After so many failed dating apps and blind dates, I was ecstatic when Marcus came into my life. He was kind, a good listener, and he pursued me aggressively. He showered me with love, and I’ll admit, he swept me off my feet.

And I swear this didn’t play into my affection. But he was rich.

Even though things were moving quickly, when he asked me to move in with him I said, “Yes!”

I couldn’t help myself when I saw his house. I avoided asking about money, but I had to ask, “How much is this house worth?”

He smiled. “You wouldn’t believe the price if I told you.”

Maybe it was better not to know.

He made me dinner. Steak au Poivre with roasted potatoes.

I was so excited to go to bed with him. But when I hopped in his king sized bed I recoiled. It was wet. Sopping wet.

I got out and looked. The bed was noticeably stained.

Maybe it was rude to jump to conclusions. After all, maybe he just spilt a bottle of champagne in the bed or something.

I asked, “Uh, what happened here?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

It seemed like he might be a little embarrassed.

“Did you…have an accident?”

“Me? No. No way. How could you even suggest that? I don’t even normally sleep in this room.”

“It’s okay if you did. It happens.” Well. Not with grown men. Unless it was something medical. I didn’t want to give him too much grief about it. “We should just maybe clean it up a little.”

I got some towels from his bathroom and laid them over the bed. This would have to do for now. The mood was kind of ruined so we both just laid down.

I couldn’t sleep though. I keep imagining snuggling up to Marcus and getting peed on. I tried to convince myself that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Just take a shower. Do the laundry. He was so perfect, there had to be one thing that made him human.

That’s when I felt a drip. More like a splash. It wasn’t coming from Marcus though. It came from the ceiling.

I looked up. It was dark, but I could see the shape of a gigantic face morphed into the ceiling. Its mouth was agape and it was drooling. So much drool it was dripping into the bed.

Its bloodshot eyes darted to mine and it realized I had noticed it.

That’s when it pursed its lips and began sucking. First the down comforter shot up into its mouth. It swallowed it effortlessly.

Then I started to lift off of the bed. I grabbed onto Marcus, screamed for help!

He grabbed onto my arm. But then I saw he had tied his other arm to a rope secured to the floor.

“I told you you wouldn’t believe the price.”

He let go of my arm and I shot into the mouth.

When we were rushed into the hospital, I knew it wouldn’t end well. We were met in the foyer by my mother-in-law, who after introducing herself, wore a harrowed, serious expression. A darkness amplified by the hospital’s artificial lighting gathered round the hollows of her eyes.

“You will lose the baby,” she cautioned.

My delirious partner was rushed away in a wheelchair, and as I made to follow her, her mother grabbed my arm.

“Ask to keep it,” she whispered. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my ear. Her necklace, an oak tree pendant, bobbed against my neck.

“The placenta.”

Later, as the nurses fretted over my partner, I asked the question. One of them raised an eyebrow and shot a glance at their colleague. Then she looked down at my partner, frozen in grief.

She didn’t say anything, she just nodded.

As we were leaving, she passed it to me in a plain white bag, the thing inside held in a container, which itself was wrapped in more plastic covered in health warnings.

Arriving home, I put the kettle on and took my partner upstairs to bed.

Waking with a start sometime later, I remembered that I’d left the placenta on the kitchen table; but as I opened the door to place it in the freezer, a thought struck me. I stared out the window into the garden, at the leafless old oak tree.

I will bury it there, I thought, almost abstractly. In the hollow at the base of the tree.

It was a windy, miserable day outside, but I grabbed a spade and plodded up the garden, towards the woods. The sodden ground underfoot sucked hungrily at my wellies.

Using the spade, I clawed at the mound of debris and earth inside the tree until I had to use my hands. Unwrapping the placenta, I let it slide gently onto my palm and placed it in the middle of the hollow, covering it with earth.

I felt empty, like the hollow. But then I reminded myself that it wasn’t empty anymore, which helped a little.

Over the coming weeks, we both began to have strange, uncanny dreams... They weren’t nightmares, they were almost like memories. I would be lost in the woods, and then all of a sudden we would be there, together, at the base of the tree. The air would hum with unintelligible whispers, fresh buds would unfurl along the tree’s branches, but we would never venture inside the hollow. It was too dark in there, like a force.

Sometimes I would see a woman in black, who would smile at me while slowly raising a hand, pressing a single oak leaf to her lips to shush me. She looked familiar, but also alien.

I only told my partner about burying the placenta a few months later, sometime after the small funeral we’d held.

She laughed at first, but then she stopped, her brows furrowed.

“You don’t have a mother-in-law…” she stated frankly. “I’m an orphan, Mr. Forgetful.”

My belief is that many people in this world can comprehend my fear. I am enveloped in darkness.

I can hear the quiet ticktock of a clock on the far wall of my apartment.

The whirring of a drone can be heard outside my door.

“ Mr Time, is it time to come out? “

The drone's robotic voice chimes.

I stay quiet, not daring to make a sound.

After a few minutes, the drone decides to move on.

This happens every day at the same time

It started 20 years ago when AI was first heard about.

After the sickness, the government made it mandatory that checks be made every day.

The checks got more and more frequent.

Slowly everyone in my apartment complex started to disappear.

It started when, once every month, drones would come by and say that the apartment been contaminated and that we would have to quarantine. Each time this happened, a person would disappear.

Rumors started to spread that nobody was sick at all. Slowly over time, the apartment complex became empty.

I was the last one that hadn’t been taken.

So I thought. But as I sit here in the darkness reading my file. Earl Time. Status Infected. Diagnosis Technophobia. Wife and children

The bottom of the paper is ripped lost to the darkness around me.

I had a wife and children.

I don’t remember anything on this paper.

I remember what happened 20 years ago.

Up until a year ago, my memory is gone.

I stand up on unsteady feet.

I have no idea how long I have been here in the dark. I fumble around until something cuts my finger.

White hot pain shoots through my hand and up my arm . I can sense that the wound on my finger is slowly bleeding.

I feel the glass. That’s probably what I cut my finger on.

Under the glass is the smooth waxy feel of a photo.

I root around in my pocket and find a lighter.

The light sparks and catches a tiny flame dancing from its metallic form.

Light from the flame dances over the photo.

It's a picture of a woman and two kids.

I flip the picture over. Written in red ink are the words Bear in mind us.

Be mindful of your fear.

With shaky hands, the photo easily slips out of my hands like they did all those months ago.

The photo catches the edge of the flame.

The hungry flame licks up the edges of their faces turning them to ash. I hear a whirring as the fire sensors go off.

Suddenly, there are drones all around me.

That's the last thing I see as my world falls into darkness.

It was like a lemonade stand, except that instead of a pitcher of ice-cold juice, there were five or six lidded jars, each labelled with strange names. And inside every jar, I could see something moving.

I told the young vendor that it was cruel to trap frogs, but the little girl, aged maybe eight, said with a straight face “they're not frogs, mister. They're homunculuses.”

“I think it's homunculi!” I smiled, kindly; and marvelled at the endless wonders inside a child's mind. Until she opened one of the jars and a little person hopped out.

It's skin was off-white, like a button mushroom, and it's arms and legs were stumps with no digits. It didn't have a face, but otherwise it resembled a person.

“This is Garglewytch, he is three days old and very in… in-question-itive, like he always wants to see what you're doing and do the same thing too. He is five dollars.”

