John said it was time he took me to meet Vance. We drove out to the countryside and eventually pulled up to an old farmhouse. I stepped out onto the gravel driveway, and I was nervous.

I had been working under John for about a year at this point. He was a good mentor, but I was starting to feel these strange urges whenever I was around him. At times, I wanted to kill him, and I don’t know why. I never told him, but I had a feeling he could sense it sometimes.

Maybe that’s why he took me out here to meet Vance, to help me get over my negative feelings.

We entered the house into the dim hallway, me trailing behind John. The stairs creaked as we made it up to the second floor.

John stopped in front of a door. He gestured for me to enter first.

I walked through the door and saw Vance sitting in an armchair in the corner. He was an older man with graying hair, and he wore a serious expression.

On his lap was a wooden box. He looked up at me.

“You must be Cal, John’s newest protégé.”

“I am.”

“You were brought to me because you have something inside you, something undesirable.”

“I…”

He lifted the lid of the box to reveal a shimmering golden blade. “And we have no choice but to cut it out of you.”

The door slammed behind me, and I heard a lock engage from the outside. I ran to the door and started banging on it with my fists. I turned around. Vance stood, holding the knife in his right hand.

“Do not struggle,” he groaned.

My heart was pounding. I was cornered, the blade’s point holding me hostage.

Before I could make a move, Vance lunged, the tip of his dagger screaming toward me.

I felt a chill run across my abdomen. I looked down. The dagger had pierced my gut, but there was no blood or pain, only this cold sensation.

Then wisps of smoke began to flow from the wound. Vance had stepped back. The smoke poured out and swirled around the room. In the fog, I saw a figure materialize in the center of the room.

Just then, the door flung open behind me and John entered with a burning torch in his hand. He shoved me aside and approached the figure in the middle of the room. He swung the torch, and there was a great flash of light that blinded me for a moment.

When I regained my vision, everything was back to normal in the room, but I felt different, as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

John walked over to me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry for deceiving you Cal. I’m sure you understand.”

I nodded.

“Come, apprentice,” he smiled. “Now that we’ve gotten rid of your conscience it’s time to find our next victim.”

“December ??, 2024

It’s been 5 days, or has it been a week? I’m losing the sense of time. Not a single sign of the rescue team nor any sign of a search party, though that was to be expected. The snowstorm hasn’t subsided for the past however many days it’s been. The plane crashed, inevitably so. I should’ve never boarded it, never should’ve succumbed to his words of false reassurance.

‘It’s only a 10-minute flight,’ he’d said sounding pretty confident, ‘besides, the weather isn’t even that bad.’

The pilot’s skeptical look should’ve told me enough to bail out.

‘I’ll pay you double.’ He told the pilot, enough to make the latter finally cave in.

He was rich in money, but poor in patience, resulting in ending his life, along with another innocent man’s and potentially my own, though with the way things have been now, I’d rather have died. His magnificent private jet was now scattered about the snowy mountains.

 My memory is a blur, all I can remember is waking up with a terrible headache presumably due to a concussion, cuts and bruises fashioned my pale skin. The back of the plane was gone, and he and the pilot were dead upon impact, their bodies were dismembered.

The food and water I could salvage helped me survive for 2 nights. I sought refuge in what was left of the plane, and gathered all the clothes I could find to keep myself warm.

The food ran out, quick at that. I had to survive; I didn’t want to die, not this slow death by starvation. I had to live until the snowstorm subsided enough so I could be rescued.

They were dead already, and I had to survive. Consuming them was the only option I had.

With renewed ‘food’ supplies, I explored nearby areas and stumbled across a cabin. It was supposed to be a climber’s refuge, out of maintenance. It wasn’t too far from the crash site. It was empty, save for a bed, a table and a few essentials.

My intuition says 4 or 5 days have passed. And I think I’ve finally lost my grip on reality. Insanity, yes, I was slipping into insanity. That is the only probable explanation. I’ve locked the cabin door and blocked it with everything I could find.

That eldritch monstrosity, that unholy indescribable abomination keeps staring through the lone cabin window, softly tapping at it. I refrained from looking at it, but I was tempted to, and with every look, I desired to blind myself.

I have written this in the event that if I fully succumb to the madness, there will be a record of what happened. I shall blind myself now.”

The lone rescue helicopter pilot set down the journal covered in blood on the table. He gulps nervously, his knees trembling as his gaze falls on the grotesque corpse of a man lying before him.

There was a soft tapping at the window.

It was August 1962 and the raging sun relentlessly dispersed its solar fury as it cooked the world. The ocean breeze did little to stem its vehemence.

“Glorious weather, eh son?”

A middle-aged gentleman was leaning up against the starboard railings of the cruise ship. He lit an expensive looking cigar and turned to await my reply.

“Certainly is something,” I duly obliged. “We don't get heat like this in North Dakota. To be honest, it’s hard for me to get used to.”

The man grinned and offered me one of his Cohibas, but I abstained with noticeable regret.

“It can't ever be too hot for me,” he said. “Lived in such places all my life.”

We introduced ourselves. Tom Galloway meet Paul Paulson. Paul Paulson meet Tom Galloway.

Paulson was an emeritus priest. Myself, an English teacher but also a lucky winner of a competition to cruise around the Caribbean.

“A faithful man will abound with blessings.” Paulson congratulated me on hearing my story.

“You know your bible,” I replied and immediately felt stupid. Paulson laughed good-naturedly.

“I hope so, Tom, or I would have been quite remiss in my chosen profession.”

As I went to apologise, the Captain’s voice bellowed out over the speaker system.

“WE ARE APPROACHING SALVANTIA. ENJOY THE VIEWS OF ITS BEAUTIFUL COASTLINE AND THE NATIVES HARD AT WORK FISHING!”

The guests had been guaranteed that passing the island of Salvantia was safe. The corrupt government clearly welcomed the remuneration the Dutch-owned cruise company provided - especially after JFK had stopped all US aid to its voodoo-obsessed leader, Dr. François Brillant. America was the enemy now.

As we drew closer, I glimpsed the fishermen in their discoloured, ramshackle boats while the women and children resided on the beach, digging in the sand.

“They're looking for crabs to eat before you ask,” Paulson said. “These people are poor and hungry.”

I felt an overwhelming sadness. It was then that the priest retrieved a pouch from within his tan-coloured jacket. Opening the bag, he handed me several Salvantian coins.

“Throw them in the water. They will swim out to get them and use it to buy food.”

