off the log and we both laughed.

Blake got up, brushing the leaves off himself and told me he'd just gotten a great idea. He said that while we had the knife, we should carve our names into a tree. That way, anyone who sees the message will know that Blake and Robby are best friends. I told him it was a great idea and that he should pick out the sturdiest tree he can find while I go get a plaster.

Blake began his expedition and I walked back to the house, holding my still-bleeding figure in an old tissue. I didn't realise how close we were to my house until it quickly came into view and I hoped my mother hadn't heard me swearing. She was lying back on a deckchair, reading a gossip magazine and sipping from a glass of white wine. She jumped up as soon as she noticed my hand.

Soon after, my finger was lathered in germolene and wrapped in a bandaid. I lied and told my mother that I'd cut it on a particularly sharp stone. She seemed to buy it, or at least I thought she did. She told me to be more careful and sent me on my way, shaking her head and muttering something about me being reckless. I wandered back into the woods to look for Blake.

I stumbled across the old fallen tree I'd been using as a bench, which lay just out of view of my house. I looked around but didn't see Blake. I called his name and got no reply. I started to meander around, weary that Blake could jump out at me at any second. He was always like that, playing tricks on me. Once he left his grandmother's old doll that he knew I hated in my room after a sleepover. He still wishes that he'd been there to see my reaction.

I'm wandering between the trees, further from my garden and deeper into the unrelinquishing forest. Something catches my eye. A metallic glint. I turn to see an old oak tree, its limbs tangled and broken like a car crash victim. It was the oldest tree on the property, as far we knew. It lay right on the invisible boundary where our land ended and the administration of the United States Forest Service began. I begged my father to let me build a treehouse on its branches when I was younger, but the answer was forever “no”.

I took a step closer. I saw what had caught my eye. Blake's flip knife was sticking out of the bark, around shoulder height. I looked at it, puzzled, and grabbed the handle. With some effort, I managed to pull it out. Blake must've lodged it in deep. I felt the weight of it in my hand, trying to balance it on my index finger. Blake had cleaned my blood off the blade. I guess he picked the old oak as the tree we should carve our message into.

I pocketed the knife and looked around. Still no sign of Blake. I still wasn't convinced that he wasn't just hiding behind a bush somewhere, ready to pounce on me as I walked past. I called his name again. No reply. Only the sound of wind echoing between the wooden mesh entangled branches. Worry began to set in.

I heard my mother call us in. Pizza was ready, apparently. All I'd had to eat that day was a stick of apple flavoured chewing gum that I had accidentally swallowed, so pizza was an alluring mistress. I looked around and spoke in no particular direction.

“Come on Blake, Mom made pizza. Homemade this time as well, none of that frozen crap”

I was sure that he'd hear me and come running out, eventually. I made my way out of the forest and back towards my house.

“Where's Blake?” My mother asked as I sat down on the Picnic table.

“He's around, somewhere” I replied, “I reckon he was trying to prank me. He'll come crawling out of his hiding spot as soon as he smells this”.

We laughed and began to eat. By the time we'd finished, Blake's portion was still lying cold on his paper plate, now congealed in grease. Mom began to worry. She was like Blake's second mother, and practically was his mother when his parents were going through their divorce. As soon as I finished, she sent me back out to the forest to look for him. This time she came with me.

Half an hour later, there was still no sign. My mother made me walk her through our entire afternoon. I confessed to her that we'd been playing with a knife. I immediately felt like I shouldn't have. She berated me about safety, but stopped suddenly as she began to think the worst of what could've happened to Blake. She'd didn't tell me, not wanting to upset me, but I could tell what she was thinking. What if Blake had cut himself? Worse, what if he'd been running, knife in hand, and tripped on a root.

My mother called Lilibet soon after. She arrived before the hour's end and started a screaming match with mom as soon as she burst through our front door. Something about losing her sweet baby boy. I wasn't sure, I had my hands over my ears for most of it. The police came next. They assured us thar since he'd only been gone for a little more than an hour, there shouldn't be anything to worry about. He was probably sitting by a tree, nursing a twisted ankle.