I leaned in for a closer look, and sure enough, Garglewytch copied my movements. “Um, this is neat, kid, but do your folks know that you're selling your toys…”

“They ain't toys, mister.” The girl interrupted. I thought she was playing a role-play game, as her face remained deadly serious throughout our entire interaction. “You gotta be careful with em; they can go places through small holes and you never hear em movin’.”

I touched the little guys skin, and it jumped neatly onto the back of my hand. It had no weight, and really did seem to stay deathly silent. “So, erm, where did you get them from?” an insane part of my brain was saying “this is f*king real!” over-and-over-again.

“I made em, from my own breath. My mom showed me how. You mould them into any shape you want to make, and you give them a name, and then they stand up. Five dollars, mister.”

I paid, in a daze, and staggered home with the weird little creature snug inside my coat-pocket. I could feel it wriggling and jiggling, trying to find a way out.

Back at my small apartment, I checked my medical textbooks for explanations about hallucinations or psychosomatic ways, whilst Gargewytch perched upon my shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, it's small head turning and nodding as if following every page.

I then turned to the internet but found only Folklore and superstition, subjects anathema to a sensible, skeptical student-physician at a good school. I offered my new lodger food and water, but it only seemed keen on laboriously manipulating my laptop touchpad, devouring insatiably my bookmarked content on human biology, and my budding gastrointestinal thesis.

I slumped in my comfy armchair, lulled into an uneasy sleep by my laptop screen's glow, and when I awoke, I was alone. I searched high and low for my quasi-corporeal companion, supping Pepto-Bismol to quell the indigestion in my chest. Noticing that my laptop screen showed a bodily orifice, I suddenly began to wonder how alone I truly was, however.

My hobby? Vulnerable people. Well, that and online multiplayer games. Let me explain.

Picture this: someone's out there having a rough time, going through a lot. Maybe they're struggling in school, come from a broken home, who cares, it's not important. They're online in their free time, gaming.

You're probably thinking to yourself, oh he's going after young people, and you couldn't be more wrong. I'm befriending the runts.

There's this guy, girl, whatever, they struggle with their identity; quite a modern thing, I hear. They play a Paladin, I'm a Warrior, perfect match.

And obviously, I have several characters spread across multiple servers for this occasion.

Where was I?

Right, the Paladin, we met each other randomly as it happens—you've no idea who's playing on the other side. Could be your neighbour, could be a girl from Africa, boy from India. Again, not important.

What matters is their state of mind, and this person is not in a healthy spot. I've found that the vulnerable people fall into either of two categories: those who are quick to open up, desperate for attention, any attention, and those who shut up like a clam. Well, my Paladin's the former—

"Hey dad," Alvin murmurs. I turn my head, eyeing my son. He's moping—business as usual—passing my home office wearing a getup consisting of all black. It's just a phase, part of the blunder years, I suppose. Can't be easy navigating high school without a sense of fashion.

"Hey Al," I say, and my attention drifts back to my monitor. I listen to Alvin's quiet breathing, listen to his footsteps as he slinks back to his own room.

Where was I? Right, the Paladin, my faithful healer. I've known them for a couple of months now, gotten them to open up, and I have learned so much. They're young, struggling with identity, a sense of self-worth.

When we play together, they brighten up, and when we win, they get talkative. I've become their best friend.

Their only friend …

Last week I threw our games in a subtle way, downgrading my gear, ruining our progress. Everything we fought for the past month has been nullified, and they know it's their fault—

They've just logged on! There's an audible ding, my in-game chat is flashing.

Alice: Hey, up for a game?

I smile, formulating my answer.

Wolf: No.

And then I wait. It'll be a minute, usually.

Alice: K, maybe later?

Wolf: No, never again.

Alice: Can I ask why?

They always ask, and I reply in kind! It gets very personal. My angle of attack is based on all their vulnerabilities, insecurities, everything they've told me in confidentiality.

And this is how it ends:

Wolf: Go kill yourself ******

Alice has logged off.

And they never return! That's my hobby, and it's hilarious—

There is a deafening roar. The sound of a single gunshot rings through the house.

"Alvin?"

It was nearly midnight when Dika arrived at the station, his heart racing as he glanced at the old clock hanging overhead. The last train to his hometown was minutes away from leaving. He was late—again. The air felt unusually cold for a tropical night, and the station seemed eerily deserted, despite the bustling city outside.

The train screeched to a stop, its ancient metal doors groaning open. Dika hurried inside, finding the carriages nearly empty except for a few drowsy passengers. He settled into a seat near the window, letting out a sigh of relief as the train lurched forward.

The lights in the train flickered as it pulled away from the station, and Dika noticed the windows were foggy, making it hard to see the outside. A faint voice crackled over the speakers, but the announcement was unintelligible.

Minutes passed. Dika checked his phone—no signal. Strange. This part of the journey always had reception. He glanced around, realizing the train wasn’t making any stops. The usual stations he knew by heart were nowhere to be seen, and the buildings outside looked unfamiliar.

A strange feeling gnawed at him. Had he taken the wrong train?

He stood and approached the nearest passenger, an elderly woman staring blankly ahead. "Excuse me, do you know if this train is headed to Bandung?" he asked, but she didn’t respond. He tried again, louder, but she remained motionless, her eyes fixed forward, as if in a trance.

Dika felt a chill creep up his spine. Something wasn’t right. He moved to the next passenger, a man in a tattered suit, but received the same eerie silence. Everyone on the train seemed frozen, their faces pale and devoid of emotion.

Panic surged through him. He rushed to the front of the train, desperate to find the conductor. The doors leading to the driver’s cabin were locked. He banged on them, yelling for someone, anyone, but there was no answer.

Suddenly, the train jolted violently. Dika stumbled, gripping a handrail to steady himself. The lights flickered again, this time plunging the carriage into complete darkness. His breath quickened as the train seemed to pick up speed, hurtling through the night.

Then, just as abruptly, the train came to a halt.

The lights flickered back on. Dika found himself standing in front of a different station, one he didn’t recognize. The platform was decrepit, overgrown with weeds, and bathed in a sickly yellow light.

The doors slid open with a hiss. He hesitated, but something compelled him to step out.

As soon as his foot touched the platform, a soft voice whispered behind him, "You shouldn’t have gotten on."

Dika spun around. The passengers who had been frozen moments ago were now standing in the doorway, their faces twisted into grotesque smiles. "Welcome back," they chorused in unison, their voices echoing unnaturally.

Dika’s heart pounded in his chest. "Back? What do you mean?"

One of the passengers stepped forward—a young woman with sunken eyes. "You never left, Dika. Don’t you remember? This is where you died."

His blood ran cold as the memories flooded back. The crash. The screech of metal. The fire. He had boarded this train years ago… and never made it home.

The last train was not a way out. It was his eternal prison.

"I'm sorry...I just wanted to know how it felt." Within a flash, he was gone, and I was left to pick up the pieces.

         **45 MINUTES EARLIER...**

"Just taking the dog for a walk, Steve!" I yelled to my husband, while being dragged out the door.

"Roxy! Slow down!" I huffed. When we got to the park, I let him off the lead so he could run around and explore.

"What's up, Rox?" I asked, as she sniffed out a trail. "What can you smell?"

She sniffed up and down, round and round, and up and down, and eventually, we ended up at a small hole in a hedge that surrounded the park.

"Roxy don't--" Too late.

On the other side of the hedge was a small grassy clearing, which was surrounded by tall trees and eerily engulfed in shadows.

Roxy stood perfectly still...staring.

I stopped suddenly and my mouth fell open in awe.