Paulson initiated by hurling some coins towards the natives. The locals saw what was happening and ran into the sea, swimming furiously towards where the money was sinking. Fishermen dived in, leaving their boats to bobble on the bright blue sea.

I tossed my coins as well, aiming for the shallow waters.

Then I heard a whizzing sound as if the Devil was spitting out cherry stones.

Bullets.

On the beach, a jeep had pulled up and several men dressed in uniform were firing indiscriminately at everyone in the sea. Nobody was spared, not even the children. Countless massacred bodies floated on the surface turning the waters an infernal red.

I looked at Paulson in shock.

“They are seen as traitors if they go after the foreigner’s money,” he explained. “It’s always been that way - even after all these years.”

where do i start? I often feel like i Need a person to talk To, but my fake friends Keep blowing me off. i’m Myself when I’m in my Safe space. it’s silly so Please don’t laugh at me. I feel like myself when Hope enters my mind. can Someone relate?

if you feel you Can, then you know that it Helps. it’s rare to feel I’m not alone. isn’t it So nice to not feel Tired and drained? it’s great! I’m brave and hardly ever Scared in my space. but If i hear something loud.. You know what happens? you Figured it out! I get This weird feeling.

i go Out for a walk! the Type that makes you yell Out a loud silly word: Hooray! it always feels like Help to me, just hear Me out. it’s the best! Please give it a try!

I am an artist living with my two kittens, Luna and Shadow. They are always by my side as I spend hours on my art, which I see as a reflection of my soul. One night, while painting a serene landscape, I noticed a face in the shadows of the trees. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a face I hadn't painted.

I blamed my tired eyes and went to bed, but the next morning, the face was still there, clearer in the daylight. Luna and Shadow seemed to sense something too. They sat in front of the painting, their eyes wide, fur bristling, and hissed softly—a sound I'd never heard from them before.

Days passed, and faces began to appear in all my work. Each face was different, but they all shared the same haunting expression. My kittens' behavior grew more erratic. They would stare at my paintings for hours, their eyes following something I couldn't see. They stopped playing, stopped purring, and began to avoid me. I felt a growing sense of unease.

One night, I woke to the sound of scratching. I found Luna and Shadow in my studio, clawing at a new painting. The face had changed to a twisted, tormented visage. I tried to paint over it, but the faces kept coming back, more vivid and terrifying each time. I began to see them everywhere, not just in my art—reflections in the mirror, shadows on the walls, even in my dreams. They were always watching, always waiting.

Desperation drove me to research the history of my house. I discovered it had once belonged to a reclusive artist who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Rumors spoke of his obsession with capturing the souls of the dead in his paintings, a dark art that had driven him mad.

I realized with horror that I had awakened his curse. The faces were the souls he had trapped, and they were using my art to escape. My kittens, sensitive to the supernatural, had sensed the danger long before I did.

Now, I am surrounded by my cursed art, the faces closing in. I can feel their cold breath on my neck, their fingers brushing my skin. I am trapped, just like them, a prisoner of my own creation. And I know, deep down, that there is no escape.

In a school-like setting, I was the weird kid, I was an emo and always wore black. My whole family was like that, like the Gothic family in The Addams Family, the difference being that my father was a painter, not a businessman, and he usually painted beautiful nature scenes when he got a commission, not death.

That day, I was also making a clay sculpture in art class on the theme of 'transport', maybe it's my father's genes, I was the fastest to make a tank, some students made planes, ships, etc. 

After me, the fastest person to create a piece, to be exact, pretend to make one was a jerk named Ayush, an Indian student. Our class troublemaker, picking on weaker boys. He scoured the scene pretending to look for a victim, I say pretend again, because he always picked on Victor, the class’s shortest, weakest student. 

Victor was sculpting a car when Ayush threw a punch at his sculpture. Two hours of work went flying in two seconds. Some of the clay was stomped when it landed on the floor. 

Victor looked at Ayush with rage, which was calmed when Ayush slapped him.

After school, I watched Victor head out to call someone, before telling them that he intends to stay at school until they are all done. I wondered what he meant by ‘they’ but I dealt with it and left. 

Few hours later, my parents came in and stated that one of our students had been seriously injured by a car crash, at first I thought it was Victor, but it was Ayush.

Ayush was hospitalised with multiple parts of his skin broken, the car which had hit Ayush was nowhere to be found, starting an investigation. What was given by the witnesses was that the car was a red sedan.

The next day, all of the parents came to see the sculptures. We were all preparing for the sculptures to be on display, and we saw Victor destroying Ayush’s sculpture and throwing the clay onto the trash.Considering the events yesterday, we decided to keep a blind eye. 

We saw Victor’s new sculpture, looking like a realistic old car, and smiled, stating changing ideas made this easier. 

My dad came in and started looking at the children’s pieces, at first I thinking: “Huh, my dad is taking this seriously?” and did a small laugh.

Then he looked at Victor’s sculpture, stating it is one of the better ones due to how realistic it looks. He then grabbed it to check what materials were used to make clay look realistic.

And immediately turned the truck to look in another direction, and stared at Victor with cold glare.

“Where did you get the materials to build this?” Threatened Dad.

“What?” 

Dad had Victor on his eye level, angrily, we were surprised, but my dad looked even more scared.

“Tell me now! How the hell did you manage to get your hands on human flesh? Answer me!” 

At the crossroads between Claireview Street and Millshire Avenue, two men, by happenstance, met each other below the streetlight that shined a lonely beacon beside snow-covered fields, stretching into a darkness of blue. One man tipped his hat, though his face could not be spoken for, and the light above him shadowed his features as he reached into his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. 

“Lost?” He said to the wanderer and held out the open pack. There were only two left, but he insisted: “It’s alright, take it,” he said, gesturing to the hatless man. “I asked if you were lost.”

“I was just heading out of town,” the hatless man said, looking back the way he came. 

“Out of town? With no proper footwear?” He asked with sincerity, pointing at the man’s lack of shoes, and the holes in his socks. The hatless man was utterly confused, but this confusion only mounted when he glanced down at his feet and saw he had no boots on at all. There was a surprising jolt through his body in this realization, but it faded into numbness as he recalled the moments before his meeting below the light. Tires screeching themselves of rubber, the sounds of wailing engines shocking only in life. There was a pain—a brief one—but that faded too, and then there was nothing.