Lilibet filled in a missing people's report just after sundown. The rest of the day was a hectic search. Eventually my mother told me to go back inside and go to bed. I protested, wanting to be the one to find him, but eventually relented. She led me back to the house and tucked me into bed before she rejoined Lilibet. I managed to fall asleep, weariness winning the battle against worry. I was woken up my talking just outside of my bedroom window. I checked the time.

6:02.

I rolled out of bed and went to my window and peered outside. There was a group of people congregated in the garden. A search party. A few carried torches, although it was already bright enough to see clearly. I recognised some of the men from around town. Mr Hall, my geography teacher, was the first one to catch my eye. He gave me a sympathetic wave and went back to listening to the police officer, who was organising the group into smaller parties. Soon thereafter, they set off into the woods.

By the time that i got up, Blake had been gone for 15 hours. It's a myth that you have to wait 24 hours to report someone missing. Really, you should do it as soon as their absence becomes suspicious. Some law enforcers do suggest waiting 24 hours, but that's just an advisory. Or a polite way of saying “Ma’am, could it be that your husband is just black-out drunk in a ditch somewhere?”.

That day, the search party found nothing. Not a piece of cloth or lost shoe. There was no trace of Blake at all. The police brought in sniffer dogs, which were equally ineffective. The searches began to pitter out after three weeks. Local law enforcement explained there was simply nothing more they could do. Still, people didn't give up hope. Lilibet would spend hours on her own, wandering through the woods looking for her son. She'd often turn up at our house late at night, looking for a place to stay so she could resume the search as soon as her tired body allowed her. It was a wonder that she never got lost herself.

Police suspicion immediately fell on my father, even though he was working at the time of the disappearance. He had a criminal record from his teenage years, nothing major, but they used it as rope to tie his noose. As the Sheriff kept repeating that they had no new information, the townsfolk became increasingly agitated. They tried desperately to use my father as a scapegoat, a patsy, but there was nothing. No evidence that Blake had even left my backyard, let alone for a murder. My father avoided jail, but not the death of his reputation.

My father lost his job. Although he was never convicted, the stigma of being the lead suspect in a missing child case was not good for a children’s ombudsman. He couldn't find work anywhere in town. Months had passed now since Blake's disappearance. I was back to being friendless and heavily bullied at school. I'd still walk home with Blake everyday though, as his missing posters lined every lamppost from the school to my house.

My mother began working again, being able to return to her position at the local women's college. It was enough to keep our family afloat, but not my parents' marriage. Their divorce was finalised on millennium Eve. I knew it was coming, although I enjoyed ignoring the signs. My father spent most of 1999 drunk at home.

High-school was a nightmare, but at least it gave me a sense of normalcy. I like to think that I was a good student. Not that it mattered. I had to drop out of college in 2008 to care for my mother. She passed away from lung cancer in 2009, leaving me alone with the family home and more debt than I'd be worth in a decade. I lost contact with my father after my mother's funeral. Last I knew he was living in a trailer park near the coast.

I should've sold the house. Anyone in my family I still talked to told me that. The place was far too big for one person. Too hollow. I should've sold it, but I didn't. Buried in the walls of that house were the memories of my happy childhood, and that was priceless. I did have to sell almost every item of furniture, every piece of jewellery, every last possession just to keep my head above water. Worst of all, I had to work in retail.

My life was at a dead end. Every day was the same as its predecessor, and will undoubtedly be the same as its successor. I'd wake up, go to work, come home, eat, drink, sleep and wake up again the next morning. The only thing that kept me going was Lucy. She was a cashier at the small corner shop I worked at. She was a little younger than me. Her parents had kicked her out when she was 19. The art college she attended kicked her out as well a few short years later. She ended up back here and has been stuck in a cycle of part-time jobs ever since.

We were good friends, as much as I wanted us to be more. We'd go out for drinks as often as we could, sometimes catch a movie at the local arthouse cinema. She's dated a few guys in the time I've know her, but nothing that didn't last more than a few weeks. I was comfortable with our friendship. I didn't want to end up like just another month-long romance. So, I kept acting like I was content with her calling me “the brother she never had”. If you're reading all of this and thinking that it sounds unhealthy and just a tad pathetic, then you're undoubtedly right.

I just don't want to rock the boat.

The night it happened began with me slumped across the front room sofa, gorging myself on off-brand cheese puffs and watching trash tv. I wiped the orange power from my fingers with my vest, picked up my phone and messaged Lucy.