Stood infront of us, in a shining aura of sparkling lights, was something that, honestly, can only really be labelled as an alien.

He was beautiful. It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It grew brighter the more I looked. Brighter, and brighter, and brighter...

I could hear Roxy bark and yelp. I could hear a scream...maybe lots of screaming?...I remember a sudden flash of light and a jolt to the body...Then, I was back home. Just like that. I was stood in the kitchen, dazed and confused.

I looked around quickly, then realised I was holding something...It was a knife. A blood-soaked knife.

I dropped the blade and noticed just how much blood I had all over me. Smears and drops produced a trail that I had no other choice but to follow.

My mouth fell open once more.

On the ground, lay my poor Roxy. Well, what was left of her.

The sparkling lights caught my peripherals, and I turned to face it...He was no longer beautiful.

"Thank you for your time." He said. His voice a strange, robotic monotone with zero emotions. An empty chord.

I just stood there, staring. Not moving, not speaking, just staring. I felt as though I was stuck within a supernatural void of emptiness. I wanted to move, but I couldn't. And then, that was when I saw him.

"Steeeve!!" I painfully screamed.

Laying on the floor, with his torso sliced open, was my husband.

His hands and feet were missing...I had evidently chopped them off, and now his ligaments were drowning in a pool of blood. His eyes had been gauged out, leaving nothing but dark and rotting holes, and his nose had been sliced through the middle, all the way up, but still attached to his face.

The lights floated over and stood closely behind me.

"I'm sorry..." It said. "I just wanted to know how it felt." Within a flash, he was gone. And I was left to pick up the pieces.

Have you ever tried to forget something? It's simply impossible, no matter how unpleasant the memory. Soldiers, having returned from the battlefield, reduced to emaciated thralls, clutching their weapons in the dark while others celebrate the establishment of their nation. Daughters, unable to enjoy the touch of the man they love, haunted by the stolen caress of one meant to protect them. Memory the binding chain to the horrors of the past, ensnaring the very hands that would cut them. It seems, only when properly ignored, can they tarnish and rust. Even then, they are not fully destroyed. They lie in wait, like a venomous serpent. A basilisk, to turn its holder to stone with but a glance. Such is the curse of memory. A stain, writ upon the very soul. The past's long shadow, immutable like its castor. This is what you've been lead to believe, what you yourself have experienced. You can't force yourself to forget. Then again, could you possibly know that? What if you had been successful? If you truly forgot, doesn't that necessitate the evaporation of the attempt? You only think you cannot force yourself to forget, because any successful attempt is also erased from your recollection. Which begs the question, what did you forget? What part of your soul was so damaged as to require it rend asunder. More importantly, why can we? What idea, what memory, was so terrible as to create an evolutionary drive to absolve its existence? Best not to think about that too much, you wouldn't want to accidently remember.

The sun was slowly setting over the quiet countryside, casting long shadows across the open fields. Arjun, a dedicated 12th grader and friend of the local police, hurried home after helping with community efforts during the COVID-19 quarantine. The roads around him were silent, and a feeling of unease hung in the air, making him feel nervous. As he approached his family’s farmhouse, a strange sensation filled him. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a horrifying sight: his parents lay on the floor, lifeless and covered in blood. Panic surged through him as he realized what he had just seen. His heart raced, and he felt a cold sweat on his forehead. Without thinking, he turned to run outside, desperate to escape from the nightmare that had just unfolded. Suddenly, he heard hurried footsteps behind him, echoing in the stillness. He glanced back quickly, but only saw a shadowy figure lurking in the dim light. Terror filled his heart, urging him to flee. Arjun sprinted toward the door, hoping for safety and shelter within the walls of his home. Just a few days earlier, life was much simpler for Arjun and his family. His father worked hard as a farmer, tending to the fields with care, while his mother lovingly managed their household. Their days were filled with laughter and joy, even while navigating the challenges of being in quarantine together. Priya, Arjun’s older sister, was excitedly waiting for a job offer from a big company, which made her feel hopeful about the future. The family shared warm meals, played games together, and enjoyed the beauty of their farm. However, in the background, Priya was starting to feel the weight of pressure and expectations. Arjun noticed she was acting differently, but he didn’t fully understand the depth of her struggles. He thought she was just busy and stressed, not realizing how much she was changing. When Arjun burst through the door of the farmhouse, he called out for his family, “Mom? Dad?” The house was eerily quiet, and the unsettling silence only deepened his sense of dread. As he moved further inside, he was overwhelmed by the sight of blood on the floor, a chilling reminder of the horror he had witnessed. His heart raced as he spotted Priya, standing in the shadows with her clothes stained with the same dark blood. “Arjun,” she said, her voice trembling with panic and fear. “I can explain everything…” But before she could finish her sentence, Arjun’s instincts kicked in. He needed to escape from this nightmare. With a burst of adrenaline, he darted past her, managing to distract her just long enough to get outside. He quickly locked the door behind him, leaving Priya trapped outside. His heart felt broken as he stood there, knowing that something terrible had happened to their family. His phone was broken, leaving him with no way to call for help. In a desperate search, he looked for his parents' phone, but it was nowhere to be found. He decided to check Priya’s room for her phone, hoping to find a way to contact someone. As he entered Priya’s room, he opened her cupboard and discovered a diary hidden inside. Curiosity overcame his fear, and he began to read. Inside, he found shocking details about what had happened to Priya. Just before the quarantine started, she had witnessed a cult ritual while returning home after hanging out with her friends. She had tried to take pictures of the strange event, but when she stepped on a twig, it made a noise. The people from the ritual noticed her and began to chase her. In her diary, Priya described how hopeless she felt when they caught her. She begged them to let her go, and they cast a terrible spell on her, warning that if she revealed what she had seen, she and her family would die. She wrote about the nightmares that haunted her but never shared them with anyone to protect her family. Arjun's heart sank as he realized how deeply traumatized Priya was by what she had experienced. She had been carrying this heavy burden all alone. Hearing Priya crying outside, Arjun felt a strong urge to help her. He knew he had to let her in and help her. With determination, he opened the door, only to find Priya weak and unconscious on the ground. He carefully lifted her inside, trying to protect her. “I’ll get you some water,” he said softly, feeling a mix of fear and hope for his sister. He went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water, planning to take it back to her. He thought about how he would call the police once she regained consciousness. As he walked back into the room, his heart raced with a mix of hope and worry. But when he returned, Priya was gone, and a wave of panic washed over him. Just then, he heard a noise above him. Arjun looked up and was horrified to see Priya hanging from the ceiling, smiling in a way that sent chills down his spine. “Can I have the water?” she asked in a strange, almost eerie voice. Before he could react, she jumped down in one swift motion, landing right in front of him. In a shocking moment, she attacked him, and everything went dark as he lost consciousness. As Arjun lay there, lifeless, he realized that by reading the diary, Priya had unknowingly revealed what had happened at the ritual. The curse had taken hold of them both.

STORY BY- NETHAJI MADHIVANAN

Surround your home with pieces of iron before covering the windows and barricading the front and back doors. If entities break into your home, do what you must to survive.

None shall be punished for offering their firstborn to them.

I've been working for a new company for a few weeks now.

There's a lot of tension in the air when I interact with my new colleagues.

The boss is your run of the mill average boss, stern but fair and tries to act like your friend, but for some reason he just tends to have a passing word with me and nothing more.

My colleague's are also not very chatty, the odd greeting here or there but when I engage them about my personal interests no-one seems interested.