Opening his eyes, the man was still there holding the cigarette out to him when a sudden rumble broke the silence between them. Headlights cut through the snowfall, and upon their entry, so too did the shrieks of terrified children, and the grinding of the battered vehicle against asphalt. As it came into their view, he could see then that the front end of the car had been crushed, and atop the shattered windshield sprawled a mangled figure without shoes. 

The "restaurant" down the sewers served very delicious people, the fear of the people screaming in the kitchen was enough to satisfy my hunger. I was a regular there, they always caught the best humans. People with loving hearts, especially parents were my favorite to eat, their heart filled with sweetness, I almost felt sorry for their children.

These days though, It's been hard getting happy people.

Today was different. I never heard a single scream from the kitchen, just a bunch of moans and grunts. I ordered an office worker today, and it was the first human I ordered that tasted, awful. Their heart was full of depression and bitterness, did they even season it? Their mouth was so salty too, what words did this person say during their life? Their eyes also looked fine on the outside, but rotten on the inside, how much was their screentime? The worst part was the brain, it was quite hollow, empty maybe.

Why are people like this, I just want to enjoy my meal and now they just accept their deaths. Is it a trend for people to be hopeless? I want everyone to appreciate their lives, so I can enjoy their fear of dying and eat a person who lived a life they were happy and content with.

The zombie apocalypse was short lived. With humanity on the brink of collapse, the world governments came together. The best scientists collaborated and synthesized the first vaccine to prevent the zombie infection.

There was just one problem.

The vaccine got you high. Oh yeah.

We’re talking honker-bonkers-out-of-the-fucking-stratosphere-high.

The theory was as your immune system fought the synthetic infection, your body sent all the endorphins it would when you die. Except it lasted for days. Wave after wave of euphoria.

Ergo the problem.

My dad was a drug addict the first ten years of my life. When my mom left him, he finally cleaned up his act. He’d been sober for eight years.

The zombie apocalypse wasn’t enough to make him relapse. But the vaccine was.

Dad became what they called a DeadHead. Addicts who manipulated the system to get vaccinated over and over again.

I tried to warn him. I showed him the studies. If he took the vaccine too many times, the antigens would overwhelm his immune system. He’d become a zombie.

“That’s not going to happen,” my dad would say, “I know not to take too much.”

The same excuses I heard as a kid.

Well. The government caught onto the DeadHeads. Soon, to get vaccinated required identification at a government clinic.

Cold.

Turkey.

My dad was in a bad way. Sweating, pale.

I knew it was really bad when he tossed me a loaded revolver.

“I need you to drive me somewhere.”

“What’s the gun for?”

“Zombies.”

I knew better. My dad sat in the backseat with a duffel bag. This was a drug deal.

He had me pull in an alley. We were two blocks from a government clinic.

Some nervous looking nerd in a white lab coat hopped in the back seat. He was carrying a box hidden in an ordinary plastic grocery bag.

“You got the money?”

In the rear-view mirror, I saw my dad open the duffel bag. It was full of cash.

“You got the goods?”

The tech handed over the box.

My dad pulled a revolver and canoed the technician’s head.

“What the fuck!”

“Gotta see if it’s real.”

My dad took a syringe and injected the dead technician.

“What are you doing?!”

“If it’s real, he’ll turn.”

Without an immune system to fight the vaccine, he’d become a zombie.

The tech began convulsing. It happened quicker than expected. The zombie lunged at my dad, knocking away his gun. He sunk his teeth into his neck. Blood gushed. My dad screamed for help.

I shot all six shots into the zombie, but he just kept killing my dad.

I was scared. I jumped out of the car and sprinted. I didn’t stop until I was home and locked the door.

I was worried I’d be wanted for murder. I turned on the TV to see if I made the news.

Every channel was an emergency broadcast.

“Do not go outdoors. New zombie mutation. Can infect you even if you’re vaccinated.”

I have a heartburn. Lately I always do. A burning feeling in my chest. It just doesn't go away, no matter what I do. My husband says I should rest, but then who would make dinner?. 

I have been thinking about life, and how my world feels smaller each day. Like my house, it feels like one tiny room, and I move from point A to B to C in a predetermined path, like a goddamn roomba.

I have tried touching grass like they say, but there's always something in the way. Last weekend I was going to go to the botanical garden, but it rained. More like it poured, so that was out of the question. 

It just seems like there's always something in the way. 

I know I choose this for myself, but sometimes it just feels like I didn't really have another choice. And then my chest hurts again. And fall asleep and forget all about it for a day or two.

On occasions I think about my life before marriage, and how much I lost myself on my husband. But I don't want to remember much. Or maybe I can't. It's so easy to become the shadow of someone else. 

I have tried words of reaffirmation, but whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I see decay. I see a flawed product past its due date. And that scares me. It scares me that I might be replaced, but what fills me the most with dread is what happens after that. Who will I become once I'm not someone's wife?.

 Maybe if I knew my purpose it would be easier to keep going. I look for it around me but all I have is a small kitchen with old appliances, and then me. And a burning feeling that grows each day and consumes me from the inside out.

Loneliness and longing, for connection, for a future filled with hope. But then maybe I wasn’t made for that.

-Log 2557.

Report: This marks the final log of Model A-F13. Following routine chores, the unit proceeded to its charge port but failed to power back on. Upon inspection, a battery leak was identified, resulting in corrosion of the internal circuitry. The user declined a direct replacement due to the manufacturing error and instead requested an upgrade, offering the current model as a trade-in, covering the price difference.

The Sales Department was promptly notified, and negotiations for the upgrade were initiated. The unit's memory remains intact and will be uploaded for further analysis to provide insights into the cause of the malfunction. Post-analysis, the unit will be disposed of as per standard protocol.

“What’s that?” I pointed at the scruffy black animal sitting on the end table next to the couch.

Evie, my girlfriend whose apartment we were at, looked at me like I was crazy.

“You’ve been here hundreds of times,” she scoffed, “How can you not recognize my cat.”

“That’s a cat,” I pointed at the animal that was staring at me with its big yellow eyes.

It didn’t really look like a cat to me. It looked more like an owl with mange that someone had glued a rat tail onto.

“It’s ugly, whatever it is,” I sneered.

“Don’t be mean,” Evie chided.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” I replied, “That really is an ugly cat. Perhaps the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she snapped.

“I thought you said you were allergic to cats,” I blurted out, trying to redirect the conversation.

I had a distinct memory of her saying that a few weeks earlier when we went to a party at a friend’s house.

“I never said that,” she denied.

“Yes, you did,” I insisted, “When we were at Pat’s house. You sat on the couch and your arm started itching. I asked you what was wrong and you said they must have a cat because that’s the only thing that makes you itch like that.”