Do u want to come over for movie night??

It took her a while to reply.

Look out your window. It's the storm of the century outside.

She had a point, I admit. It was the first big storm to hit us in 2016. It wasn't that bad now, but it was set to wreak havoc in a few hours. Lucy and I lived within a ten minute walk of each other's houses. She’d usually pop over whenever she got frustrated with her housemate, which was often.

Good movie weather

I chuckled at my own message. Lucy didn't reply for a few minutes, long enough for my show about housewives to end another about fishermen on steroids to begin.

lol

I took that as a no and set my phone back down on the coffee table. I rolled over and went back to watching the TV screen, regardless of whatever was being shown. I just switched my mind off.

I didn't realise that I had fallen asleep until I was woken up. I groaned and slowly sat upright, the stale flavour of artificial cheese and malibu on my breath. I sat there listening to the rain until I decided to get up and investigate the noise that dragged me awake. I stumbled through the living room and into the kitchen. I fumbled with the wall until my hand found the lightswitch, although I could tell what the problem was already.

The light came on and I saw that I'd left a window wide open. The curtains had caught the wind and knocked over a plant pot. The tiled floor was covered in dirt and bits of dead philodendron. I sighed and poured myself a glass of water, trying not to get mud on my slippers as I sat down in what used to be my father's chair at the dinner table. I swished the water around in my mouth and turned the kitchen light off so I could see outside. I sat back down and stared at the swaying trees at the foot of my backyard.

At times like this all I can think about is Blake. I wondered if he was still out there, somewhere. If I remembered correctly, the last theory from the county police was that he fell down a small cave entrance, one they, or anyone else, never could find. I spat the rinse back into my cup, then shrugged my shoulders and drank it.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a spectacular light. I squinted as I saw lightning strike just beyond the treeline. It was over in a split second. Thunder followed immediately after. I laughed to myself, feeling sorry for all the dog owners in the neighbourhood. I never had one, but Blake did, for a while. Charles I think his name was. Blake would tell me about how Charles would howl and whimper his way through every storm.

I stopped laughing when I saw the glow. It was faint at first, when slowly grew brighter. I got to my feet leaned over the sink, pressing my forehead against the glass pane. There was definitely dull orange glow coming from the woods. Fire was the first thing that came to my mind. Back in June, a fire was started in a campervan lot, not all that far away. It burnt down a few people's livelihoods. The News reporters said that that had been started by lightning.

I began opening random draws until I found a torch. I made sure it was working, grabbed a coat and headed outside. I almost slipped on the wooden steps of the deck. I trudge across the garden, which had been turned to mud by the storm, and continued on towards the glow. Some cover from the rain was granted as I crossed the treeline. The beam of my torch fell over a mat of rotten leaves and twigs, a fallen log and finally, an old Oak tree.

The bolt of lightning had split the thing almost in half. Part of the tree was strewn, still smouldering, on the ground. The smell of charred timber overpowered the petrichor. The split edges of the oak were a ring of embers, the source of the orange glow that led me here. I took a step closer and was stopped by sudden realisation. This was the tree Blake was intent on carving our names into. The tree I found his flick knife sticking out of. The tree I knelt at every year on the anniversary of his disappearance to pray to St Anthony.

Tears clouded my version as I realised I'd lost my last connection to him. I was confident that the rain would dampen any attempt the fire made at spreading. I sniffed and turned around to walk back to my dry home.

“Robbie.”

I froze. Someone had called my name. It was almost hidden by the wind, but I was sure of it.

“Robbie.”

It was a voice I recognised. I turned around in circles, bewildered, scanning my surroundings for the source.

“Robbie… please.”

I stared at the splintered Oak tree. I found it. On unsteady feet I stepped closer and closer still to the scorched stump. I turned my torch onto its brightest setting and leaned over the side of the stump, flashing the beam down its center.

The heartwood was hollowed out. In the middle of the tree, encased in oak up to his shoulders, was a small child. It was Blake.

“Robbie… please free me.”

I stared in shock and pure disbelief. I could tell my hand was shaking from how much the light danced around. It was Blake but… he's changed. His skin had the same colour and texture as dried leaves. His eyes were milk white with a yellow tinge. His hair was a dirty mess and his scalp was… crumblin. He was still wearing the same red shirt he had on the day of his disappearance, but it had now faded to the point of greyness. Despite all this, I knew it was really him. I finally, after all these years, had him back. And he hadn't aged a day.