This isn't the first time this happened either, at my old job, before the accident, I was almost shunned even, an outsider who ate alone and wasn't invited to the outgoings.

Late sunday night i will be making another batch of my famous brownies to share with everyone in the office. I just hope no-one guesses my secret ingredient!

Now, where did I put that Thallium.

I sat on my bed, grumbling to myself about my punishment.

Grounded. How? Because I tried cheating off the smart kid, and the snitch caught me and tattled. That little shit, this was why he didn't have any friends.

"It's because I'm not good at algebra!" that was my excuse. My parents and teacher didn't buy it, and now I'm stuck in my room. I couldn't go out with friends or play games on my console, and all my enjoyment was stripped away from me for the entire weekend.

The only entertainment I could fester was making an ugly drawing of the snitch that got me here, sticking it to my bedroom wall, and throwing crumbled-up papers at it. Despite it making me feel a little better, I was still angry.

I was about to throw another one when a loud bang startled me. It came from the kitchen.

The loud heavy footsteps coming to the kitchen told me my dad was there, and he was pissed. It sounded like he was yelling at something, but his voice was cut off.

Now think about how someone would sound when they fall into a wood chipper; that's precisely how my dad screamed. The rugged, stern, but caring man I knew was now crying as if he was being tortured. He begged for whatever was hurting him to stop. My mom followed shortly after she heard my dad. Her screams were as loud as a wailing banshee.

My heart rate started to increase as I quickly locked my bedroom door. Vile threatened to burst out of my mouth and onto the floor, but I forced it down.

My parents are dead, and I can't call for help because my phone was taken away as part of my punishment. I put my hands through my hair as panic began to set in.

Then I heard footsteps approaching my door. I clenched my hands over my mouth as tears began to swell from my eyes. I forced my body not to make a single sound so that whatever was at my door would know that no one was there.

And somehow, it worked; the footsteps went away from my door. Relief was coming back inside me when I suddenly heard the footsteps again. Only this time, they were added with the sound of something dragging across the floor. The footsteps returned at my door, and when silence rolled by, it started doing something.

It started tearing into whatever it had brought with it. Wet sounds of flesh and blood blurted out. My confusion soon evolved into horror upon realization. When it was finished, it threw something wet.

Squishy sounds emitted as it threw different wet objects at my door. As it did so, I felt my stomach give out . I collapse to the floor and spill the vile I've held within me as I begin sobbing uncontrollably.

My daughter can’t sleep. Neither can I.

Tonight, she raced into my room, dragged me out of bed, and pointed to the window. She said, crying and shaking, the man outside looked just like her.

I grabbed her by the shoulders, led her back to bed, and tried to calm her down. I reminded her that her father died when she was a baby. The man outside looked nothing like him. She had absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

It took a lot of coaxing, but she finally drifted off to sleep.

Once I knew she was out, I returned to the window. I stared down at the man illuminated by the streetlight, staring right back at me with an expression laced with rage.

I closed the curtain. Steeled my nerves. I realized we’d have to move, now that he’d found us.

I cursed myself for being so careless.

Next time, I thought, I’ll pick a more secluded spot. Further off the grid. Somewhere my daughter and I can live without any fear of him finding us again.

Because if he’s still out there, so is her real mother.

The myth never changed the facts of history. The rolling hills of Geddu bore a devil and everybody knew it even Chaps as he scurried under the weeping sky towards the small aged house that seemed isolated in the middle of the rural bush country. Everything falls prey with a little ignorance or lack of information that would have averted fate.

The minivan taxi had arrived late into the evening and Chaps had struggled out of the vehicle over stuffed with human bodies to wrangle a few old notes and coins from his jeans with which the fare was settled. The lack of modern housing in such an area removed the occasional urban tourist from the familiarities of modern life and imprisoned them among the wilds of Africa's dawning bushlife at the edge of civilised company.

The aging drunk Faruk had not aged in a long time and even when Chaps was admitted into his isolated home. The lack of any other living presence in the vicinity made it impossible chose a better place to shelter for the night. It was after a light supper and casual banter that Faruk appologised for the thick silence that coated the village like oil but excused it to random migration. Chaps understood that an entire village cannot migrate elsewhere in the span of a few days leaving the place void of even the bush cricket at night but it was too late to start an argument with a drunk, acting as his host for the coming future.

Since there was nobody else in the house to ask Chaps woundered why Layena was crawling across the ceiling on his hands and knees. In the dark Chaps wept for his own mortality as Layena’s head spun on his shoulders and looked down on Chaps laying on his bed with a pathetic bedsheet for protection. If there was a devil in hell it would known what creature was pinned on the ceiling of the room but Chaps was out of luck because the heavy bloodshot eyes beaming down on him from the ceiling were the last thing he saw in the moonlight. Somewhere in the darkness Chaps prayed for his own soul before his luck run out.

my gran used ta tell me stories of how things used to be. i dont know different. sounds like there was lots of bad things tho. sometimes ya got to think about how much better things are now. thats what i say to myself. if i dont ill go crazy.

my dawter is smart. i try to talk to her about stuff and how it needs to be but shes got her own ideas. shes like her dad. i miss him.

its her first day of school. 

wen i go in to pick her up shes alone with the teacher. her teacher seemed super nice wen i dropped her off but now she looks really sad. 

“sally is super smart” she says. 

“i know”

“has she always been this smart”

“yeah”

“must be a throw back” she laffs. “she dosnt have any books or shit like that does she”

“no mam. i dont have books”

“i read that her daddy gave her a puzzl a cuple of years ago. do you know where he wud get somethin like that”

“he was taken away befor i cud ask him.” i lied. of course i knew wher he got it. it was my grans. when he saw them comin he told me to say he gave it to her. i miss steve. ive felt lost since they took him away.

“well shes more than super smart. shes ceptional. you know what that meens”

“no mam”

“i didnt eether. but thats what Consensus said wen it saw her results. it means shes way too smart.”

i look over at my dawter.

“maybe we can work on her then. its not her fault.”

“its not up to me. Consensus already has a car comin. im sorry. it happens somtimes. you can always hav another one.”

she keeps tawking. i watch my dawter. 

“how do they do it”

“theres a big drain in the back of school and they hav this bolt thing, lik they use on cows and dogs. she wont feel it.” i start cryin. shit. i didnt mean to.

“i know its hard. shes not the only one in the class. two other kids was fownd reel smart to.”

she towches my arm and smiles. she starts sayin the prayer.

“there is no one first. we are all together…”

she stops. she wants me to finish the prayer.

“or we are nothing at all. Consensus be with you.”

“and also with you.”

she smiles. she’s got that same stoopid smile when i put her pencil throo her eye. i start bangin her head against the table.

“mommy! why did you do that”

i grab my dawter. i dont know if theres anywhere to hide. i dont know how long we can run. i may not be smart, but ill kill as many people as it takes to keep her safe.

beefor we leave i type somethin on the digi board in a huge font. somethin ive always wanted to say.

“FUCK CONSENSUS”

She was on the ship when the baby came.

She was enchanted with how perfect he was- his tiny fingers and translucent skin so different from her own. From the first day, his eyes were a bright blue. Every moment with her little one was a celebration. 

After a time, she began to notice that her baby wasn't growing like the other children. Theirs walked when hers still crawled; theirs talked while hers still babbled.

A shadow fell over her optimism. Something was wrong with her baby. What had started out as such an exciting new venture suddenly felt like a drag. She started to feel ashamed, and said nothing when the other mothers praised the developmental achievements of their own young.