“I don’t remember saying that,” Evie said.

“Well, you did,” I said.

I was suddenly feeling very confused. I was 100% certain that Evie said she was allergic to cats and that she did not own a cat before that morning. And yet, she was acting like she’d always had a cat. If that were the case, where was its litterbox, its food and water bowls, or its toys?

I looked around and didn’t see anything that a normal cat owner would have lying around.

“Whatever,” she said, turning and walking toward her bedroom.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To get your stuff,” she snapped, “I can’t be with someone like you.” When she was done speaking, she slammed the bedroom door shut.

I eased myself down onto the couch and looked at the cat.

“What the hell is going on here?”

As I stared at the cat, I noticed that it never blinked. Not once. Not even when I waved my hand in front of its face. It just sat there staring at me. It was creepy.

The longer I stared at it the funnier I started to feel.

“JACOB!” Evie yelled my name.

“What?” I jumped, startled by her voice.

I felt like I had just come out of a daze.

“I said you need to leave and take your cat with you,” she pointed at the cat sitting on the end table next to me.

“My cat?”

The cat jumped into my lap and started purring.

“Now,” Evie pointed at the front door, “You know I’m allergic to them.”

“Come on, boy, let’s go,” I carried the cat out of the apartment.

The box had the power to bring people back from the dead and it had made my dad very rich.

“This is going to be yours one day, so you need to listen and pay attention to everything I say and do.

The box was a plain maple box with no markings, but it had a smell which was hard to describe. It smelled like something from my childhood, sweet, like cotton candy or freshly made waffles.

When it comes to the death of a child, parents would empty their bank accounts for a chance to hug their child one last time.

The grief-stricken couple had traveled from the other side of the world. The pain of losing their child from a freak accident was etched into their faces.

“Did you bring what I asked you to?” my dad softly asked.

For the box to work, my dad would place a recent photo, the clothes the deceased were wearing when they died, and a precious personal Item into the box.

“This was his favorite toy, he never went anywhere without it,” explained the woman.

My dad placed all the items in the box, before ushering the couple into another room.

“What happens next?” I asked.

“We sit and wait, son.”

The smell of warm memories filled the room as the box started to shake. My dad walked over and took the lid of the box and a fresh-faced blond-haired boy was smiling up at us.

His blue eyes were bright and radiant, and he smelled like a newborn baby. “Mommy, Daddy,” beamed the young boy as his parents embraced him.

My dad kept a close eye on his watch as we sat in the next room.

“I hate this part,” said my dad with a sullen look on his face.

When we entered the room the smell of a newborn baby was replaced by the stench of rotten meat. The boy's radiant blue eyes were now black as coal and his face deathly pale.

“We explained the rules, Mrs Jefferson. It’s time,” my dad said as he quickly ushered the boy's crying parents from the room.

My dad left me alone in the room with the boy. I watched in horror as the boy screamed in immense pain as his bones contorted and snapped. I remembered the boy's parents telling us he died from multiple fractures when a bookcase in the family home fell on him.

After the parents had left my dad picked up the boy as he cried for his parents and carried him down the basement.

As we stopped at a large steel door my dad turned to me with a serious expression on his face.

“You have to promise one thing. When I die someday you will never bring me back.”

The smell of death hit me as he opened the steel door, before throwing the boy into the room. The room was filled with hundreds of moaning and wailing corpses, some calling out for their loved ones.

“It doesn't feel right to just bury them.”

She looked up and saw the sky. It was blue, a shade of blue rare to her. She knew the dark too well. The bright sun shone with a heat she knew not. She knew the cold too well. She thought of her room, where she should be now.

It was a small dark room with an old worn bed and a chair made of wood, chewed down by the dog, who was just as thin as she was. She stayed in her room all day, but at night he called her to him. This went on each night, and she had to do it. Not for her own need but his. In fact, she loathed it.

She had no one in her room but for her small dog, Jill. Jill was her soul’s sole source of warmth, and she missed Jill each night when she had to go to him.

This day was a rare one; not once had she left the house since he brought her here. She did not know where she was, but on that day, not a thing could stop her. Out in the air — she was free! She’d miss her dog, but it was life or death at this point. And death had seemed far too close to go on much more.

She ran down the worn dirt path till it was an old dirt road and came to a small town

"The only place those things should be shipped off to is the scrapyard," spat the general as he munched an unlit cigar between his stained teeth, "they're goddam abominations." Professor Fielitz tented his fingers in thought before finally responding.

"With all due respect sir, we're losing too many soldiers. With these new drone units, we may have a fighting chance." Fielitz spoke in a steady cadence, walking a verbal tightrope of diplomacy. "And please understand, it's not lost on me, or my team, that there is something... ghoulish, about it. As there often is in matters of efficiency."

"Efficiency!" scoffed the general as he stood from the boardroom desk, waltzed over to the window, and peered out the blinds to gaze at the two rows of bipedal machines. "A robot that eats people... oh I can see the headlines now: DRONE FEASTS TO THE BONE. They'd have a field day with this one, the vultures... and suppose these fellas get a glitch- change their minds about who's looking tastiest? What then?"

"I.. can't even begin to explain the complexities of how many safeguards there are to prevent that. First of all, they're not able to process live tissue. It has to be dead. Second of all, we've been very careful to ensure that the only valid fuel sources tagged are those of... well, enemy combatants," said Fielitz, sounding quite confident, albeit a bit grim.

-@-

The scorched buildings of the abandoned neighborhood had a skeletal look to them, giving the entire cul-de-sac an impression of being "part graveyard". Charred planks stuck out at odd angles as piles of ash coalesced in various nooks and crannies. Lawns had been reduced to singed, blackened embers long extinguished, or bare stretches of cracked, dry dirt. There was an uncanny stillness to the place, as though it weren't fully real. Perhaps a movie set, or some Halloween attraction not yet opened to the public. And it was down this quiet, dead road that Sarah fled, her chest heaving with burning breaths.

The thing was not far behind. Its mechanical ribcage gleaned in the pale sun, looking as though it were made from the chrome pipes of some demonic motorcycle.

"HALT," it croaked in a distorted and artificial voice, amplified by a cracking speaker on its shoulder. Hearing that soulless voice made Sarah pump her legs even harder, though in her panic, she stumbled and fell into the scorched dirt. This gave the machine time to catch up. "HALT," it said again, straddling the struggling woman and reaching down to her neck with one, large mechanical claw. It gripped around her throat like a vice, its "fingers" reeking of the dried blood caked on top of them in layers. "BEGINNING FUEL PROCESSING," it said, and Sarah's eyes widened as its other claw folded back, revealing a revving buzzsaw.  