“Blake”, I whimpered, “it's really you.”

I reached out to try and hug him but he hissed at me. I'm sure he was scared and confused like me.

“Blake, please, I'm trying to get you out. Just hold onto my hands and I'll pull you out!”

Blake let out a long, rasping “No” before saying “Only blood can free me.”

I took a cautious step back. “Blood? Blake, what are you talking about?”

“Bring me blood. Bath me in it, Robbie. Free me.”

We stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, then Blake's face contorted into a sickening grin. I turned and ran, straight back to the house. I fell into a glut of mud but stumbled back to my feet. I clambered up my deck and fell through the glass sliding doors. I pulled the curtains shut with such force I broke a few of the rings. I tore off my sodden clothes as I ran upstairs. I collapsed onto the bed in my childhood bedroom and fumbled around with the bedside cabinet looking for my Zolpidem. I took four and turned over for a restful night.

For a blissful few seconds when I woke up, I couldn't recall the events of the night prior. And then it hit me. I laid in bed until I couldn't justify it anymore. I got up and made my way downstairs. The first thing I did was grab a broom and clean, as best I could, the dirt and broken pottery on the kitchen floor. Once it was acceptably clean, I made myself a coffee and sat down on the chair that had been turned to face the window. I took a scolding sip and internally debated what I should do as I watched the trees sway in the afternoon wind. By the time the mug was empty, I had decided to talk to Blake again.

I made my way out of the house and onto the now familiar trail from my garden out through the woods to the Oak tree. Until I saw its split facade, I thought there was still a chance it had been all a dream. Any hopes of that ended when I saw Blake squirming around in the stump. He stopped moving when he saw me and smiled.

“Who've come back Robbie”

“I… I want to help you Blake”, I said in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“You can help me, Robbie. Bring me blood.”

I stared at Blake in disbelief. I didn't know what to do. What to say. Every time I looked at him I felt this weird sense of… of joy. I've wanted a chance to see him one last time every day for the past eighteen years. Now here it was, and I was thinking about turning my back on him? I couldn't understand what was going on, but I knew what I had to do.

“Wh… why do you need blood?” I managed to stutter out.

“It will bring me back”, replied Blake, “Isn't that what you want?”

I looked into his blank eyes and saw compassion. It was something I hadn't felt in years.

"Ok.” I said. “I'll do it. I'll help you.”

Blake whispered a “thank you Robbie” as I turned and walked away. I went back into the house to grab my wallet, my jacket and the keys. I locked up and got in my car. I single mindedly drove to the nearest butchers. I parked on a double yellow line and made my way into some generic, corporate butcher shop. The walls were lined with cured meats and pictures of oddly happy looking cartoon pigs.

I leaned over the counter and was greeted by a barrel-shaped middle aged man who didn't look all that different from the animals he sold.

“Do you sell blood?” I asked in earnest.

“Blood?” replied the Butcher “well sure we do, don't get much call for it though. How much can I do you for?”

I realised I wasn't exactly familiar with blood measurements so I told him “I'll take a gallon.” The Butcher sniffed and disappeared into the back. He returned a moment later with a large plastic container covered in frost.

“I'm afraid we only have pork blood in stock, if that's alright.”

“Oh sure, that's fine. I think.” I told him.

“Perfect. That'll be eighteen dollars”.

I grimaced at the thought of giving up almost three hours wages for a fool's errand, but on the other hand my social anxiety prevented me from asking him to get a smaller portion. I reluctantly paid in full and waved the portly man a goodbye. The blood had began to thaw on the back seat of my car, leaving a stain I knew I'd never get out.

I pulled into my driveway and got out. I opened the back door and unbuckled the seat belt around the container of blood. I don't know why I put a seat belt around it, it just felt right. I lugged the cumbersome thing out of my car and carried it through my home, out to the garden and into the forest. I heard a dull whispering coming from Blake. He stopped suddenly once her saw me.

“Hello Robbie”, he said as I positioned myself in front of him.

“I got what you wanted”, I told him as I unscrewed the lid of the plastic jug.