When the baby cried she resented changing him. When he wailed in the night she let him cry. When he spit up milk she grew frustrated- the other children were already eating solid foods.

Discreetly, in the middle of the day, she slipped from her apartment and went to see the doctor. She held out the sniveling infant when he came into the examination room.

“I don't want him anymore. I think he might be… defective.”

Defective?” the Doctor rolled his chair closer. “Let me take a look.”

He scanned the barcode on the baby’s foot and reviewed the corresponding logs on the computer screen.

"Well, I’m not supposed to tell you this. You have one of the controls.”

“A control?”

“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with him. Just a regular, human baby.”

She looked down at the child, uncertain, then back at the doctor.

He patted her hand reassuringly.

“They just develop so much slower than we do.”

‘Everything happens for a reason’ must be the biggest lie anyone has ever heard. At least, it was to me.

You’ll start to doubt whether you truly are a good person when you walk a mile in my shoes. Most humans think of me as the ‘good’ to my well-known opposite, the ‘awful’ death.

Him and I have simple jobs: I give life, he takes it. Sounds easy, right? Wrong. See, the thing is, I can not take life. Therefore, I have developed this habit where as soon as I create a life, I never look back to it. It’s hard to not hate yourself when you know you’re shaping the very thing beings come to hate. I can’t relieve the suffering beings. I can only create more, in hopes they’ll find comfort in each other.

Creatures are terrified of Death, while he has the power to release your aching souls. When he meets suffering creatures he’ll guide them to a better place. I can’t stress how much I envy his role in the cycle.

Since our planet is starting to expand faster in population, I decided to take a few steps back. However, curiosity took the wheel, and I started looking around what I had created. My idea was that it would feel like checking up on my kids. Sadly, that only made what I found more horrific…

Death had the busiest schedule of his career. He could physically not work any faster to aid all the suffering beings. It felt as if someone stabbed a dagger right into my heart. All the humans in the hospitals, terminally ill, awaiting Death’s arrival. There was nothing I could do. I tried giving them grandchildren, but even that changed nothing. And the animals, my poor dear animals... They were abused, their homes were destroyed, they were murdered and tortured.. for fun! I couldn’t just create more of a specific species as frequently as I pleased. There was still a set of rules I had to follow.

After seeing the horrible images and the pained grimaces in my head for three nights straight, I figured out a way to stop this. Whenever a creature falls ill, is wounded but has not died on impact or gets towards the end phase of their lifetime, they are placed at the bottom of Death’s list. However when a creature dies a very sudden and unavoidable death, the ties between the soul and the body snap. This includes gunshots to the head, abrupt suicide methods, high-impact crashes, significant fall damage..

And so, I started creating less life. However, the life that I created did get more attention. I figured I could not directly take existing souls from their bodies from my position, but nowhere was specified I couldn’t influence the lives I freshly created.. creatively.

Killer whales started attacking boats. Mosquitos carried new diseases, land animals fought harder for their territory. But the humans…

They can do horrific things.

The klaxon on the wall outside my office started blaring a warning.

“What’s happening?” Gina, my assistant asked.

That particular alarm was only used for one thing and this was the first time it’d ever gone off.

“They’re locking down the building,” I replied.

I quickly got to my feet and stepped out into the hall to see if I could figure out what was going on. As I did so, I collided with Edward, one of the other scientists.

Before he could recover, I grabbed hold of his lab coat and held on tight, preventing him from getting away.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“They’re locking down the building,” Edward stammered.

“I know that,” I snapped, “Why are they locking it down?”

Before Edward could answer, the stairwell door at the end of the hall, burst open and a horrific monster emerged.

“That’s why,” Edward pointed before pulling himself out of my grasp and running down the hall.

The monster looked like a giant stubby worm with hundreds of little tentacles sprouting from its body. As I watched it, I could see that it was using its tentacles to push its immense bulk through the narrow doorway.

I ran back into my office.

“We have to leave!” I said to Gina, “Now!”

Gina didn’t question me, she just followed me out into the hall.

“Oh my god,” she gasped upon seeing the monster which had managed to get 3/4 of its body through the doorway.

“Come on,” I tugged on her arm and led her down the hall, “There’s a safe room around the corner.”

“What is that thing?” Gina asked.

“I have no idea,” I replied.

We ran to the other side of the building where I used my ID badge to open the safe room.

“Get inside, quick.” I let Gina enter the room before I did.

Once we were both inside, I closed the door.

“We should be safe in here,” I said.

The safe room was environmentally sealed and fully stocked with a week's worth of rations. It was also designed to withstand a tornado, or so I was told.

While Gina tried to get her fear under control, I walked over to the computer in the corner of the room and used it to access the building’s security system.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to figure out where that thing came from.”

It took me fifteen minutes to find what I was looking for.

“It’s not a monster,” I said after seeing how the worm thing was created.

“What do you mean?” Gina asked.

“Look,” I pointed.

She watched on the monitor as the scientists in the Matter Enlargement Lab attempted to use their device on a grain of rice.

“They didn’t sanitize the test area,” I said.

They were trying to make the grain of rice grow bigger, but they accidentally enlarged the colony of bacteria that was growing on it instead.

"Shut the hell up!"

I was sure Darwin had threatened me. I knew that voice better than anyone.

Never in my life had the thought of robbing a bank crossed my mind. Not until he showed up. There wasn't any choice. Do you know how much a ventriloquist makes nowadays? Hint: it ain't much. We were supposed to be in this together but that smug face, unmoved and unnerving, told a story of deception.

"Oh, it'll be easy. Just stick the place up and lay low for a few days." Those were his words. Not mine.

The dirty apartment we shared felt even filthier than usual. All I ever wanted was to be a star on the stage. There was nobody that deserved it more than me. Vomiting, I could see him sneering at me. He had made this gambit a long time ago. It was crystal clear that second banana felt he was the one really in charge and with me out of the way, that spotlight would be his.

"I swear to God, shut up!"

Turning around, Darwin hadn't moved one of his marionette muscles. The lack of motion was a ruse; a way to think I was going crazy. "Crazier," if you asked around. I couldn't fucking take it anymore. I grabbed the gun, the same pistol he had tricked me into buying for the heist, and blasted his jaw before he could phone the police. This shitty abode already had enough rats. It didn't need anymore.

"Fuck," the blast had pinpointed my location. Even without a tongue, Darwin had found a way to tip them off. As the sirens blared, I heard that familiar laugh and a boastful farewell. It had to be him. His voice is my voice too.

She was right there.

My hands were full of soapy water, washing the dishes as I watched Falan play with a butterfly.

I took a moment to wonder why it wasn’t flying away, why it was staying perched on my daughter’s nose.

The water and suds enveloping my hands grew cold. I barely noticed I’d been staring at my daughter and her little friend for so long, I was shivering.

“Mommy, look!” Falan giggled.

The butterfly crept across her face, unfazed by her movements, and that was when something ice-cold spidered down my spine.

Her name was suddenly tangled in my throat.

Before could stop myself, I was running into the yard, stumbling through flowers I didn’t remember planting.

I scooped my daughter into my arms and held her to my chest, wafting away the butterfly.

But my arms were empty.

For a moment, I stayed very still, staring down at my hands.

Then her name erupted from my throat in a cry. “Falan?!”

I checked every flower bed and destroyed my house, turning it upside down.

When I was screaming, crying, holding her blankets and sobbing into her smell, a voice startled me.