I once knew a woman

A long time ago

Who had teeth in her eyes

As they twitched to and fro!

She had eyes in her teeth too!

They'd gnash and she'd spit

And she'd scream and she'd wail

She was one [ROTTENBITCH!]

And her limbs were all twisted!

A real sight to see!

Her jaw it hung broken

And gargled with glee!

She was pieced together,

With staple and stitch,

She was patchwork at best,

And she's one [ROTTENBITCH!]

She'd lurch and she'd shiver!

Come the gloaming at dusk

Bloated by the river!

A waterlogged husk!

She'd roll and she'd lumber

She'd moan and she'd itch!

Built from visceral chunder!

She's one [ROTTENBITCH!]

I am a pomo man who has heard many a strange story from my home town, a real place of strong magics and mystery, whether it be extraterrestrial or unexplainable encounters. I live on a reservation that is flanked by vineyards on one side that stretches miles, and the other is dense forest. Across the road from our Rez there are vineyards that have been abandoned for quite some time. When I was a young man, they were bustling and producing grapes for high quality wine but they suddenly all were left as is one day in the summer of 1997. Grapes were left on the vine to rot and ferment in the sun and heat of the unforgiving summer sun. Rumors near instantly spread that there was a creature beyond description that spooked the workers, as resilient and unwavering as they are they split all at once, leaving their departure a complete mystery.

As the years have went on it became a tradition for the local kids to dare one another to go as far as possible into the Vineyards and stay for some amount of time. The truly brave ones went a mere twenty yards inside. Once that point is reached it is said that the overgrown, rot covered grounds begin to feel like they are their own world, an eerie spell overtaking those who muster their courage.

Now, I am an older man, many of our residents have gone away or passed away leaving only a few families left on the reservation. I myself have never braved the Vineyards before despite many a long moment was spent tempting myself into it. One of those days I finally gave into my temptations and forever will I regret that decision, it still haunts me to this day as I look, and the Vineyard looks back.

The year was 2019, July 12th around 9 PM, the sun was sinking low into the sky as I roamed toward the gate that hung off its hinges from years of rust and zero maintenance. Entering that Vineyard instantly felt different, chilling while the air was still 100° Fahrenheit, outside noises almost instantly became inconceivable. Despite my feelings of trepidation I walk onwards, past the twenty yards mark and pushing another twenty-five yards.

There was that same chill I had felt upon entering the realm of rot and insects, yet this time it was different, almost as if the lizard part of my brain told me that something was wrong. My head instantly was of the swivel, searching for the source of my discomfort as I instantly began my retreat. The last of the suns rays were filtering through the trees and casting a menacing appearance throughout the area, a creature of shadow seeming to manafest within the falling light. I ran, making the 100 yard dash home. I peered out, a entity staring back. It still stares. I see why the workers left, never to return. Stay away from the vineyards.

We went all out for our special day. 

The church, the venue, the free bar. 

We went so crazy we ran out of money for the most important thing: a wedding dress fit for a princess. 

Thankfully, we got one from a budget place, the same quality as an Alexander McQueen. 

Emi didn’t toss the bouquet; instead, she handed out a single flower to all the women in her life who’d meant something to her, and then we did our choreographed couples dance to Perfect by Ed Sheeran. 

It was after the swing band started up that things went wrong. 

Emi had this cousin who turned up in all white. 

Maybe she was pissed off about not getting a long-stem rose, but she pointed at Emi’s dress. 

‘You’ve left the tag on.' 

Emi glanced down, embarrassed. 

And then her cousin ripped it off.

‘Emi, where did you get this dress?’ 

Emi stumbled over her words. 

‘It says. Hello, my name is Chun. I am from China. This dress was made using slave labor. Please help.’ 

Well, the day was ruined after that. We had the best photographer in three states, and he’d captured the blushing bride in a dress made in a sweatshop. 

Even after Emi changed and we announced that we’d contacted the manufacturer, things were still awkward. 

I tried to persuade Emi to come to our bridal suite and forget the whole thing, but she said it needed to be taken care of. 

On the drive, her sobbing was only quietened by the sound of the jangling cans hanging from our back bumper. 

…

The compound was dark. 

We pulled the heavy sliding door, descending into the basement. 

The air was close, fetid, the smell of sweat and fabric. 

I couldn’t stop my bride; she was like a wild animal.

‘You bitch!’ 

I pulled Emi off the diminutive woman who dwelled down there. 

As usual, I was the voice of reason. 

I showed Chun the note attached to the wedding dress. 

‘Mr Hurley, I so sorry.’ 

‘Chun, this is bad for business.’ 

‘Cut her fucking fingers off!’ Emi screamed. 

‘Honey, that’d also be bad for business.’ 

Emi darted behind a sack of raw fabric, taking up one of Chun’s 5 children by its hair. 

The kid squealed like a piglet; I went over, gently taking the dark-eyed child, and setting her down. 

‘You need to send a warning!’ Emi continued. 

‘I know,’ I said, kissing her on the forehead. She was still wearing her tiara. ‘But those fingers spin gold.’ 

‘Thank you, Mr Hurley!’ The small Chinese woman gripped my trouser legs, which ironically, she’d made. 

‘However, Mrs Chun. You've broken your contract’ 

I picked up a large needle usually reserved for denim. 

‘Now stay still,’ I said, holding her chin. 

Emi whooped in delight as the sewing needle pierced Chun’s lower and then upper lip. 

I pulled the thread tight, sealing off her screams. 

I lie on my back, floating, concentrating on the flow of my breath through pursed lips.

We are all made of water. It fills every cell in our bodies, and today I am one with the blue. It stretches out below me, calmly beckoning me down into the depths, only a white rope interrupting the turquoise and the silver bubbles of the divers below drifting up like alien jellyfish from the depths. I am one with this place, a handful of people which can visit the depths unencumbered by noisy breathing equipment.

Free immersion is the official title of the discipline I compete in, but I just think of it as the fall. Once I leave the surface, a few pulls on the rope is all it will take me until my body sinks, the buoyancy of my lungs squeezed ever smaller as I drift silently downwards to my goal, a plastic tag at the end of the line that I will grab before I drag myself back into the sunlight. I glance at the clock and the officials watching me.

One minute to go. Breathe.