“Thank you Robbie”, he replied, “you're my best friend”.

I beamed a smile as I heaved the gallon of blood onto my shoulder. It began pouring out in a torrent, covering Blake completely in a clotless crimson. Enough of it splashed on my clothes to make it look like I've been butchering a deer. Once it was empty, I set it down next to the stump and waited for Blake to be free.

The blood began seeping into his flesh and the wood that surrounded him. There was a sound like a drain emptying as the liquid receded. Within a minute, he was completely clean. I noticed, however, than his skin seemed noticeably looser. I stood back, expecting him to squirm out of his oak prison. Instead, his face fell and her spoke in a slightly lower pitched voice.

“I need fresh blood, Robbie. Bring me fresh blood and I'll be free.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Fresh blood?” I stuttered, “what do you mean?”

He repeated; “I need fresh blood, Robbie. Bring me fresh blood and I'll be free.”

I turned and stormed off. I thought I could help. I thought I was doing the right thing. But clearly, I couldn't help Blake. Even now. I returned to my house and collapsed onto the sofa in a depressive heap. I felt such a strong, almost unnatural compulsion to help but nothing I did felt like it made up for losing him. I knew it was dumb to blame myself, but at the back of my mind I always felt responsible. It's been tied around my conscience since I was 12 years old, and now that I could finally put things right, I was second guessing myself.

Just then, the neighbour's cat jumped up on my windowsill. He curled up in a sunspot next to my box plants. I stared at his furry shape and realised what I must do. Slowly, I stood up from the couch and made my way into the kitchen. I grabbed the largest knife I could find from the draw and stepped outside. The cat belonged to my next door neighbour. It was a greying tabby, George I think it's name was. The neighbouring family got it when I was just a kid. I couldn't imagine how old he must be. I grabbed him by the tail. At his age, there wasn't much more he could ask for.

I brought this new offering to Blake. He seemed happier with it. With the knife, I managed to drain all the blood I could from that ginger ball of hair. Blake opened his mouth and stuck his grey, cracked tongue out as the blood dripped onto his face. He was like a small child experiencing snow for the first time. I felt a warmth deep inside me as he fed.

“Is that better?’ I asked.

Blake replied “I can taste life for the first time in years. Please, I need more.”

It was the answer I expected, an answer that I was resigned to. I had my best friend back, and I wasn't going to give him up. The next week was a blur of violence. Usually I had lunch with Lucy, but now I'd spend my breaks driving around town searching for lost pets and strays. I'd taken to using a sharpened screw driver. It was the most humane way. My findings would stay in the trunk of my until I could go home and feed their blood to Blake. He told me he was growing healthier, and was almost free, but it didn't seem like it.

His complexion was even more sickly than when I first found him. His skin was now a dark turquoise, had a texture like leather and looked like it was slowly falling off the flesh underneath. Seams had appeared all over the visible parts of his body, and they looked fit to burst. His left arm was free now. All he used it for was to play rock-paper-scissors with me.

This particular day, I got off work and drove home with a pomeranian wrapped in a bin liner in my back seat. I began my usual routine soon after getting back to the house. I through the back over my shoulder and trudged over to Blake's part of the forest. He watched me intensely as I pulled the small dog out of the plastic bag. I took out my cutting knife, but before I could do anything, Blake spoke.

“Why are you poisoning me?”

I looked at him, shocked. I tried to hide the frustration in my voice when I replied.

“What… what do you mean, Blake? I'm bringing you everything you asked for.”

Blake's child-like grin turned into a grimacing frown. Now, his facial expressions took ages to turn, as if he had to tell each individual muscle in his face how and where to move.

“The blood of animals is sour to me now”, he said, “and yet you keep showering me in it? Do you want me to suffer, Robbie?”

I quickly jumped to my own defense.

“No, no, of course not. What do you need instead?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Human blood”.

Those two words directed the course of my life from then on. I spent the rest of the day tackling this moral quandary. First, I attempted to contact a blood bank to inquire about a withdrawal, but I quickly realised how tremendously stupid of an idea that was. The next thing I did was research how much blood could a person lose without dying. From Google, I found that a person could lose close to 40% of the entire volume and live. I decided then that I would try and remove this from myself.