“Lena, are you all right?”

I blinked.

The sun was shining, and my hands were full of wet suds. In front of me was Cal, my one-year-old son playing in the flowers. My husband cradled my pregnant belly—and I leaned into him, adjusting his crown. It had grown heavier, adorning thick brown curls.

I didn’t realize I was crying.

"Yes," I whispered, "I made soup."

After dinner, I took Cal to the park.

He sat in the dirt poking around flowers.

I stood and brushed myself off, my gaze flicking to where my son giggled at a butterfly dancing across the bridge of his nose. But then I was staring at nothing.

Suddenly, I was on my hands and knees crawling through the dirt, two names haunting my lips.

How did I… forget her?

“Falan?” I jumped to my feet, screaming my children’s names.

“Cal! Falan!”

I could feel myself unraveling.

I ran home, throwing open the door.

I had a daughter, and I had... a son.

I broke down, their names tangled on my tongue.

"I had a daughter—and I had a son! I know I did! I had a daughter!"

“Lena, why are you crying?”

My husband's voice bled into my mind, soothing me.

He was right.

Why… was I crying?

I stood in front of the stove, stirring his favorite meal.

There was still hair sticking out of the lid when I presented the meal to the fae King—a bubbling broth of oozing red seeping from the sides.

With tears running freely down my cheeks, I rubbed my pregnant belly when he took the first bite, bones crunching under his teeth.

I felt a kick in my stomach, and I knew the King could sense it too.

I won't forget my...

Forget my...

I think it's too late to save you now even if I wanted to. Which I don't, to be clear. Your fate was halfway sealed when you did what you did and the coffin was nailed shut once I joined the Order of Erinyes.

When my sister was attacked and it became apparent that the fucker who hurt her wasn't even going to see the inside of the jail cell I'd have died or killed to make him pay. The only thing was, if I got caught then my sister wouldn't have had anyone. I just couldn't do that to her, you know? Not after what she'd been through. And so it needed to be untraceable.

That's when the Order of Erinyes came into it. A murder cult, I guess you could say, but it's more than that. The Order is about setting things right.

"Is this a joke?" I'd asked the friend who'd told me.

"I'm completely serious. You don't have to join, just don't tell anybody or I'll be, well..." she drew her finger across her own throat and I knew she wasn't joking.

Oh, you don't count. You're on your way out anyway.

I could have asked The Order for resources to help kill you. A gun or a poison perhaps. There'd have been no guarantee I'd have gotten it and certainly no way to know who sent it me but from the way I understand it some members have quite deep pockets and strong connections. I haven't met all of the Order and I never will but there are still ways to pass messages along when its needed.

In the end though, I just went for a knife. The kitchen knife I brought with me is from a major supermarket chain and nobody will be looking for me as the culprit anyway. Add in the fact that you're much smaller than the man I actually want dead and I had no real fear that I'd be overpowered.

That's the smartest thing about The Order, I think, that we share the load. I don't even know who it is who wants you dead and when some stranger gets rid of Thomas, they'll be just as clueless as to who wanted him dead. So you've never wronged me, I don't even know you. But you've wronged someone. And I said at the start that I'd kill if it would make Thomas pay.

I never said it had to be him that I killed.

Colin adored Bradley.

He never truly hated Bradley, despite the bruises, the taunts, the constant fear shadowing their every interaction.

"How—how did this happen?!" the mother’s voice trembled as her body slumped over Colin’s still and small frame, her tears soaking into the lifeless boy’s shirt.

Their parents were always too busy—too absent to see what really went on between the two brothers. And Colin, just eight years old, needed Bradley more than he feared him. Without Bradley, Colin was alone.

"Bradley," the father choked, his eyes wide, shimmering with disbelief. "What happened here?"

Colin forgave every injury Bradley inflicted. Because to Colin, Bradley was all he had. Colin remembered the last time he told the truth: just 6 back then, he had blurted out that Bradley gave him those bruises.

The punishment had been severe for Bradley, after which he didn’t speak to Colin for a week. It was the worst seven days of Colin’s life—shut out, ignored, abandoned.

"We—" Bradley's voice, gripped by fear, cracked. He swallowed hard, his trembling words betraying the terror inside him. "We were playing hide and seek…" His mother’s sobs filled the space between his broken sentences.

So he learned. From then on, whenever their parents asked about the bruises or scrapes, Colin lied. He’d make up stories about falling off his bike or tripping in the yard.

He couldn’t risk losing Bradley again. And besides, Bradley always apologized after, with that grin that said everything was okay. It had to be okay.

"We were playing," Bradley repeated, almost like he needed to believe it himself. "And... he... locked himself in the cupboard to hide."

It wasn't hide and seek. It was a stupid video game.

“And… I couldn’t find him… several hours had passed by, so I searched everywhere for him in the house…”

A pointless win, a meaningless loss. That’s all it took for Bradley to shove Colin down, press the pillow against his face, and smother every last breath of the little boy.

"And- and when I opened the cupboard…"

The inescapable memory floods back: the moment Colin stopped struggling, his body going limp beneath his grip.

"He was already…" Bradley's voice faltered, the sobs overtaking him—not out of guilt, but fear.

The parents believed him. They cried, clutching Bradley, telling him it wasn’t his fault, that it was a horrible accident.

I had watched the true incident unfold. But I couldn't speak up.

How could I, after all?

My task is singular. I only carry souls away.

When I came for Colin, I made it quick. He never felt a thing—a painless release as his soul slipped free from the broken body his brother had crushed.

He is at peace now.

I turn away. I can't linger long. So many souls still need collecting.

But I will return, eventually. I’ll have to.

And when the time comes for Bradley to face me, his end will be anything but painless.

I will make sure of that.

In a small town, it was said that every Halloween, a silent visitor knocked with a specific rhythm:

Thump, Thump, THUMP THUMP THUMP.

No one knew why, but the rule was simple: never open the door.

One Halloween night, a Deaf woman stayed home while her family went to the festival.

She didn’t want to socialize and was content relaxing on her couch.

The porch light was off, signaling no trick-or-treaters. She was wrapped in a blanket, scrolling on her phone, when suddenly, she felt a faint vibration beneath her feet: Boom… Boom… Boom Boom Boom.

Her heartbeat quickened. As someone Deaf her whole life, she was highly attuned to feeling vibrations. It wasn’t just in her mind—something was there.

She swiped over to the doorbell app on her phone, just kids trick-or-treating outside, on the sidewalk. Nobody at the door.

Probably just the furnace starting up, she thought, even though the room felt colder still.

That thought vanished as soon as the vibrations came back, stronger.

Her floor shook, and she could see the door rattle with the same rhythm:

BOOM… BOOM… BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Her heart raced, the cold air creeping into the room. She glanced at the window, and in the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow pass by. She scampered over, quickly pulled the curtain aside—nothing.

But the pounding continued to reverberate. She tiptoed nervously from the window to the front door as the pounding grew heavier and heavier.

She placed her hand on the door, confirming the physical power she was feeling on the other side of it.

Trembling, she tapped her phone again, checking the camera, just to be sure. The camera was showing nothing out of the ordinary, just kids across the street passing by trick or treating.

Yet the door was still banging, as if nobody outside noticed it, passing by.

Her heart raced harder than ever in her life, as the door continued-

Thump, Thump, THUMP THUMP THUMP.

Something was out there, but against all warnings to never open the door, she couldn’t take it anymore.