I take my final few breaths as the safety diver clips my lanyard to the guideline and as the clock ticks to zero I turn my body down into the water and pull. I feel the final tug of buoyancy as the surface clings to me and then I begin to pull down the line, the colours of the surface fading into blues and greens as I feel my body compress under the pressure and the fall begins. It’s just a matter of time and concentration now. That, and remembering one vital thing.

Don’t breathe.

I pass the safety divers, their clouds of bubbles failing to distract me from my meditation. The rising pressure in my chest a niggling distraction. I replay scenes in my head. My childhood. My children playing. I move through them in my mind, anything to distract me from my body trying to tell me that I need to purge myself of the carbon dioxide saturating my tissues as the water fades from blue to black. The line stretches down like a road, beckoning me deeper and I search for the faint outline of the tag and the weight at the bottom at the end of my fall.

Don’t breathe.

It must be close. It doesn’t take this long and the water is cold now. It presses icy fingers against my exposed face, met only by the pressure rising in my chest and……fear. Something is wrong. Where is the tag?

I snap back into reality. Where is the line? I look down for my lanyard, my hands scrabbling to grasp it futilely and finding the knot undone. I’ve drifted off the guideline.

Alone, the darkness swallows me. There is no sunlight, no warmth, nothing to guide me back to the world above. I’m panicking, overwhelmed by deep, primeval fear. My diaphragm spasming as black spots percolate over my eyes.

Don’t breathe…… Don’t breathe……..

I still remember the day when my son left for the war.

He looked so handsome in that blue uniform and the yellow bandanna I gave him for good luck, though his friend Ferguson teased him for it at the train station and promised he’d come home with it when he hugged me goodbye.

The following week I got a telegram in the mail that he was dead.

Can you imagine that? 18 years old and they told me my baby boy was laying dead somewhere in a distant land. I didn’t believe them of course, my Robert was different from all the other boys because he promised he would come home and after many sleepless nights at prayer he did.

His handsome blue uniform was covered in mud and blood and he was missing his bandana but I wrapped my arms around him all the same because he was my son and that’s all that mattered.

Though he didn’t act the same as before. He explained to me that he had to hide away most of the time, and that no one could know he was there and I agreed.

He didn’t quite sleep very much at night either. I prepared his bed and old room the way he left it but he seemed to have more of an appetite than a mood for sleep because when he came home the first thing he did was eat all the raw steak in the house.

I thought nothing of it until the day Ferguson stopped by while on furlough with a yellow bandana and tears in his eyes when he apologized not keeping him safe. He tried to explain that he watched Robert die, but I showed him he was very much alive when I led him to Robert’s room after making sure no one else knew he was in town.

It was a real shame Ferguson never made it out of that room alive. But Robert has the appetite of a growing boy and I’d do anything to keep my boy safe.. For eternity.

When we moved into the old house on Maple Street, my parents warned me to stay out of the basement. "It's not safe," they said, but never explained why. Naturally, being a curious teenager, I was determined to find out.

One stormy evening, while my parents were out, I decided to explore. With a flashlight in hand, I crept down the creaky wooden stairs. The basement smelled damp and musty, and the air was thick with dust. At first, it seemed like any other old, cluttered storage space. Boxes of old books, rusted tools, and cobwebs filled the room.

Then I noticed the door at the far end of the basement. It was slightly ajar, and an odd, almost rhythmic sound emanated from within. My heart pounded as I approached, but curiosity pushed me forward. I pushed the door open, revealing a smaller, darker room.

In the center of the room was a well, old and crumbling. The sound was louder now, like a low, growling hum. I leaned over the edge, shining my flashlight down into the darkness. The beam of light barely penetrated the blackness, but I could see something moving. Something big.

Suddenly, the growling turned into a deafening roar. A massive, clawed hand shot out of the well, grabbing my arm. I screamed and struggled, but its grip was like iron. It dragged me towards the darkness, my flashlight clattering to the floor and rolling away.

I managed to wrench free for a moment and stumbled back towards the stairs. My heart raced as I fumbled for the light switch, hoping to illuminate the basement and drive away the terror. But the switch was dead, the basement plunged into deeper darkness.

The growling grew closer, and I felt hot, fetid breath on my neck. In a final, desperate attempt, I grabbed a rusty shovel from a pile of old tools and swung it wildly behind me. The shovel connected with a sickening crunch, and the growling turned into a howl of pain.

I ran up the stairs, slamming the basement door shut behind me. Panting and shaking, I blocked it with whatever furniture I could find. My parents came home later to find me huddled in the corner, sobbing and incoherent.

They never spoke about the basement again, but I could see the fear in their eyes. Despite our precautions, the creature still managed to find its way out.

A few nights later, I awoke to the sound of growling from under my bed. The last thing I saw were two glowing eyes in the darkness before everything went black.

We had gone on a vacation . The 4 of us friends. It was fall. It was cool and the best time for trekking. Myself Josh , Katie, Rihanna and Mobius.

We reached the air bnb around 3 pm. It needed a pass code to enter the premises. I had the pass code but forgot it totally. I had a memory disorder where I forgot things and could never recollect them no matter what . We had to go through some emails and make some calls to get that pass code to get in.

We relaxed for some time , took baths amd decided to go for a walk in the trek near by. We chose a short mountainous 5 mile trek with caves . It would not be too short nor too long.

We set out on the trek . It was cool , beautiful. Then we came across a stream with a cave across. We walked through the water and went inside the cave. We explored . I got separated from the the 3 as the cave was a lot of left and right narrow turns. I suddenly saw a door with lights on but disappearing . I was always afraid of trying new things because of my anxiety disorder. I said to myself, ok here is your chance. Let's be brave. I walked in and the door behind me closed shut with a bang. I heard a automated voice . Your key to freedom is ..... and you are in the year 2024.

I was stunned and looked around. The door was gone. The cave was as before. I started calling out for my friends. Katie, Rihanna. Moby. I got out of the cave. The surroundings were totally different than when I entered in. I came across another trekker and asked him what date is it. He said oh you mean time ..it's 5 pm. I said no the date. He laughed and said 8th July. I said what year . He said 2024. I was aghast. It really was 2024 ??

Then I remembered the words. Your key to freedom is .... But what was the key. I was born in 2300 and I am 22. I was in 2322. Now I am in 2024 ? Ok reader can you tell me what the key is ? If not i will be stuck in 2024 on reddit

My hazy vision thrusts my eyes around, seeing double. The nurse rolled me down the hallway, abruptly stopping, spinning me around, and pushing me into room 519. 