It felt fitting, after all, that it'd be my own blood that frees Blake. The next few days we're spent preparing. I checked in on Blake regularly, to see how he was doing without my blood supply. Not only was he fine, he looked more healthy and normal than he'd ever been. He insisted, however, that going this long without blood would kill him, so I endeavour to hurry up.

I made a homemade IV out of sewing needles, a turkey baster and tubing from a long dormant fish tank. I sat down on a chair in the kitchen, the IV next to me over a plastic bucket. I spent an hour sterilising everything as best I could with what I had. I stabbed the needle into my cephalic vein and let gravity do the rest. Slowly but surely, the bucket began to fill up.

I sat there until I felt dizzy. I groggily pulled the makeshift hypodermic needle out of my arm and collapsed back into the chair. After a few minutes, I managed to collect myself. I steadily got to my feet and looked at the bucket. There was barely any blood in it. I found a 1L measuring jug that I'd never used before and poured it in. It just about filled it to the brim. More than I thought but nowhere near enough.

I brought the jug out to Blake, careful not to spill any. His blank eyes lit up when he saw me. I held the jug over him, his mouth hanging expectantly open. I poured my blood and he began to giggle, just like he would when we were kids. His gullet filled with my black clots and it began to overspill, dribbling down his chin and down onto his chest. Once the glass is empty, I let it fall to the floor. Blake began thanking me, calling me his best friend, saying we'd never part. I felt a warmth I hadn't experienced since before my mother died. Wood splintered as he pulled his other arm free. I knew what to do. I leaned in and we hugged each other.

“We will never part again, Robbie.”

“I know Blake. I'll never let you go again.”

He smelt like death but I didn't care. He pulled me tighter and whispered in my ear.

“But I'm still not free.”

I recoiled from his embrace. I should've known that he wouldn't be satiated. I had to avert my gaze from Blake. I could tell he was scowling at me. I walked back to the house, leaving Blake to calm down. I slumped onto my couch, trying to think of what I should do next. I noticed my phone on the coffee table. The past few days have been a mono focused blur. I couldn't remember the last time I picked up my phone.

I grabbed it and immediately saw that Lucy had been trying to contact me. I had dozens of unread texts and missed calls from her. I'd been doing my best to avoid her at work. She tried to come round yesterday and I just hid in my room and pretended to be out. I tapped on the notifications and read through the catalogue of messages. All had the same theme; something to do with my well-being.

I lay back and decided to give her a call. The phone rang for a while before she picked up. She didn't sound as concerned as I thought she'd be, but she was happy to know I was all right. She repeated what she'd been saying over text, that I felt different. Distant. I told her that I was fine, really, and that she should come over tonight. She agreed, and said that she would be around at about 7 PM. We wished each other goodbye until then and I hung up.

I had a plan.

I knew that there was no other choice. If I wanted to free Blake, finally free him, then this is what I must do. I put on a jacket and slide a kitchen knife into the inside pocket. I sat and waited for Lucy.

She arrived half an hour late, an impressive feat considering she only lived ten minutes away. I could tell that she knew that something was up. I didn't know what to do, so I blurted out that I had been diagnosed with depression. It seemed to click for her then what was wrong and she took to comforting me as best she could. Lucy had always been a tree-hugger. She made me try out veganism once or twice, but it never stuck. Hearing about my struggle, the first thing she suggested was that I should get out in nature more. She asked me if there was any place that I felt truly happy. I stifled a smile and told her that I knew a place.

My heart beat like a tribal drum as I led Lucy from my house, through my garden and out into the forest. I stopped for a second, letting her walk just in front of me as we came up to the stump. A few steps later she saw it.

Blake has metamorphosed since this morning. His skin had been replaced with a black mold. The only features of his face her his white eyes and teeth, floating in an inky nothingness. He didn't look like Blake at all anymore. His red t-shirt was gone, digested into his body. Wispy tendrils protruded from all over his body and connected him to the ruined oak that rose on either side of him. He still sat comfortably within the stump but looked like he was beginning to spill out.

Lucy let out a scream that sent the crows flying from their perch. Before she could run, before she could react, before she could do anything else, I grabbed her. I pushed her forward until she was inches from Blake's grinning maw. I took the knife from my pocket and slit her throat. Her screams turned to a gurgle and then ended. Blood poured from the wound and on to Blake, who still spoke with the voice of a child.