In a split second of pure fear and anxiety she quickly flung the door open.

Just as suddenly, the knocking stopped.

No one was there—just the same kids she saw on the doorbell camera across the street, trick or treating, startled by the door abruptly swinging open.

She stepped backwards inside, shaking.

Suddenly, she realized her heartbeat wasn’t hers anymore.

Thump… Thump… THUMP THUMP THUMP.

The visitor’s heartbeat had found its way inside her, because she opened the door and let it in.

Now the visitor’s heartbeat would stay… until next halloween, when it would go on to find the next victim.

As I slid the knife across her throat, the warm liquid pooled around her lifeless corpse. It soaked into the floor, spreading like a stain that had always been there, waiting to resurface. I stood still, watching for a moment, feeling a hollow sense of satisfaction—if I could even call it that. She didn’t fight much. Maybe part of her expected this, or maybe she just didn’t care anymore. I guess none of that matters now.

I have to hurry. They’ll be coming soon. The neighbors always hear when the yelling gets too loud, when things crash against the walls. It’s only a matter of time before someone notices the silence and wonders why. I step over her, careful not to leave tracks. There’s so much to clean, but not enough time.

My little brother… I glance toward the room down the hall, where he used to sleep. They’ll find him there eventually. When they do, they’ll see the bruises. Maybe they’ll think they came from something else—rough play, accidents. That’s what she always said when they asked. But the doctors never pressed hard enough, and no one ever questioned her stories. Not until it was too late.

I still remember his face that last night, the way he looked so small under those covers. I wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that he didn’t have to be scared anymore. But I knew better. We both knew better. She and Dad were downstairs, fighting again, bottles crashing against walls. It was louder than usual. He held onto my hand, trembling, like he was waiting for it all to stop.

But it never stopped.

That night was different, though. Something in the air had changed. The yelling was sharper, more vicious. He squeezed my hand tighter, and for the first time, I felt something cold in my chest. Not fear. Not sadness. Just cold.

The next morning, he was gone. His small body still, too still, lying there as if he’d just fallen asleep. But the bruises... they told a different story. I told myself it wasn’t my fault. That I couldn’t have done anything to stop it. But that cold feeling—it never left me. It stayed, creeping deeper, until I couldn’t think of anything else.

And now, here she is, lying on the floor, just like he did. The bruises won’t be her secret anymore. They’ll know what she did, or what she let happen. But even if they don’t, it won’t matter. She’s not getting away with it. None of them are.

I walk toward the door, my hands trembling for the first time since it happened. I just hope my father gets home before they do. He needs to see this. He needs to know what it feels like to lose everything.

I just hope he’s drunk enough not to feel it.

The rainbow colors contrasted sharply with the darkness of the rest of the room. The dated arcade cabinets, once vibrant, were now muted by dust. The only bright spot in the dimly lit, defunct restaurant was a ball pit.

"I kind of want to jump in."

"Why? It smells like piss," Mike replied, tossing a red ball. "Like countless toddlers, squatters, and probably wild animals have pissed in there."

"It can't be that bad."

"I mean, I'm not going to stop you if you do it," Mike replied. "But I'm definitely not jumping in it.”

"So why did this place go under again?"

"The owner killed himself," Mike remarked casually, as we continued to stare at the ball pit. I knelt down and stuck my hand into the pit to see if I could feel anything weird, but it just felt like plastic balls. "He came in late one night after it was closed and just sort of did it."

“Damn.”

"Yeah, he had some nasty rumors about him. He really liked it when teenage boys came to his restaurant."

"Like us?"

"Yeah, but dude is dead, and all that remains is the abandoned Petey's Pizza Palace."

"Well, I'm still going to jump into the ball pit," I replied, staring into the thousands of colorful balls. It was like they were calling to me to have some childish fun. I jumped as high as I could.

I crashed into the ball pit and began to sink, buried in a colorful avalanche. It was much deeper than I anticipated. "Damn, this ball pit is deep," I yelled out.

But Mike didn't respond.

I started to dig myself out, only to be greeted by strange sounds and bright light as I emerged from the pit into a brightly lit room. The sounds of dozens of people mashing buttons, moving joysticks, and various sounds filled my ears.

I looked to see dozens of people playing arcade games wearing strange animal-like masks. A boy around my age walked over to me with a wolf mask and greeted me, "Are you here for the party?"

"What party?" I asked nervously, noticing something was very wrong with the mask. It seemed as if it had been stapled to his face numerous times.

"Petey's Party," he said, as he violently grabbed me and tried to pull me out of the ball pit. I panicked, beginning to thrash as balls from the pit began to fly violently from out of the pit. After breaking free, I dived back in and began almost swimming to the bottom to get away.

"What the hell!" I yelled out as I finally came out from the other side to see Mike staring at me, with a smile on his face. 

I felt Mike's shoe press down on my face, as if he was forcing me back into the pit, I suddenly felt something grab onto my legs pulling me from the other side as well.

"Tell Petey I said hello.”

Boredom was suffocating me. Stuck in a shitty cabin, no signal, no Wi-Fi—just me and some shitty ass weed I scored last minute.

I started messing around with the camera on my new phone. It has an automatic AI image processing feature that’s probably standard on all phones now. I was curious to see how it handled the pitch-black darkness out here in Northern Ontario.

I sparked the joint, a sharp pop from the stems that inevitably got mixed up during the roll, and snapped a picture of the dark. The app processed slowly, pixel by pixel. Just trees and that broken fence, sagging under the moonlight.

Another hit. Pop. Another photo. Same deal—just shadows and dead grass. It's really not bad. Beats using flash.

Then came this scraping sound—metal on wood, like something dragging across the porch. I paused, staring into the dark, but the yard was empty. Probably just the wind.

I took another picture, trying to shake off the weird feeling crawling up my spine. The app processed painfully slow. Nothing changed. The yard was still dead and empty. But the scraping was louder now.

I wasn’t imagining it.

Pop.

I snapped another shot, aiming at the edge of the fence. The app lagged. When it finally cleared, my breath caught.

There, a dozen yards away, right by the fence, stood a figure. Tall, with limbs stretching to the ground. Its skin clung to its frame like it wasn’t enough, pulled tight over bones bent at unnatural angles. And its face—there wasn’t one. Just a smooth, featureless blank where eyes and a mouth should’ve been.

I blinked. Looked up. Nothing. Just pitch black, still and empty. But on my phone, in the picture, the thing was still there, motionless.

It hadn’t noticed me. I took another photo. The joint burning idle in my hand.

Pop.

In the new image, the figure’s head was twisted in my direction. My heart hammered in my chest. I stared at the phone, not daring to look outside again.

I was the only thing making noise.

The scraping grew louder, like it was almost at the porch. My fingers shook as I took one last photo, breath caught in my throat. The app struggled to process, lagging like it was trying to warn me of what I already knew. Warning me to run—or at the very least, not look.

The joint popped again.

The image processed.

It was right there, only a few strides away, staring directly into the screen. Its smooth, featureless face pointed straight at me.

Pop.

He closed his eyes and then shook awake as he felt it grab his face. There was nothing. The hand wasn’t there.

But the hand was there, he had seen it for nights now. Green, contorted, covered in boils. And with that finger. That cold, long finger that brushed against his cheek like a skinned dead reptile. 

The next night would be different. He would stay awake and avoid that disgusting hand that had haunted him all week.

He had no problem staying awake over the next few hours. He almost nodded off four hours in when he heard a creak from the stairwell.