The indescribable smell of a fresh warm hospital blanket as the nurse laid it across me. The rest of that evening was what to be expected: the nurses coming in and out to check on me, my girlfriend trying to slip me hugs before heading off.

Just a moment before the clunky clock struck 9:09, the nurse came in for what I assumed was to give me my last injection to help ease the pain from surgery. I stood up, firmly checked my vitals, slipped a remote in my hand, and walked off without a word.

Soon after while the tv played static from the poorly tuned antenna I dozed off. 

Deep in sleep, at about 3:02 I woke up to a loud thump knock, my raspy broken tired voice yelped out “You can come in”. 

The bathroom door across the room blocked by the divider curtain slowly crept open, creaking and shuttering. The shadow refracted off the floor just enough to see it at a glance under the slightly wavering curtain. My heart rate slowly thumped, ravaging and shaking my hands. The slow slapping of weathered feet against the cold grim floor hit like the thump of a slowing pulse. The sound crept from the bathroom door to the curtain's edge before stopping. 

The room was eerie silent, staring and waiting for what next, I saw the entrance door swing open suddenly, swiftly walking in a nurse. Looking me in the eyes asking if I was okay and if I needed anything. For a moment I just stared yet I surely felt safe now she was here. I mumbled out some words but she smiled and said don’t worry I will give you a bit more medicine she walked around my bed firmly grabbing my arm. Exhausted from the adrenaline rush, my eyes felt heavy and fluttering out while looking at the nurse, and then suddenly between blinks, she disappeared. 

Waking up in the morning, the sunlight bouncing off the wall, another nurse walked in and said “Well it’s glad to see you’re awake, you made a bit of a mess didn’t you?”. I gave her a confused and uneasy look. I told her “Miss I didn’t get out of bed”. Sle glazed me over seeing my bedding was still tightly packed in, looking toward the bathroom,  it appeared the door was still open with everything tossed all around. I mentioned I was glad that the nurse stopped in to check on me. She gave a slight giggle, and said, “Oh dear, there was no other nurse beside me on duty last night, we were quite low staff”. Gulping and eagerly waiting to leave, I felt goosebumps run down my shaken spine. 

Since that night I have been terrified of that hospital, I never told anyone I knew personally about that experience. 

Written by James Eerie

No one can save me. Relief can only happen if I jump. I welcome the cold descent as I plunge to my death. It will be glorious. I wasn’t always like this, I wasn’t always so willing to embrace death. It took me too long to realize that death can be a good thing. Certainly, it is better than what is awaiting me behind the one door in this place. I’m lucky there is an old elevator shaft. I don’t think i could face what is behind that door. My only wish is for it to be quick. I would rather not be in painful agony at the bottom of that shaft. That would be quite unfortunate.

My sanity unraveled. Once a celebrated writer, I, now faced whispers of madness. My prose, once haunting, became grotesque and chaotic. Shadows danced on the walls, whispers echoed at night. Sleepless, I was driven by an unseen force.

One stormy night, as I wrote, my manuscript changed, detailing my descent into madness. A pale figure appeared, pleading, "Destroy it, or it will consume you."

In desperation, I burned the cursed tome. As flames devoured it, unearthly howls filled the room. My mind shattered. Now, I wander my haunted halls as I lost myself.

While waiting for the bus, Ollie looked down at his legs and thanked them for getting him there. Then he looked up at the sky, towards a gang of dark clouds, and slowly caught his breath.

After years of absorbing the shocks and shouts, the silent warmongering and the terrible stories, it was almost over. All he had to do was get this bus and never look back.

This one, stupid, late bus.

His wide eyes searched the passing faces for the agents. He ignored the phone buzzing in his pocket.

Ten minutes passed by without a bus in sight.

He was almost free, until one of them spotted him from across the road.

"Hey, Oliver, what are you doing? Your parents are looking for you!"

And before he knew it, the agents were escorting him back to the prison.

What they incorrectly called, "His home."

If only that bus was on time.

Darren sat in the nose cone of the launch vehicle; the loudspeaker outside announced it was T minus sixty seconds. He heard the hissing of various fluids rushing within the propulsion system, as tanks made fine adjustments to their contents. A thrush of dials, gauges, and status lights ran over the interior surface; a single touch screen showed him a summary, indicating all systems were go. A beaming smile broke out across his face as he looked forward to being launched into space by this fine vehicle, one he had designed himself...with no small amount of assistance from the agency's AI.

The latest iteration of their intelligent assistant boasted PhD-level knowledge; Darren put it to the test. Eschewing the advice of his long-time employees, he directed the design and construction of this rocketship. They demanded to be part of the team, to apply their years of practical experience to the problem, but he dismissed their concerns. This AI was the best ever created, and Darren was confident it could do all their jobs.

He marveled at the sleek form, the various parts of the propulsion system flowing into each other, redundancies eliminated by inspired design. The highly innovative construction eliminated a lot of weight commonly found on launch vehicles. Slowly, his dispirited employees transferred to other departments, leaving him alone. He didn't mind; that meant he could take all the credit, and gave him the chance to fulfill a lifelong dream of going into space. Employees were no longer needed with modern AI, just the boss.

The countdown finished; a terrific ear-splitting roar engulfed him as he felt the rocket move. It hurled toward space at a fantastic speed. It was all working perfectly!

A red light appeared on his touch screen; there was a problem with his oxygen. "Computer!" he barked. "What happened to my air?"

"There is none flowing to your suit," it stated simply.

Darren looked at the array of hoses emanating from his pressure suit. "Which tube is leaking?"

"All of them," it revealed. "They're not connected to the capsule."

"Then what good are they?" he screamed.

"They fit the general aesthetic," it explained. "Many other space-capsule designs have a similar style."

Darren realized none of the dials, gauges, or status lights had changed, just the touch screen, which announced the capsule was losing air pressure. "What are these gauges good for?" he demanded.

"They fit the general aesthetic," it explained. "Many other..."

"This is intolerable!" he seethed. "I told you to design a working rocketship!"

"I did everything you asked me to do," it replied. "You wanted to go into space. You will."

"I wanted to get there alive!" he roared.

"Not specified beforehand," it countered.

"And how do I get back?" he screamed, terror seizing his mind.

"Not needed if you're not alive," it affirmed.

"Why didn't you warn me about any of this?" he demanded.

The computer wasted no time responding. "It was the easiest way to get rid of a hated boss."

Here, at the end of all things.