“This is it”, he decreed, “just a little more.”

He was still saying that by the time her neck ran dry. I maneuvered her body, trying desperately not to throw up. I cut both of wrists and held her in place as the blood flowed. Suddenly, Blake began to bubble. Pustules sprang up and popped all over his body. He expanded, almost entirely enveloping the stump. I stumbled back and let Lucy's body fall. Blake's eyes rolled back into his head and disappeared, along with his teeth. His body had lost all shape now. It was just a black, writhing mass.

Two hands pierced the top of the mass and split it open like a satchel. The man began to rise from the black pile, floating up through the air. It was a Native American man, he looked to be in his 60s, although his aura was unknowable old. His legs were covered in intricate symbols of red and white and he wore a tattered animal hide skirt. Around his neck was a carcanet of beads and feathers. He began speaking in a language I couldn't begin to understand. I only recognised one word.

“Okeus.”

He didn't even look at me. He kept rising into the air, past the tree line and further still. I craned my neck and shielded my eyes from the evening sun. The man continued up into the sky until he came to a stop a hundred feet or so from the ground. His incantations hastened and he began to vibrate. Suddenly he exploded into a cloud of ash, which caught on the wind and fluttered away. I clambered over to the stump but the black mess had already begun to evaporate. There was no trace of Blake. There was no sign that he'd been there at all. There was nothing

I spent the next few years on the run for murder. My old life died with Lucy. In the past 8 years, I've written this account out dozens of times. It is my admission of guilt. Now, I am finally at peace with it. Make of it what you will and leave me unburdened. I don't know what I let into the world, but there is nothing left I can do.

I love you Blake.

The laptop screen is shaking, flickering with power surges. The battery shows 23%, and I have no idea where to look for an outlet that still works. My fingers are shaking as I type, trying to catch the elusive fragments of thoughts while there is still time.

There is a rumble outside. A continuous rumble that penetrates every cell of my body. I do not know what is happening, but I know that this is the end. It is not thunder or lightning. It is the rumble of war that drowns out everything else.

It all started yesterday with sirens. I thought it was another drill, but when I looked out the window, I saw something I had never seen before: planes flying in formation like flocks of birds of prey, and invisible lines intersecting in the sky. And then... explosions. It was as if the city began to crumble under these blows.

I remember running, not knowing where. I stuffed the bare essentials into my backpack, but what could be necessary when hell was breaking loose around you? When I was hiding in the entryway, hearing screams, the rumble of falling buildings, and the wail of sirens, I realized that this was not some local conflict. This was a war, a real, all-consuming war.

I miraculously made it to the basement of an apartment building, where I am now sitting. Several people are hiding here. We barely talk, everyone seems petrified with horror. We have little food, little water, and no hope.

With each passing hour, the explosions are getting closer, louder. Buildings are collapsing like houses of cards, and the city I knew is turning into a pile of smoking rubble. No one goes outside, and no one wants to. Everyone is frozen in anticipation of their fate.

I see others looking at me. At my laptop. As if I am trying to save myself with some kind of hope. But I just want to record this, I want to leave a mark while I still can. Before it's my turn to turn to ashes.

I heard about it on the news. About more and more countries coming into conflict. About how it could all end badly. But I never thought I'd see it with my own eyes.

I found this old laptop in one of the abandoned offices last night. It was still working while the generator was running, which is most likely broken by now. I decided to charge it and write down everything I feel. It's useless, I know, but I can't just sit and wait.

I see people dying. Right outside my shelter window, with every explosion. More and more often I hear them saying goodbye and cursing this day. I'm scared. But at the same time, I feel some kind of numbness. I think I've lost the ability to feel.

18% charge.

I don't know what tomorrow holds for us. I don't know what holds for me. But I know that this world will never be the same. War is like cancer, destroying everything in its path. And we, just innocent cells, die mercilessly.

I remember my life. How it passed so quickly, so senselessly. And it becomes even more scary for me that I will never have a future. For all of us.

12% charge.

I hear the sound of an approaching plane. It is too close.

It is time for me to say goodbye.

I hope that someone can read this. And if you still have time, take care of it before it is too late. Take care of your loved ones. And try not to repeat the mistakes that led us to this.

6% charge.

Goodbye.