“Who is it?” he said, which brought no reply.

The creaking got louder as a shadow appeared on the door. The witch laughed as she moved toward his paralyzed body.

He couldn’t move, but he screamed as the witch inched closer and held up her wretched hand and that cursed finger.

He closed his eyes and must’ve dozed off. He opened them again when he felt something cold brush his cheek.

“Good evening Mrs. Jackson”

“It’s Ms. Jackson actually.”

“You’re right I guess. I’m sorry”

“Why am I here detective?”

“We found your husband, well the rest of him”

“What do you mean?”

“We found his remains in a crematorium”

“Ugh, this just keeps getting worse. Can I at least have his ashes?”

“That’s the thing, his ashes were… missing”

“Missing? What did you find then?”

“I’m sure you’re aware that your husband had a motorbike accident 10 years ago and broke his arm, we found his titanium implant in the oven.”

“Huh. Titanium doesn’t melt easily I guess”

“We believe the killer took the ashes in a hurry and didn’t know about the implant”

“Again why am I here?”

“I need you to tell me what happened again on the night of the murder”

“As I told the detectives before. Someone came into our house, stabbed my husband then hit me. The next thing I remember is waking up to the paramedics”

“What can you remember about the attacker? Was he taller than your husband?”

“Yes he was a big guy”

“Do you remember how your husband was stabbed?”

“The guy sort of… poked the knife into him”

“Well, our forensics team determined that the fatal blow came from an upwards trajectory. Meaning the attacker was most likely shorter than him”

His sudden suspicious gaze pierced through me.

“Hey can I smoke?” 

“Sure go ahead”

“Thanks for letting me bring my purse in”

I took out my weed pack and rolled a joint

“Are you really smoking weed in a police station?”

“Hey it's legal now…

He was on his knees”

“Pardon?”

“The attacker was on his knees”

“Why was he on his knees?”

“Because my husband fought back and injured him”

“So the attacker, while injured, stabbed your husband, attacked you, then proceeded to cut the limbs off of him leaving his head and torso attached by the time we arrived?”

I threw up my hands.

Silence

“Hey can I have a bump”

“Ummm… sure go ahead”

Cough Cough

“Wow that is strong”

“Yeah I am mourning so…”

“We believe the attacker planned to cut your husband's body into pieces then burn them to get rid of the evidence, but we got there before he could finish dismembering him. Your neighbor potentially saved your life by calling us after hearing screams next door”

“What about the ashes?”

“We have no clear reason yet why they were taken”

……..

“Well isn't that just great? Can I please leave now”

“We can’t legally hold you. So by all means” He aimed at the exit.

I went home. My phone was flooded with messages.

‘What happened? Do they have any leads? Am I safe?’

‘You're fine. Thanks for the package.’

I opened my safe and got my new urn out. I emptied more of my husband into my weed pack and rolled another joint.

Blows out a puff of smoke

Next time I should call a better clean-up guy.

With a jolt I exit my daydreaming.  It was wonderful, I… There’s something on the edge of my mind.  It deftly slips past recollection.  It’s important…  I stare at the window trying to jog my memory.  

There’s a shadow on my blinds.  It looks like an outstretched, monstrous hand.  I close my eyes and rub my temples.  Why has my brain been so foggy lately?  I open my eyes and the shadow is gone.  That’s right, there’s no trees outside my window.  

I bolt out of my chair.  With mounting trepidation, I approach the blinds.  I pull them back.  There’s nothing outside.  I drop the blinds back and the shadow returns.  Now, it’s two hands grasping at the window screen.  

I need to get help.  I run out of my home office, slamming the door shut behind me.  As I head down stairs, a sharp crack and a wrenching boom echo out behind me.  I slam the basement door shut as the thudding steps chase me.  

I flip all three deadbolts as something begins turning the door handle.  There’s confused muttering from the other side of the door.  It rattles through my brain, there’s something so… Has this happened before?  

I run downstairs and lock the second door behind me.  I start to pull out my phone.  Who would I call?  Could anyone get here in time?  I drop onto the basement couch.  And why can’t I remember that dream?  I bury myself into the cushions and cover my ears with my hands to block out the aggressive knocking.  

Wait!  I hear something.  A faint reflection of my heartbeat.  I remember… an operation.  That was my dream.  They sliced me open and… I put one hand behind my back and feel under my shirt.  There’s a long scar there.  Was it always there?  

The sound of wood splintering snaps me into action, and I rummage through the junk bin for a marker.  I’ll explain everything right here on the basement floor.  

I quickly jot down the symbols as the first door crashes down the stairs.  Wait, this doesn’t look right… It’s pounding on the second door.  

Oh, I forgot the depth.  I need to… wait these hands are all wrong.  A single wide palm and five digits?  I need to fix them quickly.  I rummage through the bin and find a letter opener.  I stab it between the second and third knuckles.  There’s no pain.  Why was I even expecting it?  This isn’t my body.  I wrench apart the fingers, and… this isn’t right.  It’s just blood and bones.  

The door opens behind me.  I freeze in terror.

I’m knocked to the floor face down, and every fiber of my being screams as something slices through my shirt and pierces down into the muscles on my back.  Shakes and tremors rock through my body as it saws apart my spine and ribs.  Oh god…

Through a mess of gore, I can see its hands reaching out to pluck me free. 

There it was, right there on his instagram page.

“Having a great time in New Orleans! Wish you were here!”

With the quote was a picture of my “best friend” Steve, along with his girlfriend Amanda and our friends Mike and Terry. We’d been friends since grade school, through thick and thin. I’d suggested this trip as something we could all do together after graduation. But everyone was too busy with studies and work. Maybe another time, they said.

And now here they were, on that same trip. Without me.

Assholes.

When I saw the post, I immediately texted Steve. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Hey, man. I saw your post. What gives?”

No response.

I then texted Mike and Terry - crickets. I eventually texted Steve again and he replied that he was busy and would talk to me when I “calmed down.”

Are you kidding me? They thought they’d kick me out of the trip I suggested? They were gonna pay for this.

I rented a car and headed down to New Orleans. It wasn’t hard to find out what hotel they were staying at - it was the one I’d recommended.

When I got there, I booked a room and told the front desk I wanted to surprise my friends for graduation. My story and $50 got me their room number. I went up and banged on the door - nothing.

I pulled up their post again and saw an address in the background. I used my phone to find the place - a dingy, run-down building off a back alley. Not normally a place I’d be caught dead, but the kind of place my “friends” would think was a good time if they were drunk enough. Steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation, I entered.

When I walked through the doors, I expected a mass of writhing bodies and pounding music. Instead, an ethereal, unearthly hum pervaded the air.

But there were bodies. People filled the room, swaying back and forth as one, euphoric smiles covering their faces.

What the hell kind of drug were they on?

I found Mike, Terry, and Amanda moving on the dance floor. I confronted them, but they just kept smiling at me. Finally I gave up and went looking for Steve, eventually finding him in a corner. I went up to him and got in his face, pissed off and ready to make a scene.

“Maattyyy…” he said, struggling to form words.

“What the hell, man? You ditch me and then get high in some fucking drug den?”

“Tried…”

“You tried? Is that all you’ve got to say?”

“Tried…pro…tect…you…”

Then he looked behind me, terrified, and I turned. The entire crowd had stopped dancing and was converging on me, thick vines emerging from their heads and pulsing to the music.

As the crowd held me immobile, and one of the vines reached toward me, my last thought was that at least we’d all still be togethe—