The sun sets for the final time on any creature capable of knowing. The last breath loosed rasping and rattling, the final simulacrum of song, without such an audience as the singer to regard it’s passing.

From here on, there will be no pondering of the worlds and their contents. Never again will a hopeful eye turn to the sky in wonder, now begins the era of a sightless galaxy.

Nowhere among the cosmos will there be song by which to dance, and no dancers for song to be heard. The multitude of dreams, worries, and memories once held so sacrosanct, now cast ethereal under the gaze of cold stars, lacking any fitting vessel to grant them some semblance of substance.

If indeed the vast machinery of the universe churns onward, no sentry shall remain to ensure it so.

As that last conscious mind retreats inward, shedding itself of all sense, does what was remain?

We purchased our home in 2010. I knew its history. My wife knew, of course. We never told the kids. They saw things, though. My son told me about the man. I believed him, but I didn’t want to give it any energy. Any more attention than it already was getting. Our youngest would sit on the porch and tell silly jokes she’d learned at preschool. It seemed she had an audience.

I was washing dishes when I saw him. He was alone, on the front porch. In the rocking chair. Back and forth.

I knew who he was. He told me, but he didn’t need to. I recognized him, clear as day. His story was all over the local news for months. His smiling face, next to the word “victim,” didn’t match up. He had green eyes. He could have been my brother.

He was the man who used to live in my house, and he was murdered on the front porch where he currently sat.

A neighbor shot him five times. For nothing. The man was deranged and cruel. “Your goddamned kid stole my bicycle,” he’d shouted that morning. The man on my- his- porch didn’t have children. He and his wife tried, but realized it was meant to be the two of them and they were happy. He was everything to her. He’d felt the same way. He always would.

The man asked me where his wife had gone. Why the paint color was different and the door mat said someone else’s name.

He was lost. I showed him a picture of my family. Then I told him the truth. I cried with him. He understood.

He walked down the driveway, running his fingers across the trunk of the old oak as he went.

He was going home.

“Hey Guys! This is Ethan. Welcome back to the Brickhead_x787 channel! As always, please like, share, and subscribe. We’re so close to our goal of 100k subscribers and every last one counts! Now, let’s get started.”

Click.

His features pause in place. He looks the same as he did all those months ago: shaggy, brown hair curling toward almond eyes. A smattering of freckles across a crooked nose. A small, shy smile across his lips. When I click again, he’ll spring back to life and peals of his laughter will fill this silent space. It’s a small consolation.

Click.

“You’ve been asking, and after weeks of hard work, I’m pleased to finally present… the Mario Odyssey! This beauty is a brick-built, 1352-piece replica. Now, we did commit a Lego faux-paus and paint a few pieces… special thanks to Amy for creating the moon counter… but I’d say those details just add to the realism!”

Click.

A single touch of the mouse rings loudly in my ears; it’s a sound as isolated as I feel. I hover the icon over his eyes. They’re called the window to the soul, and I want to see inside of his.

Click.

“Now, I’ll upload some videos of the building process over the next few weeks, but…” Movement in the periphery and then his girlfriend is in frame.

Click.

She’s buoyant and everything I’m not. Her blond hair falls in soft waves when mine is lank. Her figure is slim; all of her clothes seem to fit. My oversized, stained Metallica sweatshirt is both a comfort and an embarrassment. I wonder what she would think of me.

Click. 5 seconds. Click.

Their kiss is swift, but it seems that even small injuries still bleed. They look so in love that my stomach is sick. I slam my mug down too hard, and something rattles and then falls. For once, I couldn’t care less. I need to play the video, but I close my eyes. I forgot that she was in this one.

Click.

“We interrupt this broadcast with the one and only, Amy! Now that she’s out of hearing distance I can tell you guys this.” He leans in conspiratorially and fuck him for making his viewer feel so… intimate. He reaches into his pocket, fumbles, and then pulls out two airline tickets. “The first anniversary is paper,” he winks, “She’ll find out when she edits this.”

Click.

My heart is in decay. I think of chest cavities, erosion, infection. I think I’m going to be sick. I mute the video, hit play, and just watch him. I listen in the silence for the words he never said; I search desperately in the arch of his eyebrows, his downcast eyes, the turn of his lips. There must be some way, somehow, that he told me he was going to kill himself.

206 videos. There must be something I missed.

Sean threw another handful of meat into the bag. He was carving up the large cut into several equal sized bags. It was a time he let his mind wander, just another chore.

His trance was interrupted by a sudden disruption, a blaring alarm sound. It was a car alarm, and it sounded like it was coming from right outside the house. It was an odd thing to hear at night in such a remote area.

The warm summer air felt nice. Sean walked down the gravel driveway, following the alarm and shining his flashlight through the trees.

As he approached the main road, he could see flashing lights. There was a car in the ditch off the main road near his driveway, alarm blaring.

Sean ran up, thinking someone might be injured. Peeping into the driver’s side window, he realized there was nobody in the car. He paused for a moment, thinking of what could have happened. Then something cracked him over the head, and he went unconscious.

Everything was fuzzy. He felt an intense pain in his head and had trouble thinking. It felt like a dream, like nothing was real.

A light shone bright in his eyes. “Okay Sean,” and someone flicked his driver’s license at him. “I’ll give you a chance to save us all some headache. Tell me where any valuables are hidden, and we can wrap this up quickly.”

Sean could hardly make words after such a severe blow to his head.

“Don’t. You… don’t.”

“Okay, Sean, have it your way,” and the stranger slammed the door, leaving Sean tied up in the closet. Maybe he had hit the kid a little too hard.

But it didn't matter. He'd get what he came for, those things people tucked away in sock drawers and safes.

He was rifling through a drawer when he heard something downstairs. Had the kid gotten loose?

The stranger went downstairs and checked. Sean was in the closet, and there weren't signs of anyone around.

On his way upstairs, he noticed something in the hallway that hadn't been there before. It was a dog bowl. The kid didn't have a dog. He would've seen that when he was casing the place out.

Was that door open before? He could've sworn it was closed.

It didn't matter. He needed to get all the stuff that was worth anything and get out.

Coming into the bedroom, he froze. A set of yellow eyes was staring at him from the dark corner of the room. He could make out a silhouette against the bedroom wall. It was squatting in the darkness, staring.

Before he could get a hold of his weapon, the creature leapt on top of him, claws digging into his skin.

The last thing the stranger saw was a framed photo on the nightstand. It was a picture of Sean and his father, from before his father's transformation.